Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set
Page 84
Joy and David were leisurely laying out the tables with green and red serviettes, Christmas crackers and scrawled name cards. Les and I were in the kitchen arranging where to place all the items that were to be plated up, shoved in the oven and heated to scalding point.
‘Put the chipolatas, bacon and pastry cases for the cranberry sauce on the chest freezer,’ said Les, clearing away two empty bottles of champagne from the surface. Because every single work surface was occupied with pre-prepared accompaniments, we had to implement a two-tier system on the freezer so that we could fit everything on. Tupperwares were precariously stacked two-high, overlapping the containers below. The plates were stacked three deep on the square, wooden table in the centre of the kitchen, waiting to be filled for the first orders. The wipe board on the fridge doors had been sectioned so we could tick off which course each table had been served. And the homemade French onion soup had started to gurgle atop one of the rings, waiting for a dash of champagne before being ladled into bowls and topped with slices of fresh crusty bread.
‘I think we’re ready,’ I said, as Joy and David came to join us for one last drink before the rush.
‘Cheers,’ said David, raising a glass. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Happy Christmas,’ we all reiterated, and took a slurp. The kitchen looked highly organised and we still had half an hour to spare before the diners arrived. We were feeling rather pleased with ourselves.
‘Doddle,’ said Les.
‘We could have catered for a hundred,’ added David.
‘It’s all gone too smoothly,’ I said.
‘Err…just one thing,’ said Joy. Her eyes were scanning the worktops. ‘Where’s the turkey?’
Les and I looked at each other.
‘SHIT!’
I began to frantically dismantle our Tupperware terrace on the freezer. We had forgotten to take it out last night. It was still frozen.
David looked at his watch and gulped down another glass of wine. As I held the lid open, Les reached into the chest freezer, leaning across the plastic containers of Brussel sprouts, mashed and roasted potatoes, sliced carrots and other foodstuffs that were now spilling onto the tiled floor.
Thankfully we had cooked and sliced the humongous bird three days earlier but the frozen breezeblock of white poultry that Les pulled out was like a block of super-glued Lego.
‘We’ll never defrost it in time,’ I said, as I chiselled at it with a meat cleaver and rolling pin.
‘Stick it in the microwave,’ suggested David.
‘It won’t fit in,’ said Les, who had taken to beating the disassembled bird with a meat tenderiser.
Finally, after the four of us had taken turns at assaulting it with various culinary implements, the block fell apart, but only in half.
‘Stick one half in this microwave and take the other to our apartment,’ said Joy. ‘We’ll have to defrost them separately.’
I threw the turkey into a smaller Tupperware, concealing it with a festive tea towel, one of a set bought by David for the occasion, and raced out of the doors. As I did, the first of our lone diners was making his way down the steps towards the bar.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ said the man indicating the “present” in my hands. I laughed and ran past him.
‘We’ll be with you in a minute!’ I shouted over my shoulder.
By the time I returned, half of the tables were occupied. As I rushed through the doors a hand grabbed my arm and the Tupperware of turkey almost fell to the floor. It was Friedhelm.
‘Joe,’ he started. ‘J-o-e…’ His eyes were closed, his mind searching for the words in English. He shook his head, annoyed with himself but before he could fully release his grip in defeat he clenched my forearm tightly again. ‘Joe…’ he repeated again, even more slowly. His heavy eyelids lifted wearily like ageing window blinds. ‘Happ-y Chrim-stas.’
‘Yes, happy Christmas, Friedhelm,’ I repeated, trying to release his grip.
In the kitchen, Les had also had similar success with the microwave and apart from one or two extraneous pieces that the radiation had morphed into shoe leather, the turkey was ready to serve.
Save for a spell of post-mince pie blubbering from Friedhelm, which we regarded as traditional for Smuggler’s events, the paying guests were pleasantly surprised, stuffed and pie-eyed, though not necessarily in that order. We had also surprised ourselves. A little over six months ago I would have considered boiling an egg a fait accompli. Now I was standing in front of the washing-up for 62 people. These 62 had entrusted three people, who half a year ago couldn’t tell a spatula from a cocktail twirler, to conjure up five courses of festive fare and lay on a congenial party for fifteen tables of relative strangers.
It felt like we had passed an exam, proof to ourselves that we could now finally call ourselves caterers and business people. It felt like the climax to what had seemed to be an endless period of meddling in the dark, learning by our mistakes and bluffing when all else failed. We had passed the crucial six-month honeymoon without falling prey to the lure of our own beer pumps.
None of us had been tempted into forbidden territory despite our visitors’ regular state of undress. We’d narrowly avoided a potentially fatal gas explosion and learned how dangerous boredom can be. We’d beaten all attempts by the electricity company to finish us before we had started and refused to give in faced with the island’s second biggest threat after the volcano – blindingly inefficient bureaucracy. We’d won over many of Mario’s old customers and made the bar our own, then proceeded to poison the majority of the most faithful - but got away with it.
