Read Online A Moveable Feast by Lonely Planet - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lonely Planet
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holding up the camera to let her see me deleting the photo. But I couldn’t help thinking back to dinners at the villa, where I would take photos with total abandon, mostly of Pearl or Pat carrying out new plates from Donna’s stove, to document what would become a treasured book of recipes. Pat pleaded that she was too shy for all of this, but Pearl at least knew how to fight back: ‘You do not know how to relax. Why don’t you sit down for five minutes and do nothing?’ Never, I thought, when I’m having this much fun.
Joyriding all over the island, back and forth to the store and fish market, with the occasional detour for a little sightseeing, became the pre-chopping highlight of the day. The going could be slow on the narrow roads, and Donna never hesitated to tell me to stop if we were passing one of her chums with whom she wanted to catch up – a cart-to-cart conversation, in blazing sun or afternoon downpour – before moving on.
For an entire week, the day began each morning after breakfast with, ‘Come on, we go now.’ Donna’s all-aboard call always felt like a whim, as nothing had ever been discussed prior to departure. On the last day, though, I was prepared but also confused, for Donna wouldn’t say where we were headed. She just kept giggling as we drove to the mystery destination and I continued begging for information.
When we reached the beachfront villa I knew something was up, for this place had ‘special’ written all over it, from the location, smack on the sand, to the long gated entryway that spoke of wealth and seclusion. ‘My sister is Mick Jagger’s cook,’ Donna said. ‘This is his place.’
For a child of the 1960s, entering Mick Jagger’s home might equal the thrill a modern teen would feel if invited to visit all thevampires on the set of the
Twilight
movies. Denise greeted us at the door for a guided tour. There was Mick’s pink pool table. Denise and Donna cheerfully posed behind it for a snap. On a bureau was a picture of his mother, smiling and waving furiously. I laughed. Donna and Denise laughed, because I was laughing.
We all ended up in the kitchen, where I inspected the drop-dead appliances. They made the ones at Sapphire, which looked liked they might have belonged to June Cleaver from ‘Leave it to Beaver’ at one time, seem horribly out of date. I even wondered if Donna might be a tad envious. I would have been. We finished the tour with coffee and cake, as I learned that the two sister-cooks had six other siblings – five girls, whose names all started with ‘D’, and a brother, Oral. Suddenly, that was funny too.
On my last night at Sapphire, I drank the juice from my ceviche straight from the bowl, just after Pearl left the room so she wouldn’t see my exhibition of bad manners. After dinner, I helped clear plates, as I’d done most nights, and stopped worrying if pitching in might actually be insulting. After all, Donna, Pearl and Pat were professionals, with jobs to do, but weren’t they now also my friends? They were both, I decided, and friends don’t let friends clear plates by themselves. I rang the dinner bell, and we had a final laugh.
I email Donna now and then to let her know of my progress with her soufflés (the one with marmalade is as killer as her cheese creation). I tell her what worked and what went wrong. She always writes back, with advice for fixing my mistakes. At New Year’s, she surprised me with a note of cheer and well wishes.
I wonder sometimes if Donna, Pat and Pearl were sorry to see me go. Or relieved. Maybe they were happy to get back to thedinner bell, with guests who followed the rules, guests who never got in the way of their duties by lifting pot lids and clearing tables. I think about them often and ask myself what I got out of my week on Mustique. The answer is always the same: I met a terrific cook, who shared her recipes with me and took me to the edge of the sea to find lobster. Donna is one of many
Joyriding all over the island, back and forth to the store and fish market, with the occasional detour for a little sightseeing, became the pre-chopping highlight of the day. The going could be slow on the narrow roads, and Donna never hesitated to tell me to stop if we were passing one of her chums with whom she wanted to catch up – a cart-to-cart conversation, in blazing sun or afternoon downpour – before moving on.
For an entire week, the day began each morning after breakfast with, ‘Come on, we go now.’ Donna’s all-aboard call always felt like a whim, as nothing had ever been discussed prior to departure. On the last day, though, I was prepared but also confused, for Donna wouldn’t say where we were headed. She just kept giggling as we drove to the mystery destination and I continued begging for information.
When we reached the beachfront villa I knew something was up, for this place had ‘special’ written all over it, from the location, smack on the sand, to the long gated entryway that spoke of wealth and seclusion. ‘My sister is Mick Jagger’s cook,’ Donna said. ‘This is his place.’
For a child of the 1960s, entering Mick Jagger’s home might equal the thrill a modern teen would feel if invited to visit all thevampires on the set of the
Twilight
movies. Denise greeted us at the door for a guided tour. There was Mick’s pink pool table. Denise and Donna cheerfully posed behind it for a snap. On a bureau was a picture of his mother, smiling and waving furiously. I laughed. Donna and Denise laughed, because I was laughing.
We all ended up in the kitchen, where I inspected the drop-dead appliances. They made the ones at Sapphire, which looked liked they might have belonged to June Cleaver from ‘Leave it to Beaver’ at one time, seem horribly out of date. I even wondered if Donna might be a tad envious. I would have been. We finished the tour with coffee and cake, as I learned that the two sister-cooks had six other siblings – five girls, whose names all started with ‘D’, and a brother, Oral. Suddenly, that was funny too.
On my last night at Sapphire, I drank the juice from my ceviche straight from the bowl, just after Pearl left the room so she wouldn’t see my exhibition of bad manners. After dinner, I helped clear plates, as I’d done most nights, and stopped worrying if pitching in might actually be insulting. After all, Donna, Pearl and Pat were professionals, with jobs to do, but weren’t they now also my friends? They were both, I decided, and friends don’t let friends clear plates by themselves. I rang the dinner bell, and we had a final laugh.
I email Donna now and then to let her know of my progress with her soufflés (the one with marmalade is as killer as her cheese creation). I tell her what worked and what went wrong. She always writes back, with advice for fixing my mistakes. At New Year’s, she surprised me with a note of cheer and well wishes.
I wonder sometimes if Donna, Pat and Pearl were sorry to see me go. Or relieved. Maybe they were happy to get back to thedinner bell, with guests who followed the rules, guests who never got in the way of their duties by lifting pot lids and clearing tables. I think about them often and ask myself what I got out of my week on Mustique. The answer is always the same: I met a terrific cook, who shared her recipes with me and took me to the edge of the sea to find lobster. Donna is one of many
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