The Itinerant Gourmet.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 1: The Hair of the Dog.

Ingrid and I spent the week between Christmas and New Year in the French departments of Picardie and Nord-Pas-de-Calais. The nights were long and passionate beneath thick blankets, akin a couple of badgers rutting ponderously in the darkness of a subterranean den. During the day we either travelled slowly by car, or on foot meandered around unknown locations that took our interest.

The area, historically, along with large swathes of Belgium and Zeeland in Holland, is part of the larger area of Northern Europe known as Flanders. These mostly flat and seemingly bucolic rural regions of north-eastern France were the nexus of the fiercest trench warfare in World War I and are perhaps today known more for their giant military cemeteries and grim rows of crosses stretching to the horizon than for the food they produce. Oh, I forgot to mention. Food since retiring is my attempt to reinvent myself and not lose interest in life.

Be that as an aside, I’ve always found that driving the Somme Valley in French Flanders is a sobering experience even in the heat and brightness of high summer, but in the freezing, drifting fog of deepest winter, when the white headstones seem to lurch out at you and then disappear into the mists like the many ghosts they recall, it sends a disturbing chill through the body. But, in all fairness, and sustained by my new passion, it is invariably a chill that the regional cuisine seems to be have been invented to dispel.

Following a restorative beer in the medieval town of Arras, our nerves were steadied enough to drive north through the falling snow to Lille where we were to spend New Year’s Eve. Foolishly we hadn’t made any plans for that evening and consequently ended up at the only place in town that had a spare table – a bizarre, Moroccan-themed restaurant enticing diners in for ”One Night in Marrakech”. If that fabled North African city is nothing but a den of drunken, middle-aged Frenchmen staggering around trying to belly dance and exposing large acreages of flesh for henna tattoos then our night was indeed an authentic experience, though I would hope there is more to it than that.

However, since we couldn’t beat them, we joined them (in all things minus the henna), so come New Year’s morning we looked like we’d just been dragged to Marrakech and back on our faces. Venturing gingerly out onto the deserted Lille streets, we, once again, found a table hard to come by, but eventually managed it at a warm and friendly gastro pub full of similarly rumpled people. Seeing that everyone else was working through their hangovers with frothy Belgian ales and steaming bowls of black stew (and not being in much of a state to make decisions) we ordered glasses of Leffe Blonde and servings of boeuf carbonnade a la flamande or Flemish beef and beer stew.

Meats braised in ales of all kinds can be found throughout northern Europe, but nowhere else, perhaps, has the concept been raised to such a culinary pinnacle as in Flanders. There, some would argue, one finds not only many of the world’s best beers, but also cuisine that both makes extensive use of beer and is prepared to be enjoyed with beer.

Whether because it contained hair of the dog or was accompanied by it, the carbonnade acted like some sort of miracle restorative on our poisoned systems and sent us back out into Lille’s cold streets for an entire day of exploring, which was just as well since there was absolutely nothing else open in the entire city that day. Saying hearty braised dishes are perfect for wintry weather is an insipid remark so I shall avoid that particular cliché here, and say instead that it is perfect for curing a hangover. That’s right: beer both creates and cures hangovers!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 2: There is a God.

At one time, many summers ago I had sat overlooking the village of Les Baux from the viewpoint of one of the best restaurants in France, “Ousteau de Beaumaniere”, owned and run at that juncture by Jean Andre Charial and his wife, Genevieve. Surrounded by a half eroded citadel on top of a cliff that is lit every night it is, even to the most hardened of characters, a surreal, almost magical experience.

It was there that I tasted for the first time a glass of “Muscat de Beaumes de Venise.” Most people spend the night at l'ousteau after a glorious dinner at the restaurant. I got to spend a week courtesy of a corporate credit card that I was endowed with. It had been the middle of a very difficult assignment, driving a client through France, staying at the best hotels, eating at the best restaurants and getting paid for it.

On or about the fourth day of my stay, I couldn't entertain the idea of another helping of rich French cuisine with all the sauces and tricks and so I ordered melon with prosciutto as a light snack. What I got was no ordinary melon and no ordinary prosciutto. At that time, the melons from nearby Cavaillon were in season and they were like honey, and I'm sure the prosciutto that accompanied it was the best Parma had to offer. But what was unforgettable was the small glass of a sweet wine that was offered in a silver tray as an accompaniment to the melon and prosciutto. Not being one to turn anything down, especially wine or food, I accepted. Like one’s first romance, I have never forgotten the moment when that chilled liquid flowed down my throat. I was, for a pause in the earth’s rotation, without words. The wine waiter, attending reverently and standing to one side like an alter server at communion understood, as was his trade. My pulse raced... I had reached somewhere in my senses that I had never stumbled upon before. All was good and peace.

Although perhaps inappropriate in terms of location and culture to where I was at that time, the words of the Jimmy Cliff Caribbean song came to me.

“I can see clearly now the rain has gone,”
“I can see all obstacles in my way.”
“Hurry the dark clouds that pass me by.”
“It’s going to be a bright, bright sun shining day.”

It might be of some interest that there is always a small bottle of Muscat de Beaumes de Venise in my wine rack, waiting for a good melon.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 3: Tonight's Special.

There are occasions when it might be pertinent to consider whether Hannibal Lecter would make an interesting dinner guest. If so it begs the question as to what would be your main course? If the possibility of entertaining this particular gentleman has taken the wind out of your sails for a moment, let me make a suggestion, “brains.”

Undoubtedly out there in Lit Net there must be the occasional “foodie,” but perhaps, even to them, this might be an anatomical bridge too far. I suppose also that it will be no incentive whatsoever to any skeptics, to learn that predators, including our very own ancestors, often used to eat the brains of their prey first, leaving the rest of the carcass until later so as to make sure they partook of the most nutritious parts before anyone could take it away from them.

Nonetheless, I swear that veal brains are the new sweetbreads – which may mean nothing to you unless you’re accustomed to a little nose to tail eating – they are mild, firm but almost creamy in the mouth, and have very little of the minerality typically found in organ meats. Despite only the remotest of chance that you will, I encourage you to give brains a try. They are by no means an everyday foodstuff and definitely demand a mental leap, but isn’t it true that almost anything really rewarding requires some thought?

Oh, and before you ask, “Do eating veal brains make you smarter?” Of course they do. Just like eating fish makes you a better swimmer.

The first time, I really came across them was in a remote town in the Venezuela interior back in 1963. It was late at night and I was looking for somewhere to eat in what constituted to all extents and purposes, a one mule, two pi dog town. Conventional wisdom dictates that one should never eat at an empty restaurant, especially early in the week, but if there is absolutely nowhere else open you have no choice.

