Personal Touch: Culture of service in Mallorca

Vince Cable is interested in introducing a plan for employee share-ownership at Royal Mail, when or if it is ever privatised. It’s all about instilling a change of culture in the organisation. Cable sees John Lewis as a model. It sounds fair enough, but it isn’t as simple as handing over some share certificates.

The John Lewis Partnership can be traced back to 1919. The company’s culture of service and participation is that historical and ingrained that it is, in effect, what the company is. To give an example of the challenge at Royal Mail, I heard a radio discussion about the plan in which the courtesy of a John Lewis van driver was compared with the two-fingered snottiness of a Royal Mail driver. The point is that the John Lewis “spirit” penetrates every last bit of the company’s operations.

Giving out shares is, in truth, an artificial way of trying to engender a different culture. It’s almost like a bribe, a financial incentive to create success without the bedrock of inner strength and values – a bit like Manchester City, without a culture of achievement, looking to usurp Manchester United, which has, with the promise of riches. It shouldn’t be necessary. A rotten culture is rarely the fault of staff; the blame nearly always lies at the top.

Not long after he became the head of the Fomento del Turismo (aka the Mallorca Tourism Board), Pedro Iriondo spoke in “The Bulletin” about bygone days of a personal touch and smiling, happy people greeting tourists. What he also spoke about was that this personal style, this culture, had to start from the top of the tourism trade and cascade downwards. He was not wrong.

Much is sometimes made of indifferent service and attitudes by those in Mallorca’s tourism frontline. We can all cite examples of the good or the bad. Just to give one of the former, I happened to go into the Sis Pins hotel in Puerto Pollensa the other day. I was not a guest, but the beaming and charming greeting was enough to convince me that did I wish to be a guest, then I would be so with full confidence. And this was not forced, it was totally natural, suggesting an atmosphere, a culture if you prefer, of Sr. Iriondo’s personal touch. There are plenty of other examples, just as good.

But then there is the bad, made worse by a propensity for those suffering the “bad” to rush off to the internet and tell the world. To suggest that poor service or attitude can be totally eliminated is a nonsense, but perhaps Mallorca has indeed, as Sr. Iriondo has suggested, lost some of its personal touch, lost some of a culture of welcoming. Unlike Royal Mail, which starts from base camp, Mallorca is still well up the mountain, just that it needs to get back to the peak.

Part of the problem may well lie with simple terminology. “Tourists”. A generic term and a sometimes pejorative one, which implies a breed apart, one that is a part of Mallorca and yet is separate from it, one that is removed from the process of Mallorca and yet which is fundamental to it. “Tourists” cease to be individuals and become resources moving along a production line, causing it to be forgotten that they are holidaymakers, with all this term implies in respect of the “fun” of holiday, and also guests. Forgotten not just by some businesses and their staff but by everyone.

In Alcúdia, there is an annual tourist day. It is a good idea and a successful event, but it is inherently contradictory. Is every day not a tourist day? When Sr. Iriondo referred to the “top”, he wasn’t completely right, in that – in organisational terms – it is the tourist who should be at the top of the pyramid; everyone else is in a support role, and by everyone I mean everyone. It is the John Lewis culture writ large, even down to courtesy by drivers.

Of course, embracing everyone in such a culture is an impossibility. It could only be achieved were there an authoritarian regime, commanding the populace to smile nicely and hug a tourist. Yet there used to exist something of that type of regime, at a time in the past to which Sr. Iriondo has alluded. Along the way, something got lost, the result of familiarity, routine, a greater politicisation of the tourism issue and increased wealth. It might also be a consequence of tourists themselves, or some of them; those who do not apply their own responsibilities as guests. Patience can be stretched to the limits at times.

