John Smith was an up-country caterer in a remote part of Africa. We called him Joseph, after other shining lights in the trade.
I don't think I ever saw him quite sober, but, on the other hand, never heard of his being drunk. He was not good to look at, being fat, bald and red-faced.
A stranger once called him Joe. Our host was indignant at the familiarity, and snapped: "I'm Joe to me pals, John Smith to me acquaintances, Mr. Smith to you, damn you!" Coming across to my table, he winked heavily, and said in a hoarse stage-whisper: "P'raps you've 'eard a bloke say that afore?"
I admitted I had.
"Come in nice and 'andy, tho'," said Joe.
Joe's place of business was a frame house with walls of canvas. He had named it the "Duke of York's Restuarant." The spelling was his; so, too, was the sign-writing.
He was a man of uncertain temper. One day a hungry guest asked for more beef. Joe thought this unreasonable, and thus addressed the man:
"Yore twist do give yer nerve. 'Ere, tike the bloomin' lot!" With that he hurled the round of beef full at the hungry man's head; it missed him and passed out through the canvas wall. Joe glared at his damaged property for a space, and then in a loud voice made it known to the rest of us that "Beef's off."
On another occasion a boarder declined to partake of a doubtful-looking meat concoction which Joe declared was "frickerdells."
"Wot, yer don't like 'em, don't yer?"