On this occasion, blazing overhead strip lights did nothing to obscure the restaurant’s complete absence of customers. In fact, when the only visible human forms in the place are a signed photo of Charles Bronson in his Death Wish era and an old man dozing in a hammock fashioned from a Che Chevara image, the feeling of unwelcomeness is only accentuated.

Undeterred, I had entered. Geckos darted up the walls and the noise of my flip-flops on the tiled floor roused the somnolent patron. Stirring, he had opened one eye and trying my best to look casual and friendly, I asked if they were open? He then offered a cheerful “Hola, buenas tardes!” “Claro que si, jovenes.” (Yes, clearly, folks.) as an affirmative reply, stating a fact that seemed far from obvious to me.

Gesturing vaguely to the left if I remember correctly, he had mumbled the word “menu”, and wandered over to a counter in front of the empty kitchen. Staring helplessly for a few long moments at a shelf of half empty rum bottles and a refrigerator decorated sparsely with cans of Medalla beer, I had looked back to the right and noticed that the man had once again been overtaken by his slumbers. Shrugging and about to turn on my heels, a spritely woman in her mid-sixties appeared, eyebrows raised in impatience. “Hola” I repeated, and, even more gingerly, inquire about provisions she had. “Cuál hay comer esta noche?(What is there to eat tonight?) “Siempre lo mismo” (Same as usual.) she replied, brandishing a pair of tired-looking menus.

Feeling somehow compelled to stay and eat after having so obviously disturbed this elderly couple’s quiet evening, I asked her to pick something for me. Then, on my way across the dining room to the chosen table, the recumbent offered me a go on his bug spray.

“Are they bad tonight?” I asked. “It depends” he replied enigmatically.

So there I sat in an empty restaurant, clutching a can of beer, smelling strongly of Deet spray. Perhaps having tired of her husband’s company, the woman had congratulated me on my primitive Spanish, and asked if I was Venezuelan. Incredulous, given my pale, Northern-European looks, I denied it and the fear took hold that my prospective cook might be blind. Mistaking my ability to speak the language with aural comprehension, she had also begun speaking at an unfeasible velocity. As far as I could discern she was explaining that all the vegetables in the dish were grown out back.

Eventually the meal arrived, a platter of deep-fried veal brains decorated with salad, a thin harissa sauce, and lemon wedges. I'm not sure what the proper collective noun is for brains, but the term seemed appropriate given their form. I must confess that for some reason or other, the combination looked rather decadent, with that crisp and creamy brain and the dreamy eggplant salad. It was the time to cross another culinary bridge. Also on the table was a bottle, formerly home to a fifth of Palo Viejo rum, now an inch deep in a venomous-looking homemade salsa picante. Nodding at it, the hostess had made a pained face and cautioned me to use it sparingly.

Based on this initial experience I should perhaps point out that the partaking of unusual foodstuffs has back home frequently prompted breathtaking swerves of culinary daring on my part. If therefore Mr Lecter would be coming to one of my dinner parties I think it would be a combination of eggplant parmigiana and veal atop a roasted eggplant-wrapped package of red sauce and mozzarella seated upon a pair of breaded and deep-fried brains cut in cross-section with a crimson acerbic jus.

To drink? Perhaps a Bloody Mary to start followed by a Transylvanian Pinot Noir.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 4:

I was recently introduced to an Australian with whom I had an interesting discussion, despite the fact that he was under the misapprehension that I was an American; an illusion that I was in no hurry to disavow, as the initial first hour-long debate concerned the age-old cricketing rivalry between England and his native land expressed in somewhat vehement terms. Under the impression that I was a devoted follower of a vaguely related sport involving the Boston Red Sox, this storm cloud therefore passed over in quite an equitable manner. But the second, a frank exchange of views about the quality of sausages to be found in the United States had rather more relevance. His view, that American sausages simply aren’t up to snuff compared to the quality and variety of those available in Australia – a country in which the mystery bag has achieved almost legendary status for its role in the great Aussie barbecue – is not one, (even as a Brit) that I share, even if there were no other examples of fine forcemeat here than the glorious boudin of Louisiana, although, in his defense, he was careful to exclude American-made Italian style sausages from this otherwise careless dismissal.

Two men arguing about the merits of their sausage could be the opening line of a grubby joke and I must concede that I was tempted but managed to resist any double entendres.

But in fact, it’s a highly meaningful topic. Pork sausage, as it’s widely-known, is the world’s greatest food. I can think of no other food stuff which provides a comparable level of variety and satisfaction. The range of flavorings to be added to the basic mixture of pork shoulder and fat is almost limitless and the unctuousness of pork seems to be the perfect canvas for sausage-makers around the world to demonstrate their flair.

Actually much of sausages available in Australia are remakes of what the rest of the world took there – first the English and Irish with our pork and sage/ pork and apple bangers, as well as the pink saveloys and Devons, (similar to baloney) that Aussies (and Kiwis) are very fond of at the chippy, then a bunch of other varieties, including Italian, Greek, and Balkan – though, since they don’t produce much pork compared to beef (and lamb), commonly Australian snags (aka sausages) are either a mix of the two or 100% beef. My associate’s complaint was partially about the variety of sausages, but more the quality of the meat. To his mind if there is one thing Australia does almost better than anyone else it is pasture-raised beef, hence the perceived high quality of even their humble sausages for the grill.

To my mind it’s a meaningless debate. If one was comparing a true Scotch whiskey with a Japanese “Santory” equivalent, then there is a definite distinction. But sausages! Give me a break.

[Steven Hunley]

I would say, "You know, Man, you are one clever articulate well-traveled bunny, but I don't believe bunny is the word I want. You are one clever articulate well-traveled something however, and as soon as I figure out what it is I'll come back and revise the wording.

Realistic, authentic, fun to read stuff. I could eat it off a plate. A gold one, a chipped one, a paper one, it wouldn't matter the words are soooo good. Happy New Year, Man!

[MANICHAEAN]

Glasd you enjoyed it Steve. Happy New Year to you too.
Best rergards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 5:

One may be inspired by the unlikeliest of sources, and sources of inspiration do not come much more unlikely than Barry Wallis. He was from Penistone, South Yorkshire. Skinny and pale, dour, but slyly humorous, and given to obsessions over cult movies and the quality of his tea-leaves, he was in many ways a typical Yorkshireman, particularly in his love of pies. Frequent were the conversations around the texture of the perfect lard crust, achieved at such and such pie shop in Barnsley. Sadly for Barry, these ethereal creations traveled poorly, forcing him to seek solace in the arms of that classic of British haute cuisine “Fray Bentos corn beef.”

