ThE BREAD ROLL STORY
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My Father is a bit of a celebrity.. in Portugal. My parents go there on holiday, and it's from there I received the following text from my Mother, “The locals are queuing up outside hotel. They have heard your Dad is back in town and have started the chants of Sem Fundo Poco! He’s on his ninth roll. Bakery on overtime!”
A few years ago I went with my parents to Portugal and this is the background to that text and the true story of how my Dad came to be famous throughout the Iberian Peninsula..
On the first morning that we went for breakfast the waitress brought over a large basket of bread rolls. The fact that there were a dozen rolls in the basket, and there was only four of us, would lead most people to the conclusion that you should just help yourself to a roll or two, after which the waitress would collect the basket and take it to the people at the next table.
My Dad is not most people. The conclusion he came to is that all the rolls were for us to eat. He wouldn’t accept that the rest of rolls would simply be given to the other diners, and seemed to think that the ones that we left in the basket would end up in the bin.
Not only that, but he insisted that the rolls were bought and paid for, and so we had to eat them. Indeed it would be embarrassing if we didn’t eat them, and so on the first morning he ate nine bread rolls, which isn’t embarrassing at all.
For my Dad stuffing himself with rolls just to leave an empty basket was a sign that he appreciated the food and didn’t want to leave any waste.
For the hotel staff, the empty basket was a sign that they hadn’t given us enough rolls to eat. The next day they put a large basket containing about two dozen rolls on our table.
“You see Dad, these rolls are for everyone. They’re not just for us” I said
“Rubbish. We paid for them. They’re included in the price. Now get eating!” replied my Dad, opening his tenth portion of butter.
Twenty four rolls later, or in the case of my father seventeen rolls later, the basket was empty, and the staff were jabbering away to each other in Portuguese, no doubt perplexed by their sudden bread roll shortage.
The following morning when we sat down to breakfast, I could see the staff were sniggering to one another. Then two of them carried in a barrel full of bread rolls..
“Dad, this is getting embarrassing” I said, “Do you see the point they’re trying to make?”.
Dad shook his head, took some deep breaths and plunged his hand into the basket of rolls.
Four hours later and the hotel staff and the other guests were standing around in stunned silence. As my Dad crammed the final roll into his mouth they gave a mighty cheer.
The morning after that when we went down to breakfast I was relieved to see that there were no rolls on offer, in fact there was no breakfast of any sort, as the place seemed to be deserted. Then a small peasant boy appeared and grabbed my Dad’s hand.
‘Sem Fundo Poco’ he kept repeating as he gestured for us to follow him. As there was no one else about we followed him out of the hotel, into the street and then down some narrow alleys and passageways. After a short amount of time we began to hear the sound of many voices growing louder and louder. Until finally we emerged into a square, where it would seem every occupant of the town had gathered.
Upon seeing my Dad, a small brass band began to play and the crowd began chanting ‘Sem Fundo Poco! Sem Fundo Poco! Sem Fundo Poco!’ over and over again.
“What are they saying?” I asked one of the villagers.
“Sem Fundo Poco! Eet mean, how you say.. Bottomless Pete!”
The small boy lead to my father through the crowd to the middle of the town square where the Mayor and local dignitaries were waiting to shake his hand.
We still had no idea what was going on, or what they expected from us, or my father, but then the Mayor gestured towards the huge fountain in the centre of the square. It was brimming over with bread rolls.
“Dad. This is madness. They can’t surely expect you to eat all those rolls. Let’s leave now, whilst we still can”.
“Son. We can’t leave.” he said, rolling up his shirt sleeves “It’s all paid for!”
A few years ago I went with my parents to Portugal and this is the background to that text and the true story of how my Dad came to be famous throughout the Iberian Peninsula..
On the first morning that we went for breakfast the waitress brought over a large basket of bread rolls. The fact that there were a dozen rolls in the basket, and there was only four of us, would lead most people to the conclusion that you should just help yourself to a roll or two, after which the waitress would collect the basket and take it to the people at the next table.
My Dad is not most people. The conclusion he came to is that all the rolls were for us to eat. He wouldn’t accept that the rest of rolls would simply be given to the other diners, and seemed to think that the ones that we left in the basket would end up in the bin.
Not only that, but he insisted that the rolls were bought and paid for, and so we had to eat them. Indeed it would be embarrassing if we didn’t eat them, and so on the first morning he ate nine bread rolls, which isn’t embarrassing at all.
For my Dad stuffing himself with rolls just to leave an empty basket was a sign that he appreciated the food and didn’t want to leave any waste.
For the hotel staff, the empty basket was a sign that they hadn’t given us enough rolls to eat. The next day they put a large basket containing about two dozen rolls on our table.
“You see Dad, these rolls are for everyone. They’re not just for us” I said
“Rubbish. We paid for them. They’re included in the price. Now get eating!” replied my Dad, opening his tenth portion of butter.
Twenty four rolls later, or in the case of my father seventeen rolls later, the basket was empty, and the staff were jabbering away to each other in Portuguese, no doubt perplexed by their sudden bread roll shortage.
The following morning when we sat down to breakfast, I could see the staff were sniggering to one another. Then two of them carried in a barrel full of bread rolls..
“Dad, this is getting embarrassing” I said, “Do you see the point they’re trying to make?”.
Dad shook his head, took some deep breaths and plunged his hand into the basket of rolls.
Four hours later and the hotel staff and the other guests were standing around in stunned silence. As my Dad crammed the final roll into his mouth they gave a mighty cheer.
The morning after that when we went down to breakfast I was relieved to see that there were no rolls on offer, in fact there was no breakfast of any sort, as the place seemed to be deserted. Then a small peasant boy appeared and grabbed my Dad’s hand.
‘Sem Fundo Poco’ he kept repeating as he gestured for us to follow him. As there was no one else about we followed him out of the hotel, into the street and then down some narrow alleys and passageways. After a short amount of time we began to hear the sound of many voices growing louder and louder. Until finally we emerged into a square, where it would seem every occupant of the town had gathered.
Upon seeing my Dad, a small brass band began to play and the crowd began chanting ‘Sem Fundo Poco! Sem Fundo Poco! Sem Fundo Poco!’ over and over again.
“What are they saying?” I asked one of the villagers.
“Sem Fundo Poco! Eet mean, how you say.. Bottomless Pete!”
The small boy lead to my father through the crowd to the middle of the town square where the Mayor and local dignitaries were waiting to shake his hand.
We still had no idea what was going on, or what they expected from us, or my father, but then the Mayor gestured towards the huge fountain in the centre of the square. It was brimming over with bread rolls.
“Dad. This is madness. They can’t surely expect you to eat all those rolls. Let’s leave now, whilst we still can”.
“Son. We can’t leave.” he said, rolling up his shirt sleeves “It’s all paid for!”