A GENTLEMAN AND HIS KETTLE
Those gentlemen are walking along. They could be on their way to Santiago de Compostela, Lourdes or Canterbury. They have got a purpose in their voyage and they are determined to reach it.
The Italian is clutching a corkscrew. It is a very well known fact that to open a bottle of wine anywhere but at home is difficult. I have encountered so many useless "things" called "cork-screws" in the various kitchens I worked in that in the end I carried my own in my back pocket. In time the instrument had to become more sophisticated. I needed sometimes a screwdriver, an Allen key, a pair of scissors, a magnifying glass, a tool to get a stone off a donkey's hoof, a file to get rid of a finger nail problem I should have attended to yonks ago, a saw that could help me to get some kindling wood ready for a fire: I had acquired a Swiss Army knife given to me by one of my wonderful staff. One of those guys who thought that I was not the bitch everybody thought I was. He also was an excellent French waiter and a professional in the trade. Jean-Pierre was of Italian/French descendant and brought certain flair in Soho.
The Spaniard is struggling with a plancha. Without it the Iberian Peninsula would starve. This is what makes food in the land of Cervantes. Never mind the fact that one can build a fire in the wilds and throw an ordinary frying pan or even just a piece of metal on it. No, it has got to be a plancha. Also one has to have a professional paint scraper to clean it otherwise the lomo slices, cut as usual too thin, will stick like fried apples to a blanket. I was watching a barman the other day (a Scot would you believe in the sticks of Andalusia) scraping its affair (the plancha) and asked him why he did not buy a Teflon coated hot plate. The answer was confused. But he used to have a good business.Which means that the plancha, not being a particularly exotic cooking utensil can earn your bread and butter if you stick to it. He didn't and closed his doors for ever.
The Greek is light loaded. He is only carrying his worry beads. The Greeks worry a lot. All those millenniums of history and the making of an appalling Western civilisation are weighing on their conscience. On top of everything else the Parthenon might collapse (it will eventually) and the bees on Icabetus might stop producing the famous honey. The bees, no doubt will move to the border into Bulgaria and rejoice into a newly found EU innocent member that has no idea of what anything is apart from a hare and a wild boar. The Greek is worried. Even the feta cheese has lost its appeal when it appeared on the shelves of most Europeans supermarkets. The lambs do not come from Virgil hills anymore but are shipped from somewhere in Europe. He cannot let those beads alone and any minute now the Spaniard and the Italian are going to jump on him armed with their deadly weapons.
The Frenchman is whistling along. The Marseillaise has lost its words. He actually never learnt the words of his national anthem. Just as well: they are disgusting. He has not a care in the world. Just the hope that a curvy lass is going to wait for him at the end of the road. But in his pocket there is a garlic press. A French person cannot think without a garlic press in sight. We, French, tend to add garlic to anything and everything without discrimination. Not on strawberries mind, but then we put ground pepper on those poor things. Just as well. As they are grown under plastic it would not make a blind bit of difference if we added a chopped onion as well as industrial cream.
Then, on the tail end of the pilgrimage procession comes the Englishman. He is carrying an electric kettle. Never mind if he doesn't encounter a plug on the way. Security is a kettle for him.
A couple of years ago we asked a friend of ours to bring us the latest state of the art German technology type of kettle. We had seen the advert in the magazine that says "Tried, Tested, Trusted". We trusted. Fatal. If Germany builds their BMW's as they build their kettles then, come to think of it, I'd rather drive one of their kettles. Bound to come to a standstill in a short run. And you can have a glass of wine without problem.
The kettle boiled for a few months. Then, one morning, it didn't. It was early (5am) and I did not disturb the man of the house. I boiled a small pan of water on the hob and happily made myself a disgusting cup of instant coffee. Hours later the male part of the household appears.
"Kettle is not boiling".
Man of the house sneezes, farts and presses the button. The kettle boils to a point where the ceiling is about to drop from the force of the steam.
"What's the matter with you? Can't you boil a kettle?"
Now, there are TV series where a wife gladly murders her husband.
The following morning I am having a late morning in bed. It happens to me sometimes. The man of the house is trying to make coffee.
"The kettle doesn't boil!"
"I know, I told you yesterday…"
"So, what do we do?"
Panic station on the English side of the household.
"There is a small pan in the draw and water from the tap. Keep the noise down."
The English are born with hands genetically formed to handle a kettle. Without it the British nation cannot exist. Eventually we tried to have the blooming kettle repaired. It costs more than the original and failed again after a few weeks. Same scenario: "Hey! Kettle not boiling!"
Eventually our gentlemen arrived at their destination.
The Italian had found a bottle and opened it. The Spaniard had killed a rabbit, lit a fire and was cooking it on the plancha. The French has found wild garlic and squeezed it on the rabbit. The Greek had stopped worrying and found some wild thyme to add to the meat.
The Englishman was still trying to find a socket to plug his kettle.
JOCELYNE