Like generations of Englishmen before him, Barry leant on his Fray Bentos to get him through lean times, in this case three years of impoverished geography studies at the University of Birmingham. Over lunch one winter afternoon, he paused between mouthfuls of his typical steak and kidney in suet pastry, and, wiping dark brown gravy from the corner of his mouth, informed me that Fray Bentos pies were named for a meatpacking town in Uruguay. Somehow, from that dank kitchen in a cramped, filthy student house in Selly Oak, Birmingham, I was instantly transported to the vast stage of the Uruguayan pampas. It was a mental stretch, but I was able to imagine the sour steam of Barry’s pie as the dust cloud raised by the hooves of countless black steers being driven toward the Uruguay River and their slaughter.

Barry and I lost touch years ago, though I gather his passion for film remained unabated and when last heard of, he was spending most of his spare time as the projectionist at Penistone’s tiny cinema. The fascination he quite unwittingly awakened in me, took a little longer to realize during the intervening years until I journeyed there. And then, it hardly felt exotic or foreign at all. Such a realization could have been deflating, but instead, aroused a curiosity about how a pair of countries where, by rights, everything should be upside-down could be so comparatively familiar. Interestingly, it was around the 1910’s as the British Empire reached its apogee that the engineers and laborers who had built the infrastructure on which British industry relied began looking for better lives and better opportunities than could be afforded in the grim northern mill and pit towns they had turned into brutal engines of production.

These new lives and opportunities were often to be found in countries producing the raw materials British cotton mills, steel factories and shipyards needed, encouraging thousands of men to spread to the farthest corners of the globe in the interwar years to build railroads, tanneries, processing plants, and shipping lines. Most stayed within the Empire; to Australia, New Zealand, and Canada they went. Others, including many from Yorkshire headed to South America where they built Argentina’s and Uruguay’s railroads, on which Derby-built locomotives chugged, and there, they introduced various British pastimes, football, rugby and polo, while making sure that the poor sods back home had their rations of canned bully beef and leather for their hobnail boots.

Until the fateful conflict over the Falklands, the British and their descendants in Argentina enjoyed a cultured and respected reputation. Many are the Argentine institutions with British founders or heritage, in which those who had made their fortune tried to mimic the ivory towers they had largely been denied access to at home. I can only imagine that were they able to, they would have inculcated themselves into clubs and tea societies with alacrity, but I can’t help wonder whether instead of being captains of industry, their position was rather less exalted, and that they traded pinch-cheeked poverty in Leeds for sunny but choleric penury in the southern barrios of Buenos Aires.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 6:

“Reach out your arm, above your head – then just bend your wrist, but do not look”, instructed the waitress. “Oh, and novices like you must stand over the barrel,” she added. I followed her advice to the letter, but my shirt was still the unintended recipient of half a bottle. It was an unprepossessing start.

Even though the cider was cheap, learning to pour it like a Spanish indigene was not to be, and it dawned upon me that I had the potential to be thirsty for a long while before I acquired the technique. I invited my hostess to demonstrate the secret and unerringly her aim was perfect and my glass was soon two inches deep without the loss of a drop.

“Now, drink it! Fast!” she urged, “Before it goes flat!”

Perhaps at this juncture I should explain that Asturian cider is produced from a small, tart crabapple type fruit that is no good for eating, the juice of which is fermented for up to six months in oak barrels. It typically registers only 5% alcohol, compared to the seven or eight degrees common in French and English ciders and is rarely carbonated, hence the habit of pouring from a great height to aerate, followed by swift consumption before the froth disappears.

When I had originally entered this establishment just before noon I hadn’t anticipated knocking back shots of cider at lunchtime, and now wondered if I was playing today’s cabaret turn for the locals in a game of haze the foreigner. But as the foamy, apple tasting liquid cascaded down my gullet it started to make sense.

Then, after taking my order for broiled razor clams and hake, (also in cider), the waitress turned on her heel for the kitchen, leaving my glass empty. Eager to drink some more, but with a latitudinarian reluctantance to accept the dogma of technique, let alone soak myself further, I reached for the bottle.

“No lo mueva!” warned a foreboding, finger-wagging old guy to my left. “She will pour for you when she returns. And, you should leave a drop in the bottom of the glass. It’s good luck.”

Thanking him for his advice, I sat back and looked around the white-washed room from my seat against the wall. Cut-off barrels half-filled with sawdust littered the blue-tiled floor between tables, along with the usual jumble of crumpled napkins, discarded toothpicks and cigarette ends. Through the open window, small fishing boats in age worn, lambent colours bobbed up and down, at their moorings, whilst overhead seabirds screamed.

Luarca, on the Asturian coast of northern Spain is still a working port and, in the place where I now sat, I had reached the ultimate end of my journey to indulge the dolce far niente that I craved for.

The globe is so well traveled these days that it’s virtually impossible to find anywhere where you are the only foreigner, but in this place, during the off-season, I had managed it. In fact, I was the singular guest at the only open hotel in town. It was an anomaly that as a writer I was quick to appreciate, because it allowed me to slip effortlessly into the natural rhythms of local life and prompted me to assume the most humble status, that of being nobody at all. There’s an advantage to that when all you want to absorb is atmosphere, an aspiration not uncommon when one is not exactly in a state of premiere jeunesse.

My razor clams arrived, redolent of garlic and spicy with piperade, followed by tender hake with softened apples. A side of fried potatoes appeared as another two inches of cider found its way, seemingly by Divine Providence into my glass. Lazily enjoying it, happy and relaxed, I barely noticed when it was all gone and the waitress returned.

“Postre?” she asked. “Hay queso de cabrales, flan, y frutas frescas, o si usted prefiere, un poco de cada uno.”

I opted greedily for the latter, along with a nip of orujo, and she returned quickly with a little of each – blue cheese, caramel pudding, and a pear.

“Ningunas manzanas?” “Haven’t you had enough apples yet?” she joked.

I smiled.

Paradise was lost to mortal man over an apple, but the spiritual solace of cider is the consolation prize.

[108 fountains]

MANICHEAN,
These are very nice little vignettes. Enjoyable reading. If you put about 30 or 40 of these together, I bet you would have a book that could be published. One suggestion, though, would be to give each chapter a title to give the reader a "taste" of what's to come. For example, a title for Chapter 5 could be "From Uruguay to South Yorkshire, Fray Bentos Steak and Kidney Pie," or just "Fray Bentos Pies in Penistone, South Yorkshire."

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks for the suggestion 108 fountains. You are right. It must be a little disconcerting jumping from Flanders to South America at such a rapid pace, though I did try to maintain the "foodie" theme.
Best wishes
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 7 An Irish Heritage:

Being at a bit of a loose end today, I decided to Google my Dad’s old “boozer” or “GHQ” as he referred to it back in those days after the Second World War. Vivid memories of the Jewish landlord, Jack Levy who due perhaps to my Irish father’s continuing, prepossessing patronage became per se his; publican, bank manager and one might even surmise, his friend, especially when said father fell out with my mother, and was given temporary accommodation over this West London Victorian pub.