Neither small time gangsters nor squatting prostitutes, giggling health inspectors or jobsworth paper shufflers, thieving staff or lusty customers, ludicrously poor entertainers or demented locals had succeeded in thwarting our efforts to make the Smugglers Tavern a success. The six-month itch had left a few scabs but it hadn’t proved fatal. I felt we were in the clear, we’d done it all. I mean, what else could running a bar abroad possibly throw at us?
**END**
Want to know what happened next? Read the next instalment right now. Just click here for Even More Ketchup than Salsa: The Final Dollop.
If you enjoyed More Ketchup than Salsa, it would also be mighty useful if you could PLEASE leave a review on Amazon here:
http://viewbook.at/MoreKetchupthanSalsa
An extract from the sequel,
Even More Ketchup than Salsa: The Final Dollop
The driver attempted to lift Nan’s case himself but it was futile. In a pique of child-like stubbornness she had insisted on packing her entire collection of funfair-prize ornaments and cushioned coat hangers. Between us we eventually managed to hoist the case into the boot of the shiny, and now rearing, Austin Allegro.
‘Come on, Nan.’ I offered an arm and led her to the taxi.
‘Where’s me handbag?’ she panicked, wheeling round with both hands firmly clasped around the object of her anxiety.
‘You’re holding it, Nan.’
‘Well. I’ll go to the foot of our stairs! Silly bugger,’ she said, shaking her head.
Her handbag was her life-support machine. Within its deep recesses lay absolutely everything that she, or whoever she happened to be within tottering assistance of, could possibly need. Not once had that handbag let her down. It was a department store of essential items. Third floor, Ladies Accessories – scented tissues, scarlet lipsticks, snowy-white powder puffs; second floor, Refreshments – barley sugars, mint imperials, old bits of chicken wrapped in foil (‘waste not, want not’); first floor, Medicinal Items – angina pills, wrinkle potions, corn plasters; ground floor, Assorted Miscellany – Daniel O’Donnell cassette, large-print Mills & Boon, large tin of buttons, small tin of safety pins.
As we drove along the deserted roads, for the first time since stepping foot back on Blighty, I felt envious of the people in their huddled terraced houses, snug and comfortable in the knowledge that in the morning they would get
up at the same time as yesterday, go through the same dressing and breakfast rituals and set off for their regular work to meet familiar faces.
The thought gave me a jolt. Security, cosy comforts and routine were the very things I’d been glad to get away from in Tenerife. Now they were the very things that I yearned for, since splitting up with Joy.
Even though it was the early hours of the morning, the airport was humming with activity. Excited holidaymakers in Adidas and Reebok mingled with impassive businessmen of various nationalities.
‘Look at all those darkies!’ shrieked Nan, grabbing hold of my wrist. A vibrant clan in multi-coloured robes illuminated the melee at the Air Zimbabwe check-in desk. She couldn’t take her eyes off them as we forced our complaining trolley into line behind the extensive stretch of people keen to begin their holiday.
When our time came, we were asked all the routine questions about whether we had packed ourselves, had anybody tampered with our cases, did we have any electrical goods, and so on. Nan did what she always does in unfamiliar situations and began to rummage in her bag.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, elbow-deep in exploration.
‘We’re at the check-in, Nan,’ I explained.
‘Oh. Here then, let me get it,’ she insisted, extending a handful of loose change to the check-in girl.
‘No. Check-in, not checkout,’ I explained, curling her fingers back over the assortment of coins, buttons and tablets.
I was in desperate need of the toilet and so in the main departure lounge I left Nan sitting down with the trolley, under strict instructions not to move. I slowly backed away, finger raised as though training a dog. Needless to say, when I returned, the trolley had obeyed but Nan hadn’t.
In my absence she had noticed that the well-to-do lady facing her was sipping on a cup of tea she had brought down from the self-service cafeteria overlooking the main lounge area. Unhappy that the lady hadn’t asked if she wanted one, Nan put on a show of huffing, tutting loudly and repeatedly turning her cheek. Uncomfortable, yet completely unaware of her social faux pas, the lady had gathered up her mohair overcoat and Gucci accessories and retreated to find an area where drinking tea was not considered so offensive. Nan then decided to get one for herself. Eventually, after a succession of trips up and down the escalator, she found the cafeteria, helped herself to a cup of tea and took it straight to a table, oblivious to the ‘’Scuse me, love,’ from the till girl, whose scant training probably hadn’t included a section on dealing with delinquent pensioners who don’t pay.
‘Have you seen a little old lady in a beige overcoat and black furry hat?’ I asked everybody seated near the orphaned trolley.
A young girl pointed upwards. I followed her aim to the restaurant area on the next level.
‘You okay, Nan?’ I said softly, relieved at having found her relatively easily.
The electrical impulses in her head halted their random careering, banging into each other as they did, then begrudgingly fell into an orderly line to deliver a message of recognition.
‘Oh. Hello, love. Fancy seeing you here! Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just made some.’
At the departure gate we commandeered a wheelchair that was forlornly staring at the wall. As invalids, infants and the infirm are always boarded first, I saw this as an express route through.
‘Jump in and look ill,’ I said to Nan, who stealthily climbed aboard and then proceeded to dramatically clutch her stomach and howl like a demented wolf. Twenty-five years of am-dram at Clitheroe Operatic Society had clearly not been wasted.