Nevertheless, for the majority of visitors, things do need to come down from the top, be it in bars, restaurants, shops, hotels or wherever, or from the tourism ministry and organisations. Perhaps just a bit of the spend that is made on promotion could be diverted to some “internal” marketing to the staff, as in everyone in Mallorca. A reminder that each tourist is a guest and is unique, and deserves a culture in which he or she is made to feel welcome by all. Mallorca is not the Royal Mail, but were it to be John Lewis then whatever shortcomings the island may have compared with its shiny new competitors would be compensated for – through the personal touch.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Smoke And Mirrors: Why friendliness is spurious

Alcúdia friendly, so it was said on 16 June. It’s not the only resort in Mallorca that is friendly and not the only resort where tourists can expect excellent hospitality. “The Diario”, as it did when interviewing tourists in Alcúdia, following tour operators’ arguments that greater friendliness needed to be shown to visitors, has gone on another walkabout – to different places across the island. Again the impetus was what tour operators were saying about service and that all-important friendliness, or the lack of them. And what they have again discovered is a situation quite removed from what the tour operators have been alleging.

While one has to get into perspective a few sources being cited in a couple of articles, the paper’s findings – including the fact that tourists come back year after year – does make one wonder quite what has been behind the tour operators’ suggestions as to a lack of friendliness or poor service. Maybe, just maybe, they’re using them as a smoke-screen.

There was an interesting letter in “The Bulletin” yesterday. The points it raised were well-made, and it came from someone who was behind a movement in Calvia to correct the problems faced by bars and others. Among the points was the fact that tour operators are saying that were bars and restaurants to stay open – in winter – and support hotels that get their prices right, then they would arrange packages. Yet they also say that Mallorca needs more all-inclusive, as the market wants it.

Forget the winter tourism element, the point about all-inclusive says it all. Bars and restaurants staying open while all-inclusive gets cranked up are mutually exclusive. The tour operators’ line of thinking is thoroughly illogical – and they surely know it to be so. Which is why they may be raising that smoke-screen of friendliness and service; it’s a red herring.

It is the tour operators that have caused the problems with Mallorca’s tourism, just as – for the most part – they also brought about the success. True though it may be that bars and restaurants had it easy, thanks to the benevolence of hotels and yes the tour operators, but as the letter-writer points out these bars and restaurants were needed, encouraged. Not now they aren’t. Saying that bars and restaurants should stay open, while simultaneously taking away their business because of a growth in all-inclusive is a fatuous and idiotic argument.

England’s humiliation
It was embarrassing. It was quieter than Slovenia. Of course it was. And now the bars will be lamenting the defeat. No great troupes of Rooneys and Gerrards. No great sales of foamy. Sadly I feel I may have been prescient when I said on 17 June that “England will prove to be rubbish, and Germany will win it.”

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Are You Being Served? – Two restaurants in Alcúdia

Old town Alcúdia. Friday evening in February, not exactly buzzing with huge numbers of diners, albeit that it is only twenty past seven. Half five, the Germans had originally suggested. “Half five!?” We settled on seven. Nothing’s likely to open before seven. Even this is early – for the Spanish. For Germans it’s closer to midnight.

There’s a restaurant we’re going to. We think. No naming and shaming. Not a big place. Old town. Quiet. Intimate, the publicity would probably say. There is a menu on a stand in the street. Lights on. No-one in. We wait a moment. A “chico” comes in. For four, we’re about to say. But the words never come out. The kitchen is not ready, he says. 7.30, he says. It’s 7.20. Am I hearing this correctly? Are we all hearing this correctly? Do we hear, would you like to have a drink? Do we hear, sorry we need just a few minutes, but please take a table, and I’ll be with you? We hear nothing of the sort. Nor do we offer a suggestion that we could have a drink and wait a little while. The chico would evidently rather not hear such a suggestion.

The German language has some cracking words. “Wahnsinn” is one such. It means madness, insanity. It is pronounced with a maniacal, elongated first-syallable emphasis, and so has an onomatopeic, nonsensical quality. Did we hear this correctly? He basically asked us to leave. For the sake of ten minutes, he asked us to leave. On a Friday in February in the old town of Alcúdia. Not exactly buzzing, albeit that it is early. But he has declined custom. He wouldn’t know for sure how much. And now he’s not going to find out. “Wahnsinn.”

