London Letter: How barman Pete turns grumpiness into charm

Management and I go to the local pub down the road most Friday nights for a couple of pints.

That’s not enough by English standards to make us regulars, but often enough to be recognised by the barman, Peter.

Peter is one of the weirdest, if not finest, barmen I know. He takes the word ‘grumpy’ to new heights.

The pub’s best beer on tap is a lager called Cobra, which is nice and venomous, and as I come through the door Peter is already pouring me a pint even though he only sees me once a week.

Management, on the other hand, likes trying out new ales and will ask him what’s good as the pub supports various independent breweries. His stock answer is, ‘It’s all the usual brown slop.’

If she asks for a ‘nice’ glass of white wine, he replies, ‘You won’t get that here. We’ve only got some French stuff.’

He then nods at a couple drinking wine at a table nearby. ‘Wait until they find out what they’ve been drinking. They hate the French.’

Management loves this and says if it’s so bad, she wants a French discount. His answer is always the same. ‘What? Is my name Jean-Claude?’ He then does a jig and mimics a beret on his head.

Believe me, this is not a pretty sight as Peter has a massive belly that ripples like mielies in a hurricane when he moves. He insists on wearing jeans that sometimes reveal an Everest size builder’s bum when he bends over. Fortunately he is not able to bend too far.

He also hates dogs. Unfortunately for him, a large number of the regulars bring their pets to the pub.

One animal, a grey-jowled old Staffie, gets very restless when it wants to pee, which like many ageing men is quite often.

The owner then says, ‘Ask Peter’ and on cue the dog barks at the bar counter. Peter theatrically sighs and grumpily muttering to himself has to go around the pub to open the door to let barking Staffie now standing on three legs outside.

But I think he likes dogs marginally more than he likes children. Again, unfortunately for him there are also usually a couple of tots around in the early evening as their parents unwind. Yet strangely, the toddlers all love him and jabber away excitedly when they see him. His stock answer to this is, ‘I don’t speak Mandarin.’

Then a couple of weeks ago management asked him if the pub was doing anything special for Valentine’s Day.

Valentine losers

‘What for?’ he replied. ‘The only people who come here on Valentine’s Day are losers. And we don’t do anything for losers.’

Sorry we asked.

The pub also has a kitchen, which is pretty good as the owner has a string of Indian restaurants as well.

Indeed, I think the owner bought the pub more for the rooms upstairs where he can house his waiters, rather than for the actual liquor licence. Tax is so high on grog in England that many pubs are battling to survive.

Yet, if you ask Peter to compliment the chef on a meal, you can hear him bawl into the kitchen, ‘She says your cooking is up to @#$%%.’

But perhaps his weirdest habit is that he likes whistling. That in itself is not a problem, but the catch is that he whistles exactly like the ringtone of a cellphone.

So whenever he purses his lips half the pub reaches into their pockets for their cells.

Yet the regulars love him and the place is humming most Fridays. You often hear them chatting away to him about wives or husbands, kids, girlfriends, jobs – you name it. Peter is always listening, but you can be sure one bit of advice he will never give you is to cheer up.

I like it that way. In fact, I deliberately do not to do anything to make Peter smile by mistake.

It’s all part of the charm.