‘Not that ill,’ I hissed, ‘or they won’t let us on.’
Nan resorted to silent wincing at anybody that cared to look, which after her previous performance included just about everybody.
We did indeed get to go on first and were strapped into our seats along with the other, presumably genuine, wheelchair jockeys before the plane filled up with able-bodied passengers. Nan began to fidget again in this unfamiliar environment. She unlocked the seat tray and pulled it down hard a few times to test its strength, causing the old man in front to bob up and down like a duck in water. She flicked the light on and off, called the stewardess a few times for good measure and then disappeared backwards as exploring fingers discovered the seat recline button. There she stayed for a few moments, studying the signs on the plastic overhead compartment.
‘Why do I have a life-jacket under my seat?’
‘Because we fly over water.’
‘Will I need to put it on then?’
‘No. Only if we have to make an emergency landing at sea.’
‘But I’ve got me best shoes on.’
She thankfully spent the entire journey flicking through the channels of the in-flight entertainment and when we touched down at Reina Sofia was a little surprised to learn that we had even taken off.
I spent most of the flight absently gazing out of the windows at the sea of clouds below. Although the anger and hurt remained, those emotions were being smothered by an overwhelming sense of excitement at the prospect of life getting back to how it used to be. It had become clear that my love for Joy was still there; it had been tainted by her deception, but it was a love worth fighting for. She’d made a mistake. So what. Hadn’t we all?
I knew I could forgive her, I just needed to blank out the anger and make her realise that we could be happy together again and that going to live with Steve would be the biggest mistake she ever made. The real world and its real relationships had been shut out and her own personality had been sacrificially buried, replaced by this automaton, a genial hostess and everybody’s friend, the pub landlady. There was no room in her emotions to accommodate me, or anyone else that used to matter. The lodgers had taken over, and I had had to sleep on the doorstep, waiting for scraps of attention. But it was time to change all that.
More Books by this Author
Even More Ketchup than Salsa: The Final Dollop
If the first six months of running the Smugglers Tavern had been a baptism of fire, the subsequent years were about as much fun as bobbing for apples in a vat of acid.
Having swapped the tin roof of a cold British fish market for the sunny skies of a Spanish holiday island, Joe and Joy succeeded in thwarting the first wave of attacks from bungling bureaucrats, bewildered holidaymakers and their own spectacular ineptitude.
What they didn’t realise was that their enemies were regrouping. Not only that, but those enemies had made camp a lot closer to home, enemies that would make their encounters with the exploding gas bottles, East European squatters and big-time Charlies featured in More Ketchup than Salsa seem like chapters from Enid Blyton.
The trials and tribulations of attempting to make a better life abroad continue... with disastrous consequences.
Buy Even More Ketchup than Salsa: The Final Dollop on Amazon here
Moving to Tenerife: All You Need to Know
Fed up of grey skies, persistent rain and the 9-5 monotony? Ready for a change? Find out how easy it is to move to Tenerife and start a new life in the sun.
Buy Moving to Tenerife: All You Need to Know on Amazon here.
Joe Cawley
Find out more about Joe and his upcoming books at www.joecawley.co.uk and follow Joe on Twitter @theWorldofJoe
If you’d like to be informed of when Joe’s next book is available, please send a message to writer@joecawley.co.uk with any comments, opinions, requests or general waffle. Writing can be a lonely chore and any contact with the real world is gratefully appreciated.
BOOK FOUR
SIHPROMATUM:
I Grew my Boobs in China
SAVANNAH GRACE
A Memoir
Dedication
To Mom, for dragging me around the globe and making me the person I am today, and to Kees, for always supporting me and helping my dreams come true.
Thank you.
Note from the Author
Sihpromatum (Sip-row-may-tum) – A blessing that initially
appears to be a curse.
I put this book together with significant prompting from blogs, postcards, family reminiscences, and extensive journal entries.
Some original blog entries and postcards are reproduced directly in the book and identified by double stars. **
Some names were changed to protect the innocent.
Join our journey and check out photos along the way at www.sihpromatum.com
‘Sihpromatum’ Contents
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1: “Like, Totally”
Chapter 2: Aftershock
Chapter 3: Itinerary
Chapter 4: My Brother’s Battles
Chapter 5: The Shells of Life
Chapter 6: Shots
Chapter 7: Packrat Rehabilitation
Chapter 8: Arrival
Chapter 9: The Conqueror
Chapter 10: Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride
Chapter 11: A Moment in Time
Chapter 12: Reality Check
Chapter 13: Eye to Eye
Chapter 14: Whet Your Appetite
Chapter 15: Back to School
Chapter 16: Dragon Spine
Chapter 17: Rails and Trails
Chapter 18: Birthday Bargaining
Chapter 19: Wrinkles and Dimples
Chapter 20: Don’t Let the Travel Bug Bite
Chapter 21: Trekkers
Chapter 22: Get Lost
Chapter 23: Flashback
Chapter 24: Bree’s Birthday Fun
Chapter 25: A Sacred Mountain and the Stairwell of Hell
Chapter 26: Postcard
Chapter 27: Stepping Back
Chapter 28: A Series of Beijing Events