Stavroula was ecstatic she need not cook up ways to kill off her possibly unfaithful lover now his loyalty had been publicly proven. When Socrates returned from Osta she was chasing round on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, trying to re-capture dozens of snails that had crawled out of the cooking pot. Throwing herself into his arms she hissed instructions to that old fool Vasilis to wipe up the snail slime and started to drag her lover off to the bedroom. Unfortunately, all thoughts of afternoon passion were thwarted when the telephone rang in the taverna.
It was the television producer saying her cooking show audition had been brought forward to the following day. To Socrates great relief, as he was still suffering the tender after-effects of his recent vasectomy, Stavroula dropped him like a hot potato.
“Of course I am excited to be on telly tomorrow but I still ‘aven’t come up with a goodly menu for a foreign Christmas dinner,” she panicked. “What on earth will I cook? That curried goat muck Gorgeous Yiorgos cooked up was ‘orrible an’ I dont’s know where to get my ‘ands on a herring to put under a fur coat.”
“There’s an English chap picking olives for Adonis who could be persuaded to give you a hand preparing a traditional English Christmas dinner,” Quentin volunteered.
Quentin and Deirdre had no idea Stavroula could move at such a lightning pace until she sped out of the taverna to track down the foreign olive picker, only stopping to give Quentin a bone crushing hug and an unwanted kiss for his idea.
“I have to say I’m quite pleased she rebuffed your offer to help,” Deirdre told her husband “I don’t like the idea of her being so free with her kisses.”
“The relief is all mine,” Quentin assured his wife, tentatively poking his ribs to check they were all still intact.
Adonis was not at all happy Stavroula was demanding he lend her the services of Victor. “He come to Greece to pick my olives, not to ‘ang round in yous kitchen,” Adonis protested.
“Actually it was supposed to be a holiday with a bit of light olive picking thrown in, not long back breaking days of hard labour,” Victor complained. “I’d rather be back on the conveyer belt at the biscuit factory stuffing packets than here; at least there I can get some decent tucker like jammy dodgers and garibaldis.”
“Adoni, you ‘ave to stop faking yous bad back, picks yous own olives and lend me this Englishman. If I land the job of hosting the cookery show it will ‘elp to put Astakos on the map and that ‘as to be good for yous ‘otel,” Stavroula argued persuasively. Turning her attention to Victor she promised him “if yous ‘elps me out there will be lots of delicious food and yous will be on telly.”
As Victor still looked unsure Stavroula decided she may as well pimp out Masha for a good cause. Throwing shame to the wind she blatantly enticed the Englishman with the words, “My mother-in-law mail order Masha will be popping in to peel the potatoes.”
The lure of an early Christmas dinner combined with the busty silicone presence of the stunning Russian was enough to convince Victor which side his bread was buttered. Downing his olive smacker he went off with Stavroula, eagerly discussing the Christmas menu in convoluted sign language.
“Po po, next year I will sell my olive pickin’ ‘olidays to the Japanese, they is much more reliable than these English olive virgins,” Adonis muttered.
Suddenly realising Vera may be much more persuadable without the negative influence of Victor around Adonis turned the full force of his charm on the Englishwoman, saying “Vera, let me take yous for a drive, I wills show yous some authentic Greek ruins. Does yous knows my cousin Adonis? He moved to England an’ ‘as a fish an’ chip shop in Rochdale called the ‘Greek Plaice’?”
Adonis offered the simpering Vera a leg up into his pick-up, mentally mapping a route to take in all the old houses he hoped to flog for a generous commission.
Chapter 48: Hob-Nobbing With Custard Creams
As the morning of the live television cooking show audition dawned Stavroula was running round like a headless chicken. Complimentary tickets had arrived for Stavroula to distribute to her friends to boost the numbers of the studio audience. That old fool Vasilis was sent out on the donkey to deliver the tickets, enraging half the village by waking them so early and depositing unwanted piles of organic manure on their doorsteps.
