Returning back to the Playboy Penthouse for a spot of luncheon, I find my faithful and trusty personal chef sat in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Great wailing in K’mai was issuing forth, along with a slight to’n’fro rocking motion of the upper body.
Fearing that I was intruding in some obscure Buddhist food blessing ceremony I started to back off to a safe, respectful, distance.
Chef then turned to face me and I saw tears building up in those slightly mad and increasingly unfocused eyes.
“M’hope onglee, pii back, nah!”
“M’hope onglee, pii back, nah!"
Came the chant, reaching an almost dervish level of pitch and intensity.
“English food, very difficult”
“English food, very difficult”
Nestled in chef’s lap was a mixing bowl, which upon closer inspection, appeared to contain somewhat lumpy mashed potatoes
Bravely taking a step closer into the room, I was further able to see a couple of thick pork chops on the griddle and bowl of broccoli and cauliflower heads awaiting their dunking into boiling (salted) water...
‘No problem Chefy’ I bellowed, as I bounded into the room relieving this frustrated minion of the large sharp knife being held loosely in one hand.
‘I shall aid you in salvaging this feast of England’
Quick as a flash, I was reheating the lumpy mash, adding a little more butter and starting to whip the sharp knife through the pan in a windmill like action.
Five minutes later all that was left for me to do was to oversee the final preparation of the onion gravy - a recipe that is still ongoing with Chefy getting confused on occasion between onions and mangos…
Half an hour later I am relaxing on the veranda in my easy chair, hunger satiated and the gentle, clatter sounds of the washing up being done in the back ground.
Another potential culinary catastrophe deflected.
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