Our friends electric

"Pescado con ensaladilla rusa (fish with Russian salad)"

She straightens herself up and stares expectantly at the man standing opposite, a hipster tugging nervously on his over-ample beard. A shake of the head. She leans back in and tries again.

"Ensaladilla rusa"

The man pulls his phone from her lips, stares at the screen, his beard-tugging now having become more of a yanking festival and, despondently, mutters the word "No" under his breath.

The woman behind the bar then points at me for the third time and I ask, for the third time, if I can help (the first two offers were met with a polite but firm "No, it's alright thank you.") The hipster looks vaguely petrified but, desperate to feed his children, speaks to me nervously against his better judgement.

"Er, what is she saying?"

"Fish with Russian salad." He breathes a sigh of relief and beams a winning smile.

"Tell her yes, please - enough for a family of four."

And so it's done - what could have been over five excruciating minutes ago is finally brought to a happy conclusion. Real-life person beats telephone translator in battle of the half-wits.

What struck me most about all of this was the sheer unadulterated faith this man was putting in an electronic device, trusting it more than human interaction. I don't trust my own phone an inch and, as frequently as possible, leave it in the house, lonely and unattended like a nagging spouse, just as it deserves.

All of this reminded me of the time a man fell off a chair in the pub. He was standing on one of our seats (rude) and overreaching to get his phone close to the speaker so that an app called Shazam might tell him the name of the song that was playing. As he got up and dusted himself down, I walked by, cloth in hand.

"Van Morrison - Bulbs."

He smiled sheepishly, tucked his shirt back in and limped back towards his chortling chums.

I was thinking about this very incident when the hipster returned from the bar terrace with his sated family and held out his card to pay. The bar owner shook her head.

"Aquí, en efectivo."

This time the young man studiously ignored his phone and looked at me. I shrugged.

"Cash only."

He looked as if he was being asked to pay by cheque with a quill.

"I.. I.."

The woman behind the bar smiled.

"No pasa nada - mañana me pagas." ("It's fine - pay me tomorrow.")

I trust he did, presumably having been guided to the nearest cash point by his somewhat overrated electronic friend.

Or maybe he asked someone for directions.