A dancer waltzed off with our paella

BACK in the early Seventies, my wife and I holidayed regularly on the island of Menorca. We enjoyed the buzzing nightlife in the fishing harbour of Cala Fonts, Villacarlos (since renamed Es Castell). Along the quay were caves, once used to store fishermen’s nets, later converted into bars and restaurants. Our favourite was owned by a portly, middle-aged chef, Hubertus, from Hamburg with a handlebar moustache. It was run by Romy, a woman in her 30s, a former dancer whose party trick was to high-kick her way along the quayside,

a la Moulin Rouge. One night, Romy told us that back in Germany, Hubertus’s speciality had been paella, and he was prepared to make us one as a favour granted to only a few. Flattered, we agreed. On the appointed night, Romy confirmed that Hubertus had produced a masterpiece, but as he rarely made paella, he had no idea what would be a fair price, so she helpfully suggested a Mil. I nearly fell off my stool with shock. A Mil — 1,000 pesetas — was five times more than I had expected to pay. Nevertheless, I paid up in advance without argument. When Romy brought in the huge dish, it was so impressive I regained the appetite I had just lost. Romy produced two plates and served us a starter size portion. We were a little confused when she did the same for three or four other delighted customers. Compliments of the house, of course. It made hardly a dent in the paella. We cleared our plates and waited expectantly for another helping, but Romy marched outside with the huge dish on her shoulder, dispensing largesse to all and sundry, her friends among the staff ready with plates in a way that suggested they had been tipped off. When she returned, she and Hubertus polished off what was left. Romy increased her huge popularity among the other diners that night. As for me, I couldn’t look at a paella for years without sobbing.

Colin Drury, Dinas Powys, Vale of Glamorgan.