What can happen when you touch something you shouldn’t
At the Can Solé restaurant, Ramon Homs, who had come from studying hospitality in Switzerland, was in charge of the kitchen. He brought back some ideas and a blonde woman, Brigitte, with whom he would share his entire life. Being a native of Barceloneta, he knew that the less disguised fresh fish is, the better. And the clientele there included businessmen and executives, but also many artists and A-listers from the entertainment world. They would go wild with the oven-baked “sipietas,” the shrimp, or the veal dish, from Manuel Vázquez Montalbán to Joan Miró, Joan Manuel Serrat, and Sara Montiel.
My “deep throat” has told me in detail what happened that night. Sometimes I doubt if everything is exactly as he tells it, but it all sounds true to me. My informant, from his office in the Moll del Rebaix bar, explained that one Wednesday night at Can Solé, they ran out of bread and, they sent someone they called Trifulca with some Pagés loaves from the Escursell bakery. Trifulca wasn’t bad at heart, if you could find it. He had slender fingers that, with the same ease with which he rolled out bread dough for loaves, opened a car lock and cracked a radio cassette player. Trifulca was a lot into flamenco at the time, and everyone told him that as soon as he had money, he was going to buy a guitar, learn to play, and go on tour in Japan with Camarón.
He entered Can Solé through the side door on Sant Elm Street, and as he left the bread in the kitchen, he noticed two people sitting on the round table closest to the stove, concentrating on some crayfish. And behind the chair, a guitar in its brand-new case was propped on the floor! Without anyone noticing, he walked out the door, guitar in hand.
As he turned the corner, he almost bumped into a patrolling policeman, but he said, “Good night,” and went ahead. Two corners later, he couldn’t contain his curiosity to see what color the guitar was. He opened the case, and when he saw it was black, he went white and slammed the lid shut. Not because it was black, but becasueit wasn’t a guitar, it was a machine gun.
A neighbor just passed by.
“Have you seen how San Carlos Street is full of cops on patrol? One of them told me that the Chief Commissioner of the Spanish National Police is at Can Solé with a bodyguard, and they’re standing in the street, smelling the food and not having any dinner.”
A complete mess . He had to return the artillery before they noticed. And how? He couldn’t just walk in there and say it had stuck to his fingers, like a postage stamp, because they’d just keep him in jail until the frogs spoke Latin.
It was then that he heard the music. It was his catchy little tune: “Heart, heart. Heart of the picturesque…”
-The Bernardo!
Bernardo Cortés, the street guitarist who went around the neighborhood’s restaurants strumming his guitar to earn some money to get by. It wasn’t hard to convince him: 100 pesetas and a beer with bravas.
They headed for Can Solé. Bernardo carried his guitar, and he stood next to him with his guitar in its case, claiming it to be the palmero. Street musicians weren’t allowed there, but they begged for just one song and they’d leave right away. Ramón Homs, who seemed very serious, had a kind heart and ended up signaling one of the waiters to let them in.
Bernardo stood in front of the kitchen, blasting his guitar, as if that weren’t a better word. And Trifulca gestured to some foreign women to get up and dance. In a moment, a party broke out, and the chief superintendent and his bodyguard were so distracted by Bernardo’s rumba and the swaying of the foreigners that while they were enthralled, Trifulca took advantage of the situation to discreetly leave the machine gun where it was.
With relief, as if a bad tooth had been removed, he gestured to Bernardo to stop and leave. But Brigitte got up to dance and told them to continue the party. The Trifulca ended up singing Peret songs, and the event ended with Bernardo and Trifulca at the Chief Superintendent’s table, treated to shots of the finest whiskey.
He was fired from the Escursell bakery for having gone out to deliver three loaves of bread and returning at one in the morning, but he would go back the next day to tell the owner a story to earn forgiveness. Because El Trifulca wasn’t bad, but he made a real mess of things .