Imagine my surprise therefore when “The Hand & Flower” licensed premises came up on my screen as a four star eating/drinking establishment, termed as incorporating “traditional pub food and cask-conditioned, hand-pulled ales”, with, in addition, somewhat expensive suites to rent. It was strange also to note some American visitor’s appreciative comments on the food and beer when they had stayed there during the Olympics. Perhaps they slept in my old Dad’s bed?

I describe the beer for a reason. As a young man drinking with my father for what constituted rites of passage, it consisted of pint after pint of “ Black and Tans” or for those of you who are not fellow travelers, bitter and Guinness mixed. Drinking was a serious business you see. One put on one’s suit, stood at the bar upright like men and food was not an option to be considered. Mam back home round the corner was doing the traditional Sunday roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

Later on in life there was of course the old remark, mainly from our American cousins about warm beer, which brings me to the point of this story. A little education, if you will.

British beers, you see, have a reputation of being served warm. This is not true, unless you consider cellar temperature to be warm. Personally, when I think of warm, I think, 80 degrees, blue skies, and not a pint of frothy ale from a cask kept in a cool, dank cellar, served at around 50-55 degrees. By contrast, American beers, despite opinions of a meretricious nature, are always served cold, sometimes painfully cold, and historically, this has, in my opinion, been because they taste so bad when drunk at any higher temperature. You have to go north of the border to Canada to get away from the Budweiser “pi pi ane.”

Cooling anything reduces evaporation and prevents the perfumes and flavors of the beer from mixing with air, and therefore, one tastes fewer of the drink’s complexities. To me, this is a shame. After all, why spend all the time and effort imbuing ones’ ale with complex, herbaceous flavors and then chill the crap out of it so the drinker cannot appreciate them? This is why British ales – bitters, pale ales, IPAs, milds and porters – are best served at cellar temperature.

Then there is the technique of how to pull a pint. “Fortiter in re / sauviter in modo.” Pulling real ale is a bit like pulling the arm on a slot machine, except it must be done carefully and at a smooth, measured rate. The idea, you see, is to aerate the beer, giving it a head, and allowing air to mix with the beer to release its flavors. Typically, for a pint two pulls will be needed, followed by a minute or so of contemplation – a la Guinness – while the air settles and pint comes to a rest. Ah, but don’t start me on Guinness. That’s another story. Cheers Dad.

[108 fountains]

“Paradise was lost to mortal man over an apple, but the spiritual solace of cider is the consolation prize.

Lines like this make reading worthwhile. Keep it up. These are getting better and better.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 8 : Italian Food & Sex.

“Lucca”, (or was it “Gabriella” tonight?), was avidly engrossed in making puttanesca sauce, while the other more definitive transvestite, “Giovanni,” (nom de nuit “Sofia”) labored over the pasta. Even fallen angels eat, and if one is an Italian putana then it is essential that it be put together quickly considering the little time to consume before the brothel opened and the night’s work began.

Just a few crushed tomatoes, some anchovies, capers, garlic, hot peppers, and olives—all things that are likely to be in a Italian pantry make a fragrant hot and sour sauce to pour over pasta.

Initially, when I had first come here as an overseas language student, Florence was the perfect realization of everything I imagined Italy to be: cobblestone streets, ancient buildings, mouth-watering food, zooming Vespa’s, and strong coffee. Never before had the past felt so present. I’d wake upon hearing church bells echoing through the streets and alleys. I was impressed by the idea that the world was so much older that I had thought it to be growing up in Idaho, as were the souls of people shopping at the vegetable market below my bedroom window.

Among them had been a group of large, burly men, bedizened like not so attractive women, who worked the nearest corner from midnight to sunrise. These were “the putanas,” and their clientele were steady and shockingly normal in appearance.

The putanas were as much a part of Via Montebello as the family that sold fried food from a window stall, or the man in charge of the gelateria. In the early morning, the putanas would be doing their shopping at the market, (the end of their work day), and they taught me how in Italy you never touch the fruit and vegetables yourself. That privilege was reserved for the seller who took the task very seriously and would never disgrace his stall by passing a bad peach off on you.

The putanas became a reliable presence every night on the corner around 11:00 pm and it was sort of fun to sit in my large window, drink Chianti wine, and listen to the sound of their gossip and trash talk in Italian.

But tonight Lucca / Gabriella had already added olive oil, red pepper flakes, garlic and anchovies to my heavy skillet and had been heating it slowly over a large heat. Now was the time to crush the whole ripe tomatoes between the thick fingers, add to the pan and stir gently until it all came together.

“The secret lies in the pasta being al dente,” shouted Lucca across to me as I lay couchant on my sick bed.

“Nonsense, don’t listen to that whore, she cannot even shave properly,” retorted Giovanni. “It’s the sauce that is the essence in the creation of good Italian cooking.”

It had always been fascinating seeing these two go for each other. It never stopped, and yet they were incongruously close with a filial bond entrenched by the twilight world that they inhabited. Even to watch them eating and rebuking the other to be careful not to get the sauce on their blouses or to put their lipstick on after eating. They were of that rare breed that knew, that beautiful love transcended even the false friends that some of their cliental had become.

But I was used to them by now and had become part of their lives. I had ached back in the States to have space filled by new ideas and experiences, to feel humbler within a global context. Now there was here in Northern Italy something to get the juices going, and it was not just the dish I was about to be hand fed.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 9:
Oscar Wilde's Cucumber Sandwiches.

Part 1:

Lady Canning was well acquainted with the prepossessing influence of her cucumber sandwiches upon the Prime Minister, from the previous occasions that he had called upon her. It was incumbent therefore to ensure that today's offering was of a likewise singular standard. The great man was due for high tea at three in the afternoon, and being in her esteem a true gentleman, was never late in keeping such appointments; unlike some of the incumbent parvenu politicians one came across these days.

Upon learning a week ago of his intention to call at her Belgrade Square residence, she had very much taken measures into her own hands, applying herself diligently to the forthcoming event.

Thus it was on a clear morning in February, Lady Canning strode erect and distinguished into Fortnum and Masons in a manner somewhat beholden to Queen Bodacia carving her way through Roman hoards. Heads turned as she entered, for as a representative of English aristocracy she had about her that air of mystery and command that mere mortals cannot acquire, less still be taught. On her part she regarded such looks around her entrance as impertinent, having been accustomed to see throughout her years, all eyes not royal, ducal or marquesal fall before her own.

