Read Online The Hundred-Foot Journey by Richard C. Morais - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard C. Morais
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this, for helping me realize my place in the world was nowhere else but standing before a vat of boiling oil, my feet wide apart.
Our departure was as abrupt as our arrival two years earlier.
And I, consciously or unconsciously, was the architect of our hasty exit from Britain.
It was women. Again.
I missed the Napean Sea Road and the restaurant and I missed Mummy. It was in this feverish state of longing, alone sneaking a cigarette in our backyard one evening, that I felt a cool hand on the back of my head.
“What’s up, Hassan?”
It was dark and I could not see her face.
But I could smell the patchouli oil.
Cousin Aziza’s voice was soft and—I don’t know why—but her sweet tone touched me.
I couldn’t help it. Tears rolled down my face.
“I miss my old life.”
I sniffled and rubbed my nose on my shirtsleeve.
Aziza’s fingers softly twisted my hair.
“Poor boy,” she whispered, lips against my ear. “Poor thing.”
And then we were kissing, hot tongues down each other’s throats, groping through the clothes, while all the time I was thinking: Bloody marvelous. Another girl you really feel something for—and this time she is your bloody cousin.
“Aaaaiieee.”
We looked up.
Auntie was banging at us from the other side of the glass doors, and her downturned mouth had that famous bitter-lemon look.
“Abbas,” Auntie screeched behind the glass.
“Come quick! It’s Hassan. And the Toilet Seat.”
“Shit,” Aziza said.
Two days later Aziza was on a plane to Delhi and relations between Uncle Sami’s family and ours were cut. Papa got a bill for work on the house that Uncle Sami claimed to have done. There was great drama, tears—blows, even—and screaming matches in the streets of Southall between Papa and Mummy’s relatives. But the uproar finally woke Papa from his deep sleep. He threw off the blanket and for the first time really looked around that Southall house, at what had become of us, and a few days later three secondhand Mercedes stood in front of the house—one red, one white, one black. Just like fishmonger Anwar’s phones.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to go.”
Mukhtar celebrated our exit from England by promptly throwing up creamy prawns and pasta all over the ferry bound for Calais. But then the trip began in earnest: our Mercedes caravan ran through Belgium and Holland, into Germany, then, in rapid succession, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, before winding mountain roads led us back into France.
Harrods Food Hall had profoundly affected Papa. Now acutely aware of his limitations, he decided to expand his knowledge of the world, and in his book that simply meant systematically eating his way across Europe, tasting any local dish that was new and possibly tasty. So, we ate mussels and beer in Belgium bars; roast goose with red cabbage in a dark German
stube
. There was a sweaty dinner of venison in Austria; polenta in the Dolomites; white wine and
Felchen,
a bony lake fish, in Switzerland.
After the bitterness of Southall the early weeks of that trip through Europe were like the first taste of a crème brûlée. In particular I recall our whirlwind trip through Tuscany, in the golden light of late August, when our cars rolled into Cortona and to a mustard-colored
pensione
built into the side of the brushy mountain.
Shortly after we arrived in the medieval hillside town we discovered, much by chance, the locals were in the midst of their annual porcini mushroom festival. As the sun set over the valley and Lake Trasimeno, Papa had us in line at the gates of Cortona’s terraced park, the promenade under the cypress trees festively decorated with fairy lights and wooden tables and jam jars of wildflowers.
The fête was in full swing, with a clarinet and snare drum pickety-picketing the tarantella and a couple of aged couples kicking up their heels on a wooden platform. It appeared as if the entire town was out in force, the throngs of children clamoring for cotton
Our departure was as abrupt as our arrival two years earlier.
And I, consciously or unconsciously, was the architect of our hasty exit from Britain.
It was women. Again.
I missed the Napean Sea Road and the restaurant and I missed Mummy. It was in this feverish state of longing, alone sneaking a cigarette in our backyard one evening, that I felt a cool hand on the back of my head.
“What’s up, Hassan?”
It was dark and I could not see her face.
But I could smell the patchouli oil.
Cousin Aziza’s voice was soft and—I don’t know why—but her sweet tone touched me.
I couldn’t help it. Tears rolled down my face.
“I miss my old life.”
I sniffled and rubbed my nose on my shirtsleeve.
Aziza’s fingers softly twisted my hair.
“Poor boy,” she whispered, lips against my ear. “Poor thing.”
And then we were kissing, hot tongues down each other’s throats, groping through the clothes, while all the time I was thinking: Bloody marvelous. Another girl you really feel something for—and this time she is your bloody cousin.
“Aaaaiieee.”
We looked up.
Auntie was banging at us from the other side of the glass doors, and her downturned mouth had that famous bitter-lemon look.
“Abbas,” Auntie screeched behind the glass.
“Come quick! It’s Hassan. And the Toilet Seat.”
“Shit,” Aziza said.
Two days later Aziza was on a plane to Delhi and relations between Uncle Sami’s family and ours were cut. Papa got a bill for work on the house that Uncle Sami claimed to have done. There was great drama, tears—blows, even—and screaming matches in the streets of Southall between Papa and Mummy’s relatives. But the uproar finally woke Papa from his deep sleep. He threw off the blanket and for the first time really looked around that Southall house, at what had become of us, and a few days later three secondhand Mercedes stood in front of the house—one red, one white, one black. Just like fishmonger Anwar’s phones.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to go.”
Mukhtar celebrated our exit from England by promptly throwing up creamy prawns and pasta all over the ferry bound for Calais. But then the trip began in earnest: our Mercedes caravan ran through Belgium and Holland, into Germany, then, in rapid succession, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, before winding mountain roads led us back into France.
Harrods Food Hall had profoundly affected Papa. Now acutely aware of his limitations, he decided to expand his knowledge of the world, and in his book that simply meant systematically eating his way across Europe, tasting any local dish that was new and possibly tasty. So, we ate mussels and beer in Belgium bars; roast goose with red cabbage in a dark German
stube
. There was a sweaty dinner of venison in Austria; polenta in the Dolomites; white wine and
Felchen,
a bony lake fish, in Switzerland.
After the bitterness of Southall the early weeks of that trip through Europe were like the first taste of a crème brûlée. In particular I recall our whirlwind trip through Tuscany, in the golden light of late August, when our cars rolled into Cortona and to a mustard-colored
pensione
built into the side of the brushy mountain.
Shortly after we arrived in the medieval hillside town we discovered, much by chance, the locals were in the midst of their annual porcini mushroom festival. As the sun set over the valley and Lake Trasimeno, Papa had us in line at the gates of Cortona’s terraced park, the promenade under the cypress trees festively decorated with fairy lights and wooden tables and jam jars of wildflowers.
The fête was in full swing, with a clarinet and snare drum pickety-picketing the tarantella and a couple of aged couples kicking up their heels on a wooden platform. It appeared as if the entire town was out in force, the throngs of children clamoring for cotton
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