When Maite sees them arrive, her smile as the manager of the Tabarech restaurant twists into a sour gesture. “Table for six. We want a paella of the ones you make so good", Cinta, a special customer, well-known in the town, where she is used to making and undoing the lives of others as if she were the mythical Penelope, had asked him a few days earlier. Who is your Ulysses? Well, grandfather Llorenç, an anti-hero whose only trip to Ithaca he makes every day is the one back and forth from home to the bar. Nothing about crossing adventurous seas; just the gentle swell of beer foam as it shakes the table with the force with which he and his friends knock over the dominoes. Also part of the commando is Mila, the daughter, who has a strained relationship with her father because of how he made her teenage life bitter with the demands of her studies and the pressure to replace him in the family textile company. Business that in the end went to Can Pistraus, according to the numbers presented to the Treasury, but which provided black money to live three or four retirements without suffering. Mila's husband, Jan, the son-in-law, is a soul in pain who is looking for an impossible place in the family universe. The band is completed by Pol and Arnau, the twins, the reps, who number five.
They come from the beach, where they have deployed all the charms to say what they think without changing and hide, with cunning, what they secrete. They enter Can Tabarech (a Migverí star) with all the trappings of baskets and towels slung over their shoulders, the half-deflated boat and the dripping castle-building tools. The rest of the disturbance comes from the screams of the rowers, the flip flops and feet dirty with sand and the umbrellas and a couple more inflatables that hit (sorry, sorry!) the backs of the seated customers. Maite shows them the table and warns them: “You are a little late; the rice has been waiting for you for ten minutes". "Nothing happens", woman, says Cinta, commander in chief of the troop. "Aren't we going to have starters?" asks Jan. "Yes, a Sunday without an aperitif is not a Sunday", adds Llorenç, who is sorry to agree with his son-in-law. "We want bravas!" shout the bivitelinos. "Your rice will boil!" laments Maite. "Of course not", "it's okay", "we'll eat it", replies the gang, who annoy as much as they can by dragging chairs, throwing some cutlery on the floor and knocking over a bottle of water which wets the towels and crumbles two glasses.
Appetizers are late and the rice is making its noise in the kitchen. La Cinta takes advantage of the banter to re-attach herself to the lascivious proposals sent to her by WhatsApp from Antonio, a peer who proposes sexual watermarks that Llorenç's rheumatic slumber cannot imagine. “Whore wafer! We won!", shouts the grandfather. "We won and he wasn't there! They have handed out medals!", he insists, after opening WhatsApp. Look with bloodshot eyes at Jan, who had the bright idea to spend a Sunday at the beach with the grandparents. Precisely the day when he was playing the final of the county domino championship. Llorenç's lamentations do not distract Cinta's erotic interest. Mila smiles and sees it as a small revenge, postponed in time. Jan pretends not to hear anything, as he tries to control the tremors. The twins, when the older ones lose their way, approach neighboring tables to steal bread or ask for money.
The lunch is spent in a chatterbox where no one is heard. Cinta has stayed with Antonio for tomorrow morning and is already thinking about what pranks she will show off. Llorenç, grumpy, wants to hang the medal that his colleagues have kept for him. Mila doubts whether it was right to leave the cell phone to the children for the whole lunch so that they can play and be quiet. Jan, oblivious to everything, ponders whether it would be a good idea to have a dog.
"Woaf, Maite! What a bill!” bellows grandfather Llorenç, when he receives the note. La Cinta looks up at the ceiling: "Pay and shut up, you won't finish them." "And you, Jan, you never make the gesture of putting your hand in your wallet!", complains the grandfather. "Papaaaaa", Mila lengthens the word, embarrassed. Jan pretends not to hear anything and thinks about the caravan that will trap them on the road like ants that can't find their nest. Pol and Arnau, without their mobile phones, spend their time sliding around the restaurant thanks to the sand they entered with their dirty feet.
On the outside, the kisses and hugs seem sincere, but they have the aftertaste of brooding family.
Inside, Maite cries and laughs. Cry, for the cardboard rice, more typical of a beach bar. He laughs, because they have paid as if they had dined in a three-star Migverí.