Stavroula was frantically preparing everything she needed to take with her to Paraliakos when Victor arrived with an enormous shopping list of vital ingredients she must secure before they set off.
“I cant’s go shopping, I ‘ave to wait ‘ere for Gorgeous Yiorgos to drop off the turkey,” Stavroula told him.
“I can wait here for the turkey and make a start preparing it while you find the things on this list,” Victor said. “I have no idea where to find Brussels sprouts and cranberries in Astakos.”
“Po po, I dont’s even know what a Brussels sprout is,” Stavroula complained.
“It could be described as a small cabbage,” Victor explained.
“Well I’m sure Fat Christos will ‘ave some of them,” Stavroula sighed in relief. “I’m not sure about some of these other things though,” she added, scratching her head over ‘pigs-in-blankets’ and wondering about this strange foreign obsession of serving animals in clothes and bedding. She had just rushed off to the supermarket when Gorgeous Yiorgos arrived, dumping a large live turkey on the doorstep.
“What the heck am I meant to do with that enormous thing?” Victor shrieked. His only experience was with ready plucked headless turkeys from Tesco, with plastic bags of giblets stuck up their bottoms.
“I’d hazard a guess yous put it in the oven,” Yiorgos told him, still smarting his suggestion of curried goat gizzards had been snubbed by Stavroula in favour of this griping twit’s turkey dinner. “If it ‘elps I can wring its neck for yous,” he offered, chasing the bird round the taverna tables until it croaked its last breath with a gasping gobble.
Staggering under the weight of the turkey Victor headed to the hardware shop, begging Bald Yannis to “decapitate this thing with your chainsaw.”
“I’m ‘appy to pluck it for yous if yous let me keep the feathers,” Mrs Kolokotronis butted in as Bald Yannis fired up the chainsaw. “’Appen the feathers would make a nice fringe on my latest line of goats’ bonnets, what does yous think Yanni?”
“I ‘ear feathers are all the fashionable range,” Bald Yannis concurred, thinking of the feather trimmed bras he had been tempted by in his latest collection of underwear catalogues, now hidden from Soula’s prying eyes under bags of goat manure in the back of the shed.
Just then Soula returned from tending the goats. Taking one look at the decapitated turkey head she rushed outside to heave over the harbour wall, excusing her secret morning sickness by saying “I’ve no idea what come over me; I’m not usually so squeamish.”
By the time Stavroula returned there was no time for Victor to examine the vital ingredients needed for a traditional English Christmas dinner. Pulling the turkey out of the oven he piled into the back of Nitsa’s taxi sent by the television company, closely followed by Stavroula clutching the bags of shopping. The part roasted turkey attracted the eye of the parrot that was seemingly overcome with inappropriate lust and attempted to ravage it.
“Yous ‘ave to control that malaka parrot Fotini else I’ll be stickin’ it in the oven next to the turkey,” Stavroula screeched, adding “Nitsa pull over, we forgot my old fool of a father.”
Nitsa slammed the brakes on sharply, causing Victor to lurch forward, head butting Fotini and dropping the turkey rear end up on the floor. That old fool Vasilis climbed in and promptly got his foot stuck up the turkey’s still unstuffed bottom, earning him a sharp clout round the head from his anxious daughter. Grasping Vasilis’ leg she managed to extricate his foot, but his shoe remained firmly stuck inside the turkey. As the taxi jolted off, swerving erratically to avoid knoc
king over Bald Yannis’ life sized cardboard cut-out goat, Victor began to wonder what he had let himself in for and wished he was back in the biscuit factory hob-nobbing with custard creams.
Chapter 49: A November Christmas Dinner
Mail order Masha, casually dishevelled from delivering a windy weather forecast, was furiously peeling potatoes for her bossy daughter-in-law in the television studio kitchen, distracting the drooling Victor with her silicone assets as the floppy end of her Santa hat fell into her cleavage.