"I wish to purchase a cucumber," she exclaimed with cut glass diction to the somewhat effeminate male assistant at the grocery counter. She was endeared neither to his hang dog jowls, nor the pony-tail, the latter of which appeared to inadequately compensate for his prematurely balding frontal pate.

"I wish to purchase a cucumber," she repeated, as if as an insurance against the person she was addressing being a denizen of some twilight zone south of Calais where she regarded the standard of the Queen's spoken English as deplorable.

"A long one; firm, fresh and preferably from the Home Counties."

The assistant did his best to accommodate her wishes, noting albeit with a degree of envy, the expensive yet discreet jewellery, the striking profile and the deceptively lambent eyes. There was nothing deshabille about this customer; none of the faked attempts at anonymity behind overtly large shades, an outer skin of some transient pop star or soap opera celeb.

By this time the General Manager of the establishment had been hastily mobilised, and further joint excursions were undertaken to other multifarious satellite counters to view in a considered and critical manner, selections of; brown bread, non-salted butter, black peppercorns from the Java Straits and Earl Grey tea.

This strategic exercise in provisions for the grand event having been successfully executed, she proffered her Coutts card for the sum of £6.52 and swept out of the store, leaving in her wake, without thought or consideration, the General Manager carrying the small wire basket of purchased goods.

The Bentley parked on double yellow lines at the kerb was in the process of being booked by a Nigerian traffic warden.

"What exactly is the meaning of this?" she addressed him, looking straight in the eye.

"It's a parking ticket Mar'm. You are illegally parked," he replied firmly.

"Nonsense," she retorted.

"My Bentley, and preceding that, the family carriage has been parked all over Great Britain without let or hinderance since the time of Charles I."

The traffic warden's countenance was not indicative of complete accordance with this fact, let alone his acquaintance with the statutory parking regulations in the West End of London during the reign of that particular regent.

Lady Canning had, it must be confessed, a true instinct of the man, in that he was capable of rebuke in this way and in no other. Thus, seizing the basket from the General Manager of Fortnum & Mason and the initiative from the confused Nigerian, she slid into the limoscene and glided majestically away in the direction of Oxford Street.

[108 fountains]

I just really like the whole concept of these short shorts centered around the idea of food. It's original and creative. The writing is good, and the stories are interesting and enjoyable. And at the same time, I can learn a little about something - be it history, culture or exotic cuisine.

[MANICHAEAN]

Thank you for the kind comments 108 fountains. I find one of the problems I have with writing stories is that my method of just diving in and seeing where it takes me does not really work, as I run out of steam and cannot finish the tale. At the same time, having a pre-structured plot is at odds with getting the imaginative juices flowing (a bit like sobering up!) So at the moment, it's a compromise i.e. a number of short stories around a common theme. Thanks for reading and giving me feedback.
Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 9. Part 2:

In the Belgravia drawing room the small table had been arranged along with two adjacent armchairs. To one side lay the best Royal Dalton with the tea pot already warmed, along with a jug of hot water, a caddie of Earl Grey, milk and sugar. To the other side, on a rectangular platter, the sandwiches; crusts removed, separated diagonally into fours, the cucumber cut in such an attenuated manner as to suggest the use of a razor.

Redolent of a culinary snack fit for Greek Gods in Elysian Fields, it's perfection lay in the simplicity of both it's contents and presentation.

Outside in the square, with the week-end fast approaching, the traffic was more subdued than normal. Perhaps the preponderance of embassy buildings there had closed early and their staff retreated, leaving de facto occupation to the other extremely rich, private owners.

Silently, almost as if by stealth, two long black Jaguars swiftly entered the square. The first drew up to the kerb and from the one behind two fit young body guards in grey suits exited to position themselves facing outwards, either end of the front car.

A short pause and the PM emerged, still serious faced from Question Time back in the Commons. He strode purposefully to the front door where the butler took his coat and led him through to the drawing room.

Lady Canning rose from her chair by the tea table, smiled warmly and offered her cheek. They were old acquaintances via their respective families and as such, very much at ease in each others company.

"Dear Lady Canning, thank you so much for accommodating my request to call on you."

"Prime Minister, the pleasure is all mine. Have you lost weight since I saw you last?"

There was a restrained smile on his full lips and the teasing enquiry was left hanging, for there had never been anything of a fulsome or unctuous manner in the way they conversed. If truth be known, they were equally balanced; he possessing the elegant fluency of a serving First Minister of the Crown, whereas the lady, well she was the Lady.

"Ah the cucumber sandwiches!" he exclaimed reaching for the plate.

"Patience Prime Minister. I shall pour the tea first."

To Lady Canning he was, malgre lui, like a naughty schoolboy. In return, his being lightly reprimanded brought back strong warm memories of his nanny during childhood.

"But Lady Canning, was it not Algernon in "The Importance of Being Earnest," that finished of Lady Bracknell's cucumber sandwiches?"

"Prime Minister," she said, tea pot half raised, " You are not one of Oscar Wilde's characters, and I am sure I take offence at some of the qualities of that fictional member of the aristocracy. One lump of sugar, or two?"

He stayed an hour longer than intended, all but consumed the entire platter of cucumber sandwiches and by the time he had made appreciative parting remarks to his hostess, was in an equitable frame of mind.

Chequers for the weekend lay ahead with the family around him. Next week he would be braced to; sooth the Germans, irritate the French, exculpate his Liberal Alliance partner from his latest mistakes, and undertake with a suitable considered demeanour, meretricious initiatives with the Americans.

[MANICHAEAN]

It's so encouraging when the people reading your work goes over 1,000. Bless you all.
M.

[Gilliatt Gurgle]

Another one of yours I managed to let sip by. I'm having trouble keeping up, nevertheless, I'll add this board to the stack, looks like a well seasoned Oak.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 10: THE SAS COOK.

It was a quiet, almost opulent pub in Knightsbridge called “The Grenadier”, neatly tucked away down some narrow streets and Martin was trawling for a guardsman. Eventually his eye lit upon a fresh faced young man at the bar & he opened with some obscure reference to the weather or the price of beer that is a trait inherent in the demeanour of some Englishmen.

They appeared to be getting along quite well, when the young man called Max, leant forward to Martin in an almost conspiratorial manner and said in a soft voice “I’m in The Regiment.”

“Oh” said Martin “So am I. What’s your specialty?”

“Well, eh, explosives” he spluttered out, having expected to impress and in reality being wrong footed.

“ That interesting” said Martin knowing full well that this elite SAS unit of the British Army to which he referred, normally work in small units of three with compatible specialties skills like; linguistics, communications, ordinance etc.

“Seen much action?” said Martin.

