Hans and Gervasie met on the streets of London. Hans was a dishwasher in the kitchen of a big restaurant and Gervasie had the ability to make people believe what he said, but didn’t have the magic nounce, the ability to convince the right people, which Hans provided.
After a bit of chat, and Hans’ wages saved up, the two men managed to buy a share in a restaurant.
Within five years, they co owned the place. Gervasie was up front, head waiter, greeting, chatting, while Hans, the old dishwasher, was in charge of the kitchen staff, seeing everyone got their orders and the place was kept clean and well run generally.
It was Gervasie’s idea to replace one wall with a massive tank, stocked with all manner of water creatures, for the customers to pick out, which would then be cooked and eaten.
Neither of them were sure where it came from, but along the line someone supplied the tank with a small squid.
It was a greenish colour, with a faint moustache across what would have been, if it had been human, it’s upper lip. It was also an obliging little thing, and if it had been possible, knew it’s manners, and allowed other creatures to go before it, especially the older ones. It also refused to get into battles, finding it easier to back down, and was quite mild mannered all round.
Within ten years, the restaurant was the most fashionable eatery in London. People came from across the world just to eat in the place, and be seen eating.
The tank had been stocked and restocked time and time again, and the single remaining crustacean, was the little moustachioed squid, moving about gently, mind it’s manners, and Gervasie began to become attached to this squid. He would come in every morning and see it was all right, and tap gently on the glass and say hello to it.
Hans watched from the kitchen and shook his head, for he knew that one day someone would pick the squid and they would have to go round the side, and net it, and cook it.
And then one evening, the Mayor of London, along with several dignataries from suitably radical countries in tow, arrived at the restaurant and were seated by a bowing, obliging Gervasie.
Once they were settled, they gave their orders, and the Mayor of London pointed to the glass and said;
“I want that.”
Gervasie, pen poised, hesitated. Still smiling, he glanced to where the Mayor indicated, and then back to the Mayor.
“Excuse me, but which, exactly, sir.”
“The squid.” Said the Mayor, “the green one with the moustache.”
Without breaking his smile and his servile manner, Gervasie shook his head;
“I’m sorry sir, the squid is off.”
Every face around that table turned to look at the immaculately clad smiling Gervasie and the unsmiling Mayor.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry sir, but the squid is off. You can’t have the squid.”
“Excuse me.” The Mayor nodded to those around the table stood up, and gently led Gervasie out of hearing, towards the kitchen, “listen, son.” His said, all politeness dropped, “you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“I know perfectly well who I’m dealing with, sir, and I’m glad you chose our restaurant to dine. . .”
“Don’t gimme that rubbish, son. You know those people with me aren’t street people who have no say in what’s happening in their countries.”
“I know sir. I recognise more than one from news and current affair items.”
“These people are gods in their own nations. They are not going to think much of me as a Mayor if I come into a restaurant and order something and the head waiter turns me down. They are not going to think much of my ability to run London.”
“I’m sure they’re not, sir. Having said that, the squid is off.”
The Mayor flushed violently and back-pedalled an un protesting Gervasie into the kitchen, gaining attention of, amongst others, Hans.
“Look, son, you got two choices. You give me the squid, now, cooked, and I mean that squid, I accept no imitations, or I put it about your restaurant is rubbish and I see to it is shut down and all your fancy diners will go elsewhere and you and your pal here,” nodding to Hans, “will be ruined. Remember, I used to be a restaurant critic, and they’ll listen to me.”
“What’s up?” Hans asked.
“He wants the squid.”
“The. . .?”
“And if we say no, he’ll put it about we’re rubbish and have us shut down.”
“OUR squid.”
“Yes.”
Hans glanced towards the glass of the large tank from the kitchen side. And the squid turned and looked at him, and waved a little feeler at him.
He swallowed hard, and turned to the Mayor;
“All right, little man, piss off, you and your pals. We can manage without you. You are not having the squid. Do you worst.”
And the tale went round London, and across the world, for weeks after, the tale of how two ex homeless people took on the Mayor of London over the right to life for a moustached, mild-mannered green squid, risking everything, which proved what most people knew;
Hans that does dishes can be soft as Gervasie, with a mild green hairy-lipped squid.
