Like Arthur Sullivan's Lost Chord, there are some experiences you know will never be recaptured. I retain a haunting memory of what may have been the best coffee I shall ever taste.
Was it really, or was it just the occasion? And Andrés. Funny thing, memory, plays tricks, you can never be sure. I'm entirely sure about Andrés though. He was not so much an experience as an ongoing succession of them, a phenomenon. Among a whirlpool of memories released by the shock of reading his obituary recently, one that floated effortlessly to the top was the vivid recollection of his coffee.
One Saturday lunchtime in our early days here we were sitting on bar stools in what was then Andrés' cafe-restaurant - there were many, over the years - chatting to an off-duty doctor and his wife, both English, who had escaped briefly from a cruise ship. It hadn't occurred to me that cruise ships need a resident doctor, but of course they do. Several thousand mostly elderly people eating, drinking and bopping like teenagers are not all going to get through the week without needing help.
'There's nearly always a death or two,' the doctor told us phlegmatically. I don't know if he was exaggerating. Behind the counter, Andrés was busy with a tea towel. Plump but buoyant he had an instantly recognisable gait, floating as lightly as a dinghy, but at this point he paused briefly on his way past, sensing that the doctor had said something shocking. We explained what it was - even in our hesitant Spanish of those days the word death was not difficult to convey - and Andrés winced theatrically.
'Most of the passengers survive,' the doctor reassured us. 'It's my job to keep them going. Always ready for a heart attack. Jump into action. Very well equipped.'
Andrés refilled our wine glasses. We were indulging in a light lunch at the bar. Our host placed a couple of tapas dishes in front of us and another two for the doctor and his wife. Where others would have offered saucers of salted peanuts, Andrés produced plates of mini toasts with almogrote, the spicy Gomeran spread made from goat cheese. And plates of olives, but not your acidic green things spooned from a large jar: Andrés had prepared black olives in a dressing of olive oil, balsamic vinegar and finely chopped garlic.
Not only was Andrés proudly Gomeran, he also did everything with flair and artistry. His restaurants were wildly successful but they came and went with dizzying rapidity because he got bored once they were firmly established. They were instantly recognisable by his love of drapes, whether fishing nets slung across the ceiling or brightly striped Canary Islands cloth decorating the walls. This particular incarnation was small but cosy with the fishing net treatment, trellises around the walls and lots of flowers. At one end of the room the toilet doors were hidden by a lattice screen with a helpful sign attached: Si quieres ver a Chipude, quítate de delante de Arure. If you want to see Chipude, move from in front of Arure.
'Must be off soon,' the doctor said. 'Need to be back on board when they all roll in from their coach trips.'
'I'll make you a coffee,' Andrés offered. 'How about a carajillo?' None of us knew what that was, which pleased him immensely because it gave him licence to stage a performance at the espresso coffee machine.
Taking four brandy balloons from the shelf he polished them carefully with his tea towel then heated them from the coffee machine's steam nozzle which, properly managed, can generate furious hissing and white clouds swirling to the ceiling. The first ingredient of the coffee was, encouragingly, a generous shot of good Spanish brandy poured from one of those bottles with a clever plastic thingy in its neck that allows people like Andrés to upend it and pour the precious liquid from a great height. No doubt the brandy goes some way towards explaining the enduring memorability of this creation but - no, wait, wait! - not the whole way, not at all.
Next the strong black coffee fresh from the machine, a sprinkle of sugar and finally, the surprise ingredient: a slice of lemon. I'd never thought of adding lemon to coffee but it transformed this one into something wonderful. I can taste it now, a blend of bitterness from the coffee softened by the brandy, with the taste buds delighted by the fruity zing of the lemon.
Not long ago Andrés gave up launching new restaurants, limiting himself to occasional bursts of creativity to decorate the stage at special events such as fiestas and shows, with extensive use of fabric drapes and fishing nets.
Strangely, I have never ordered a carajillo again since that first one. Perhaps it's a fear that without the magic of Andrés it would just taste like coffee.
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For Andrés I've made an exception in using his real name in this little tribute, partly because he's no longer with us but also because he would be impossible to disguise. He is missed by all who knew him, which includes practically everyone in San Sebastián and many others throughout the island.
As for the coffee: well yes, it's sort of like Irish coffee but even simpler. No cream involved and you don't have to pour anything over a teaspoon unless you want the coffee to sit in a separate layer above the brandy, but there's really no point, and anyway that trick is far more impressive in a barraquito. (So now I've got to explain what that is - see below.)
The carajillo requires about two measures of black coffee to one of brandy or, if you happen to be in Cuba, rum. In Mexico they use mezcal, I'm told. The lemon can be added as lemon rind to the spirit or, as demonstrated by Andrés, as a slice added at the end. Sugar is optional.
If you want something really sweet, however - sweet enough to replace your tiramisu dessert or Death by Chocolate - a barraquito is a better bet. It's a much showier extension of the carajillo concept, comprising four ingredients in attractively distinct layers served in a tall, thin glass.
Having admired the barraquito and taken a photo, you stir it all up before drinking. It will save you money by providing your dessert, coffee and liqueur all in one gulp. Far too sweet for me and anyway it was invented in Tenerife, not La Gomera.
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