“It’s not natural cookin’ Christmas dinner in November,” she complained, hurling a rancid potato at a garishly decorated plastic Christmas tree and sending the reindeer topper, that looked suspiciously like a goat, flying into a pan of boiling carrots.
Attempting to stuff a mixture of minced beef and sugared raisons up the turkey’s backside Stavroula moaned, “There’s not much room to work in ‘ere round that old fool Vasilis’ shoe. Oh malaka, this stuffing was meant to go in the mince pies, not up the turkey.”
Victor rushed over with a congealed mess of feta cheese, olives and cornflakes for Stavroula to stuff up the turkey and started spooning the minced beef she had now extracted from the turkey’s bottom into pastry cases. Still traumatised by the white-knuckle ride in Nitsa’s taxi he was past caring if the dinner was a disaster or if he produced savoury mince pies under a curtain of icing sugar.
“It all smells very festive Stavroula, I hope you’re nearly ready. Live filming starts in ten minutes and we are about to open the doors to the audience,” the producer called.
“This is my moment to land a job on telly and get more bigly famous than Masha,” Stavroula said to herself, waving giddily to the villagers filling up the seats. She was happy to see Tassia had accepted her apology for calling her a hussy and was now taking a place alongside Fat Christos and Mrs Kolokotronis. Tall Thomas and Prosperous Pedros had turned up, determined to ensure their aged relatives, Nitsa and Fotini, didn’t make a spectacle of themselves on telly.
As the camera whirred into life Deirdre elbowed Quentin out of view, mortified the sight of the parrot stuck on his scalp would embarrass her as she excitedly waved, “Hello Idaho, it’s me Deirdre.”
Slick Socrates sat as far away from Tassia as possible, mourning the loss of the signature sideburns he had shaved off in an attempt to downplay his resemblance to the baby. He hoped all this attention wouldn’t go to Stavroula’s head and make her feel amorous later as he was still nursing painful bruises. Vera’s head had been turned by Adonis’ charm offensive, leaving her oblivious to the cow eyes Victor was making at Masha.
Mail order Masha, having hastily changed into a festive elf costume displaying plenty of leg, took centre stage to introduce Stavroula, saying “Stavroula is the latest cookin’ sensation. She is ‘ere to show those of yous what won’t be eatin’ herring under a fur coat this December how to make a traditional English Christmas dinner.”
Stavroula, exhilarated to be in the limelight, beamed for the cameras, promising in a pretentiously fake posh accent, “The turkey is nearly done in the oven and while it crisps up I will demonstrate how to make stuffing.” She was in her element clattering pans of vegetables and whisking up gravy.
“This is making me ‘ungry, ‘ere Victor throw me a jammy dodger,” Fotini bellowed across to the stage at full volume, having been introduced to this quintessentially British biscuit treat in the taxi.
“Behave mother, I cant’s take yous anywhere” Prosperous Pedros told her.
Shushing Pedros, Slick Socrates proclaimed “She’s a natural,” feeling a sudden rush of affection for Stavroula.
Dishing half-a-dozen full sized boiled cabbages onto a serving platter Stavroula explained to her audience English people loved to eat them with turkey but called them Brussels sprouts.
“Those aren’t sprouts, they are cabbages,” Victor hissed at her, unable to believe his eyes as she started to roll up sausages inside cut up squares of blanket.
“’Ere, that’s the blanket out of my taxi what I use to wrap road-kill in,” Nitsa shouted.
Ignoring Nitsa’s shouts of “thief” Stavroula prepared to lift the centrepiece of the meal out of the oven. The audience let out a collective “oooh” as the fragrant smell of roast turkey wafted over them, tantalizing their olfactory senses with its rich aroma.
The crispy skin of the perfectly browned turkey breast glimmered under the studio lights, prompting the producer to utter in surprised amazement “She’s pulled it off, it looks magnificent.”