“Yes, umm” said Max “You know, the normal thing, Northern Ireland, Oman, Iraq, but I can’t talk about it.” Feeling trapped and uncomfortable, he decided to change tack. “What about yourself?”

Martin stone faced said “I’m the cook”

“The cook! What you mean in the mess?”

“Oh no, I’m operational. In fact I’m quite well known, whether for knocking up an omelette under mortar fire or creating “pot au feu” in a copse in Crossmaglen.”

“Married?” asked Martin.

“No, not actually” replied Max. “Not much time for that.”

“Quite right too” said Martin “Women are all right, but you can’t beat the real thing”

A look of reality and shock transformed Max’s face. The macho, male bonding had gone awry and he was the prey.

“Excuse me, Martin, must just take a leak” he said, looking to escape.

“No problem Maxi, I’ll join you” said Martin.

The two entered the urinals, both unzipped, but for Max nothing came. Panicking he rezipped, wet himself unconsciously & dived for the door, hurrying out into the street.

Martin smiled to himself and returned to his beer at the bar. He looked up at the brightly shining glasses hanging overhead and reflected

“Beware of Gay SAS Celebrity Chefs!”

[Steven Hunley]

I just really like the whole concept of these short shorts centered around the idea of food. It's original and creative. The writing is good, and the stories are interesting and enjoyable. And at the same time, I can learn a little about something - be it history, culture or exotic cuisine.

These are so very very good. The sense of entitlement present in this last one is delightful, whether it's based on a name or a history, or a tradition or what. No matter how it was arrived at, the woman possessed entitlement like a demon lover and had her way with it.

[Steven Hunley]

These are so very very good. The sense of entitlement present in this one is delightful, whether it's based on a name or a history, or a tradition or what. No matter how it was arrived at, the woman possessed entitlement like a demon lover and had her way with it.

[AuntShecky]

One question I've been meaning to ask about this particular thread, and the latest segment in particular (#20) is this: why is it conventional wisdom maintains that "men make the best chefs?" Is it a matter of testosterone, a "devil-may care" attitude which scoffs at following recipes to the letter, left/right brain dichotomy--or what? And, if it is indeed the case that "men make the best chefs," why is it that in traditional family breakdowns -- and "breakdowns" is right!-- it is the lady of the house who is charged with preparing meals for the menfolk? This confuses me, and you're the most appropriate expert to clear it up.

PS--What the hell is a "sous" chef? And a "Chef Garde Manger"? They were among the "career opportunities" at the Otesaga Hotel listed in the Want Ads. (Not that I'm qualified for any kind of culinary job, mind you. When I first met my bitter half, he asked me to get him a glass of water. And I replied, "I don't cook.")

[MANICHAEAN]

So many questions Aunty but I shall do my best to respond from a purely personal viewpoint.

1. "Do men make the best chefs?"
I blame the French for raising the whole profession to some kind of exclusive, elite priesthood. On the other side of the English Channel we were raised with firstly one's mother and then one's wife being the only appropriate person to cook. I was extremely lucky in having a Mater who was as good as it gets in traditional English cooking and a first wife, who though French, was not overawed by the culinary snobbery in her own country.
Then arose in those green fields about ten years ago a messianic figure called Keith Floyd
whose TV cooking programmes combined the ingredients of; fun, wine and irreverence for formality which appealed to the average Englishman (the average Joe I believe you term it.) The female gender took up arms and fought back worldwide with their own celebrity chefs, (the Barefoot Contessa, Nigella Lawson, Delia Smith) and I quite honestly believe that at the current juncture both sides are equal.
It's nothing to do with sections of the brain, or one's station in a marriage. It's all about passion. Cooking,(like writing) is creative and both sexes need this aspect in their lives. If you cannot paint or play the piano, then there are the creative options of writing and cooking (both of which, now being "technically" retired, I intend to indulge in assiduously.)

2. A sous chef I believe is an under chef being trained by a chef, the last rites in a passage of initiation as it were.

3. A Chef Garde Manager. I have no idea. Sounds like a signalman at a Paris railway station!

4. In the last bit, it's not what you tell, but what you dont. More likely it was "Darling, I don't do glasses of water, but by Harry I do a bloody good martini!"

Take care.
M.

[AuntShecky]

A Chef Garde Manager. I have no idea. Sounds like a signalman at a Paris railway station!



M.

That's what I thought! En garde!

Actually, it's not "manager" (which even yours fooly could understand) but "manger" (the French verb.)

I don't watch the American version of cooking shows, like Rachael Ray where the audience applauds the broccoli. On the "prime time" food shows, I think the prerequisite for the star chef is not how well he prepares the food but how loudly he can curse at the poor underlings
(and with all those sharp knives on the set!)

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 11. Pepper Soup.

“Mama Din say pepper soup done come tonight Master.”

That was the news for tonight’s imminent prospective meal back in Jos after work.

Outside, a dusty close-fitting heat still hung over the construction site. Some workers had already stopped, whilst others merely assumed an attitude of movement, if you happened to glance in their direction. A spiral whirly wind picked up some discarded cement bags briefly and then deposited them three feet away.

To the white site agent, it was a sham continuing and it was coming close to time anyway.

“OK Solomon, get the boys packed up and let’s get to town for some chop.”

The prospect of free food, washed down with some cold Star beer was always enough to get the small group of African foremen moving.

“Yala, Yala. Clean up tools and lock away in office.”

The small, elderly night guard appeared.

Solomon did his authority posing routine. “Ma Gardi, ah ha, listen now. Make sure the tools be dere in morning. Katchi co?”

The old guard with his stick secured the padlock and with a look of resignation listened once again to the nightly briefing of his duties.

The white man and the three black foremen clambered into the pick-up and set off for town.

Mama Din’s establishment was down one of the back streets of Jos. A plank over an open ditch led to the front entrance. It was in essence a beer parlour, almost like a wide corridor with four tables & could accommodate no more than 15 persons at one time. Mama was a large, cheerful, Ibo business woman with a ready broad smile. She had recently opened a small kitchen in the back, from where her pepper soup of a fiery nature emanated.

“How now Madame?” was the cry as they entered. “Pepper soup dere?”

“Pepper soup done come batouri, was her eager, almost professional response.

“Now Madame, please, small pepper. Last time it was too hot.”

“No problem batouri, small pepper only.”

In fact Mama Din had quickly established that with this white man and his foreman who came in regular about 2-3 times per week, the more pepper she added, the more beer he brought for everyone. And that was where the profit lay!

They grouped around one of the tables near the door with their first beer, the heat and work of the day behind them. That first one was always the best. It went down so smooth.

To Solomon and the other two African foreman there was an additional bonus to the treat of pepper soup & beer that was about to unfold. It was watching the white man sweat.

Mama brought the soup in large bowls with spoons.