In the square, the Constitution Square, it is quiet. No, make that dead. The café Llabres, the pizzeria and … and Satyricon. This seems ok, it’s said. I gulp, but then I’m not paying. I’m also wary of “concept” restaurants. I prefer unpretentious. But I’m always game. At least it’s warm. The space heaters are roaring, filling the interior air with butaned heat. I’ve never quite got it with the name. Satyricon. Orgies, cannabalism, the everyday lives of everyday Roman folk. There again, some of the novel concerns a meal, an extravagant occasion with several courses. Oh, and a touch of everyday debauchery. I suppose we skip the latter and just go for the food.

It’s an impressive place of galleries. Costs more if you go upstairs, I suggest. Ho, ho. Better down in the one-and-nines. Appropriate. It used to be a cinema. And the space heaters seem confined to the stalls. Heat rises though. It would need to. The ceiling seems miles away. You could imagine a Michelangelo with a pot of Dulux. Or maybe not. Oh, and no-one says we’re not open. No, no.

Water comes in a jug and is poured into metal goblets. I feel a Michael Winner moment coming on. Tastes metallic – unsurprisingly. Tap, I’ll be bound. Not historic. The maîtresse d’ is too hard-faced. She should lighten up, like the charming waitress who is receptive to requests for taking photos. Nevertheless, the service is prompt, pleasant, helpful, not overbearing. The “menu” is opted for. 42 euros a head. Gulp. But then I’m not paying. Why not go for the Can Vidalet Sauvignon, I venture. A Pollensa bodega. Ah, ja, very Mallorcan, very near to Alcúdia. Good, I think. I must tell them at the bodega next time I’m there. The menu novella includes a photo of the head chef. Chefs come close-cropped or shaven-headed nowadays. Very Heston. Very Blumenthal. I fear we might all be attached to oxygen cylinders and be force-fed bacon and egg ice-cream via a catheter. I know the dishes are going to be poncey. I don’t mind poncey, so long as it doesn’t mean stopping off for fish ‘n’ chips on the way home. When nouvelle first took London, we did poncey in Chiswick and left starving. The Indian chippy take-away on Acton High Street did roaring business back then.

The Vidalet is most acceptable and highly fruity; light for a Cabernet and not over-powering. The four courses are preceded by a couple of small tasters. What’s this? Looks like a small toffee-apple upside down. A type of ricotta painted red. Superb. Give me more. Not so. Everyone else has eaten theirs. And then on, and on. There’s sufficient time between courses for digestion purposes. It’s all timed to perfection. Not too quick, not too slow. Spot on. The two “girls” remain pleasant, smiling (the waitress anyway), helpful. The dishes are brought and their silver lids are lifted in synchronisation. It is all absolutely magnificent. The turbot, the solomillo – outstanding, mega-historic – the needlework twines of paprika, the purées, the sweet with a cream of some ambrosia. More, more, more; please, more. An almond liqueur. I’ll take the bottle. And what do you know? I’m full. No KFC for you on the way back, young fellow m’lad. Full. Not belt-undoing full. But sated, satisfied, and served well.

This is a fine restaurant. Ostentatious, yes; tries a bit too hard, yes; but the kitchen is supreme, the service just about delicate, courtesy of the the waitress, rather too matronly where the maìtresse d’ is concerned. Not economy class. But for treat purposes… . Go on, do it. On the stroll back we pass the other restaurant, the one that had been intended. Don’t know if there’s anyone in there. Lights on. No-one in. I do know they lost out on something like 200 euros. On a Friday in Alcúdia. Not exactly buzzing. For the sake of ten minutes and a touch of service. Satyricon got the gig and did service; did it well. The other place? The unnamed place? Hmm. Or rather, “Wahnsinn”.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.