The magical moment was ruined by Victor screeching, “You can’t do that, it’s not British,” as Stavroula anointed the succulent bird with a generous garnish of oregano, before squeezing a handful of lemons over it then drowning it in olive oil.
The parrot could contain its lust for the turkey no longer. Launching itself from Quentin’s head it made a beeline for the turkey, sweeping it up in its beak and flying over the studio audience, showering them with olives and cornflakes. Amidst the sudden mayhem Deirdre nonchalantly munched one of the falling olives she retrieved from her ample bra.
As the parrot flapped frantically around the room that old fool Vasilis’ shoe was finally dislodged from the turkey’s bottom and fell with a splatter onto the mince pies, squashing them beyond recognition. Finally worn out from its antics the parrot deposited the turkey on Quentin’s head where it nosily attempted to roger the ravaged carcass.
Kyria Papadopoulos, the ousted host of the cooking show, was hovering in the wings fervently hoping Stavroula’s performance would end in disaster. With a satisfied smirk she rolled up the sleeves of her ancient cardigan and strode onto the stage carrying a platter of roast turkey with all the trimmings, nestling in a bed of Brussels sprouts, Winking malevolently at Stavroula she announced “ “ere’s one I made earlier.”
I Hope You Enjoyed Olive Virgins
If you enjoyed this book please post a glowing review on Amazon and/or Goodreads, and tell all your friends who love Greece and humour. Indie authors rely on reviews to help spread the word.
If you would like to be notified when the next book in the Greek Meze series is available please feel free to contact me on [email protected]
Katerina Nikolas
Contents
Chapter 1: A Bundle Of Joy
Chapter 2: Soula Is A Sweetie
Chapter 3: Silicone Fame
Chapter 4: Keeping Secrets
Chapter 5: Toothless Tasos Loses His Teeth
Chapter 6: Deirdre Puts Her Foot In It
Chapter 7: Tourist Complaints
Chapter 8: Fig Cake and Onions
Chapter 9: Eureka!
Chapter 10: Stupid Superstitions
Chapter 11: Parrot Beater
Chapter 12: Saved At Sea
Chapter 13: Egg On The Pappas’ Face
Chapter 14: The Body In The Deep Freeze
Chapter 15: Stormy Weather Forecast
Chapter 16: Thea’s Cat Suffers An Unwanted Bath
Chapter 17: Fake Soup
Chapter 18: It’s Raining Men
Chapter 19: Brawling Fishermen
Chapter 20: Scared Of A Dark Puddle
Chapter 21: Herring Under A Fur Coat
Chapter 22: Lashing Waves And Paddling Paths
Chapter 23: Trapped In The Twilight Zone
Chapter 24: Nitsa Bags A Suitor
Chapter 25: A Stapled Stub
Chapter 26: Crumbs In The Wax
Chapter 27: Cackles And Curses
Chapter 28: Moustakos
Chapter 29: A Butt Full Of Pellets
Chapter 30: I Loves Yous Quentin
Chapter 31: Eavesdropping
Chapter 32: Soaking The Olives
Chapter 33: Price That Junk
Chapter 34: Bras Full Of Olives
/> Chapter 35: Shooting Blanks
Chapter 36: Stinking Rubbish
Chapter 37: Old Crone Hanging
Chapter 38: A Delicate Operation
Chapter 39: Pressing The Olives
Chapter 40: Cupid’s Arrow
Chapter 41: Olive Virgins
Chapter 42: Plucking The Parrot
Chapter 43: Oiling The Cat
Chapter 44: Dunking In Oil
Chapter 45: A Sinful Obsession
Chapter 46: Soula Is Broody
Chapter 47: Pick Yous Own Olives
Chapter 48: Hob-Nobbing With Custard Creams
Chapter 49: A November Christmas Dinner
I Hope You Enjoyed Olive Virgins
Olive Virgins Page 17