The drama unfolded.

“Mama, Where’s the meat?”

“Batouri, price include two pieces of meat, each bowl. Extra money for more!”

The white man said nothing, and started slowly to sip the soup.

The foremen watched.

Sweat started to break on his forehead, he reddened facially, and he tried to ease his throat.

The foremen looked at each other with implicit understanding.

“More beer Madame. Bring more beer extra cold. Quick quick, massa massa!”

“Yes batouri,” Mama replied, affecting to move quickly, a look of concern on her countenance barely suffused by her commercial aspirations.

“I thought I told you, small pepper Madame. This could kill every known germ in the human body!”

“Only small pepper dere batouri. Drink more cold beer. You will feel better.”

There is often expressed a despair inherent in the African condition, whether it be the corruption, the cheapness of life or the disease, poverty and hunger on that continent. But there is another side of; living for the moment, of easy laughter and the friendship and shared experience.
Such it was later that evening, as the group dispersed to their respective homes, whilst Mama Din, counting her takings, made a mental note to stock up on pepper in the morn.

[AuntShecky]

The closing paragraph to #126 is superb.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 12: An Offer You Cannot Refuse.

The menu is Southern, the cuisine of Naples, Calabria and Sicily; the bread is crusty, the flowers plastic, murals celebrate the Bay of Naples and up against one wall where Vesuvius is painted, serious looking, sharply suited individuals sit facing outwards. One in particular has a quivering of the chin, but don't be deceived. He might indeed be the type who prays, that is if he had a talent for it. But at least he has religious faith; believes at least in a Devil. God thinks twice before damming a man of that quality, even though faith has left and scepticism taken it's place.

By the rules of the Southern Italian soul you know a place that looks this bad has got to
be good. To reach the restaurant you cruise through the tenement wilds of Brooklyn. Do as the city fathers did. Don’t let the devastation spoil your appetite. Ghosts still haunt Lombardi’s at 53rd Spring Street, shades of the Appalachin police raid in 1965. Calico privacy drapes the establishments windows, the dining room is freshly brocaded and a stern-faced woman guards the cash box.

Little Augie Pisano was shot to death with Gian Marino’s recipe for clam sauce in his pocket. "Grazie Dio." Little Augie departed still garlicky and glowing from his last supper. That was 1959. Today Gian Marin’s clam sauce is hardly worth getting shot for.

There are no menus. The spelling of dishes on Italian restaurant menus is anyway as
variable as the range of their tomato sauces. What do you want? If they’ve got it in the kitchen," ecco la." You order generic: shrimp, veal, calamari. And then by colour. Linguini with clam sauce...red or white? The house wine arrives in an unlabelled bottle, and the food, family style, on big oval platters. The clams are juicy, garlicky and good. The shrimp and Veal Marsala are robust country food. The squid is drowning in an oily tomato sauce but tender and tasty.

Service can depend on who you are, though the joint echoes to the sounds of dietary supplications. There is a full house and two waiters; one for the dons and then the other. The latter forgets the table cloth, "Que sera," then the bread, but just try leaving without
paying. At the same time he is obscenely cheerful. "Here you are, please,” he sings, delivering mussels in a red wine sauce though white was asked for.Only friends of the house are offered grindings of fresh pepper.

It seems to function around the clock with the immeasurable tide of Italian speech and dialects which cease not day after day, and only ebbs towards the short hours of night. In the kitchen, staff like haltered gin-horses waiting their manumission, and up against the Vesuvius wall, apparitions are wont to vanish utterly, leaving only a smell of sulphur.

The crowd has thinned and the Don's waiter serves a candlelit cake singing “Happy Birthday to You” with operatic bravado to a table of men with that New York face that could be Jewish or Italian.

"Bravo," responds the Head of the Family, "You remembered."

The sardonic reply.

"When have I ever refused you an accommodation."

[AuntShecky]

Little Augie Pisano was shot to death with Gian Marino’s recipe for clam sauce in his pocket. "Grazie Dio." Little Augie departed still garlicky and glowing from his last supper. That was 1959. Today Gian Marin’s clam sauce is hardly worth getting shot for.

----

The crowd has thinned and the Don's waiter serves a candlelit cake singing “Happy Birthday to You” with operatic bravado to a table of men with that New York face that could be Jewish or Italian.



Couple of typos in the concluding sentence of the first paragraph, but despite that:

these two quoted passages prove why your offerings are among the finest that our veteran NitLetters offer.

Bravo!

Auntie

[free]

A very enjoyable reading, MANICHAEAN. And a great idea - eating around the world, looking for the best food of the world. :)

[MANICHAEAN]

Thank you both for your comments. Perhaps actually it is a little inappropriate during Lent to be writing on the subject, or on the other hand a resultant symptom of the fasting.
Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 13: Breakfast.

To any outside observer they would, by definition of race and personal demeanour have seemed a strange couple. But then, that is the cosmopolitian nature of news reporting these days. Bruce MacFerson was the rangy red-headed Scots camera man and Thongchai his diminutive sound- recorder back up.

Current location; a street market eating breakfast in Sukumvit Soi 4, ostensibly covering the Bangkok street protests for Reuters.

Bruce sat on a crude wooden bench, across a small makeshift plastic-covered table from his companion. One was sweating profusely from the known heat & humidity of this capital city in April, whereas the other was not even, what the Victorians referred to as "glowing." You did not need much of a guess to know which was which.

"Call, this bloody breakfast," exclaimed the Scot.

"What is it anyway?"

"It's traditional Thai breakfast," Thongchai responded.

"It's called "jok," pronounced "joke" and is a congee rice soup with egg, ginger and chopped spring onions. A bit like your porridge."

Bruce snorted, the sweat dripping relentlessly from the tip of his nose into the soup ; a condiment not exactly in accordance with a strict interpretation of the aforementioned dish.

"So, it's a "jok", pronounced "joke" for a Jock is it," he replied laughing.

Up to then, the heat and the stress of running around in it had been getting to him. It was not helped by the suavity of manners of his associate. If the truth be known, he was becoming an object of pity to himself and half-weary of a profession, which was more than half-weary of him.

Luckily, in the two weeks they had been together moving through the diurnal intervals of working and sleep, neither had been smitten with the additional burden of mutual unintelligibility.

"And no, it's nothing like porridge."

"So, what's the traditional Scottish breakfast then?" enquired the Thai. The individual opposite, (who actually he had quite come to like), still was to him like some alien creature whose home existence he had great difficulty in imagining, let alone grasping.

One huge motionless cloud seemed to girdle the whole horizon above Bangkok, streaming up, hairy, copper-edged over a sky of oppressive, wet latent heat.

Bruce was slow in responding.

