The fat waiter with stains on his shirt sucked his teeth and shook his head when I tried to pay my $25 bill with a $100 dollar note, obviously fed up of tourists traipsing in and spoiling his afternoon paper. But after an attempt at a humble apology in pigeon Spanish, he realised I was English and his surly face broke into a smile. He beckoned the girl behind the bar to take down a photocopied newspaper article which had been preserved by means of a plastic pocket, now covered in grease, and pinned proudly behind the bar in place of honour. I took it gingerley between my thumb and forefinger and began to read. The article started something like this... ´A fat waiter with stains on his shirt bought me a bowl of bread which I quickly devoured - it was then that I spotted the cockroach at the bottom of the bowl which was eagerly sharing my bread`. While it did go on to praise the cheap, tasty parrilla, the author relished in the details of the grease, the four different types of stain on the tablecloth, and the sullenness of the waiter. I read to the end of the article, trying not to laugh, and looked up to see the waiter waiting for my reaction. I didn´t disappoint him. I pointed to the words Sunday Times at the top of the page. ´Wow´, I said, ´mucho famoso´, nodding seriously. He smiled proudly, and tapped his stained, chubby chest. ´Mi bar!´