"How long since he had quit the bosky verdures of the glens, drawn hither, scenting potential richer quarry from afar; an invitation to urban chaos; to be so kind as to build, out of it's tumultuous drift-wood, an ark of escape for him?"

For some strange reason he remembered the reading of Dr Johnson who, back in the 18th century had written that “no man is so abstemious as to refuse the morning dram.” He had continued, qualifying the statement by writing that “not long after the dram may be expected the breakfast, a meal in which the Scots … must be confessed to excel." The Scots, like many British at the time also typically enjoyed a draught of ale at breakfast. When tea-drinking and irksome temperance, caught on in Scotland some people replaced their sturdy mug of ale with a dainty cup of tea; others replaced the dram as well, instead opting for a bit of stomach-warming candied orange peel or marmalade.

A Brigadier Mackintosh of Borlum had apparently been less than pleased about this. “When I came to my friend’s house in a morning, I used to be ask’d, if I had my morning draught yet? I am now ask’d, if I have yet had my tea,” he had apparently bristled. “And in lieu of the … strong ale and toast, and after a Dram of good wholesome Scots Spirits, there is now … marmalet, cream, and cold tea.”

Bruce pondered. He loved nothing more than a hot muffin spread with butter and marmalade. He got a happy tingle in his you-know-where, when just thinking about a butter knife scraping across a toasty, lunar landscape of farinaceous delight. On the other hand, he likewise, did enjoy getting hammered in the morning. So how could one outline that to a Thai sound recording man in a Bangkok market place. What was his choice to be? Whisky or marmalade?

There was a speechlessness to the speech unfolding in his head, for in the dull smoke of current outburnt sensualities did he live and digest.

With a hoarse stifled tone of voice, he could only say, "It would be too complicated to explain it to you Thongchai. Eat your jok, and let's get back to work."

Overhead to the east, there was a swell in the upper tempest, which, if fortune prevailed, would later bring a much needed breath of cooler wind to the two mortals below.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 14:

Masters of Deception.

Li Peng had from an early age, been both an incurable romantic and a devotee of Hollywood classics like "Casablanca." This was especially concerning portrayal of the opposite gender which encapsulated for him what the attainment of female perfection was all about.

No scrawny mono-assed teenagers in mono-mode jeans like you saw outside on the streets of Shanghai; but women with sparkle, well-dressed, and above all, desirable.

His mother yelled up the stairs from the family restaurant below.

"Li. You going to be on that computer all day? Come down, dinner is ready."

Executing sleep mode with full intention to return later, he descended to the small dining room at the rear.

All the family were there, the men, bowls to their chins and chop sticks furiously engaged in internecine warfare between the composite ingredients of laid out dishes. He endeavoured to choose a station with some coign of vantage for an early retreat back to his room, but his mother thwarted his intentions.

"Sit down my son next to your father. It's your favourite tonight, boiled cow lung in chilli sauce Schezen style."

He slipped in beside his father, a brawny figure through whose black brows and rude flattened face there seemed the waste energy as of a Hercules not yet furibund.

"Oh God no," he thought,"the usual fare. You could almost tell what day of the week it was by the table's contents."

If it was Monday it was fish lips with celery, Tuesday goat feet tendons in wheat noodles, Wednesday either Sinchuan frog thighs or rabbit ears and so on. Only on week-ends did they have something out of the ordinary like thousand year old eggs; a Guangdong delicacy of duck eggs that had been coated in lime, ashes and mud and soaked in horse urine for one hundred days until the yolks had turned green and the whites had become gelatinous and dark brown.

His grandfather, waved a chop-stick at him, akin a deranged oriental conductor in the final movement of Beethoven's Fifth;a bodeful inarticulate voice of doom.

"You need get wife. Man without wife is like man without chop-stick. Go hungry."

To Grandad, life was an equipoise, yet sustaining existence between Chinese sayings imparted to the young, alternating with an appreciation that anything that walks, swims, crawls or flies with it's back to heaven is edible. He had as it were, attained the profligacies and sensualities that on the whole go hand in hand with dotage and senility.

"I bet Confucious said that," Li thought, "and very likely Grandad was there to hear him say it."

His father by contrast said nothing, but continued to manoeuvre his appendements deftly between the different dishes. A piece of sweet and sour sheep's vein here, a modicum of stir fried goat feet tendon there.

"Leave him alone Grandad," his mother interspersed." You know how difficult it is to get Chinese bride these days, ever since that single child policy of the Party was introduced. China now full of single men like my son Li, and all the eligible women with their noses up in air wanting husband that is doctor or lawyer with car and big salary. How I ever going to get grandchildren?"

His father continued to say nothing, but picked at his teeth for a piece of pickled frog ovary obstinately lodged there.

"Mum. I'm looking for a wife on the computer," Li said in a slightly surly manner, endeavouring yet again to quash out this never ending litany regards his marital status.

"Ah," said his father, having successfully extracted the offending morsel from his molars and examining it on the tip of his finger.

"Computer dating forum, cover all China, perhaps even get nice Chinese wife from Hong Kong or Singapore. Wise move son."

Grandad took up the baton again for the final movement.

"Chinese proverb say man who dream of eating giant mushroom wake up with no pillow."

Li groaned inwardly, and whilst the assembled literati reflected on the meaning and relevance of this gem, returned back upstairs, his target today being a dating web- site in
New York.

The door closed and insulated against the family he settled to his task. The groundwork had been undertaken on earlier occasions; establishing a user name, password and all the other paraphernalia of interspace anonimity.

The name "Rachael" from the East Side came up as online and looked interesting.

"Twenty seven years old, graduate in fashion design seeking a nice Jewish boy from a good family. Transplant surgeon or established entrepreneur preferred."

Li sent off an initial "Hi."

"Keep it friendly and casual," he told himself. "Don't frighten them off." Bogart's lines from Casablanca, "Is that the sound of guns, or my heart beating?" could wait for achieving firmer ground.

"Hello," came back the response from the Big Apple, "What are you doing today?"

"I've just returned from going out with friends to a Chinese restaurant," he typed in and quickly pressed send.

"That's nice," was the reply."I like Chinese food sometimes. Makes a change from my mothers cooking."

"Is she a good cook?" he punched in, maintaining the momentum." What did you have today?"

" Nothing unusual, just matzoh ball soup to start, then brisket with tzimmes and zucchini latkes."

Li did not have a clue about what this comprised. It was so alien to him. Did Humphrey Bogart eat such food in his night club? No, he was either drinking or smoking. Never seemed to eat. Was Ingrid Bergman kosher? He would have to research it.

But in the meantime, without heaven above him or hell beneath him, Li was trapped in the throat of a communications whirlwind that was just words, mere words and sentiments, devoid of any substance for desired goals.