Wrong again, Karen

WRONG AGAIN, KAREN

by

Albert Woods

Not that it's particularly relevant, but I suppose I'm what you'd call a fat girl. To be honest, it doesn't really worry me all that much; though it does have its definite disadvantages, like having to search high and low for clothes that fit; and the main one, I'll grant you, being male-less for the most part. So having a man appreciate me - on the extremely rare occasions when it happens - is, to say the least, something of a milestone in my otherwise near-celibate existence. Karen often says that I don't stand a chance so long as I refuse to diet - but she can be wrong. It happened recently. You see...

I'd seen Karen doing some daft things in my time, but this one had to take the biscuit - or, more appropriately, the poppadum.

"Let me cook you one of your traditional Indian dishes," she suggested to Ead, who was, as it happened, not from India at all, but Bahrain.

I nudged her leg under the table but she had nothing to hide. "Well?" she turned on me. "Why not? You'd like that," she smiled back across at her new boyfriend. "Wouldn't you Ead?"

"Yiss," he said, as he tended to do whenever spoken to. His use of the English tongue was, as yet anyway, somewhat limited as, apparently, was his comprehension of it.

"That's settled then," said Karen. "We'll make it Saturday night and you can bring Kasim along too. That OK with you Beth?"

I shrugged my shoulders in resignation and Karen changed the subject.

She had known that I wouldn't argue in the burger-bar. "All right," she grinned at me once we were alone on the bus. "If you've got something to say, then say it."

I should point out that I have never been one for confrontation; preferring to fall in line with others rather than argue. But this had annoyed me considerably. For a start, Ead's friend, Kasim, was hardly my idea of a mysterious romantic Sheikh. Well, he wasn't a Sheikh anyway, but he was supposed to be related to one, or some similar personage. Karen had promised me that he was good looking. She'd lied, just to get me along. Then there was the communication problem. Heaven only knows how she'd managed to fix up that date. Sign language I imagined.

Fair enough, there had been no harm done, and under normal circumstances, I could have left it there; put it down to experience. But I couldn't, thanks to Karen. She'd committed me to a further evening of 'Do.. you.. like.. England?', 'Is.. it.. always.. sunny.. in.. your.. country?', - and 'Yiss' and 'Yiss plizz', the two stock responses.

I could have killed her. "I wouldn't mind," I said, "but quite apart from inviting them round, you've offered to cook Indian food. You can't even boil an egg."

The times I'd been caught like this before - yet I let her do it to me again. "Oh yeah, Beth," she wrinkled her cute nose. "I thought you wouldn't mind helping me. You know how good you are."

My Achilles' heel: she could hit below the belt when she wanted to. For, though I say it myself, I do have a certain talent where the culinary arts are concerned, and if there's anything that is guaranteed to scratch the surface of my hardened heart, it's being told as much. "But I've not done Indian," I said, already with one foot in the trap of implied acquiescence. "And besides, they're not from India."

"It's all the same to them," said Karen, her cheeky blue eyes sparkling, as ever, with self-confidence. "Just whip-up something hot. They'll love it."

So it was agreed and, as I had expected from the start, the entire catering job fell to yours truly.

I've got a few good cookery-books and some do deal with the more common dishes like Tandoori and Tikka. But I disagreed with Karen when she told me that these people have no taste-buds and are unable to distinguish between Rogan josh and battery-acid. In fact, I'm certain that the truth is precisely the opposite. Those Asian folk with whom I have eaten, seem to be endowed with an extremely well trained palate; able to detect the difference between dishes made with the subtlest variations in the ratios of spices used, and to comment on the nuances with the same certainty as you or I might when comparing roast lamb to a lump of cheese. In any case, unlike my so-called best friend and flat-mate - or mobile-home-mate (as our modest dwelling actually is) - I was not prepared to insult our guests with some packet curry mixture. I went to the library.

These days, it's hard to find a book dealing with real food. You've got 'Dishes tor the High Fibre Lover', 'Eating on a Shoestring', (the mind boggles!), 'A Frugal Banquet' and countless similar health or economy orientated publications. Very few authors, it seems, are brave enough to put their names to the sort of books that I would like. 'A Thousand and One Ways to Cook Suet' is more my style. And 'Fatty Pork Isn't All That Bad For You' would soon be in my collection, if somebody brought it out. Still, with high vitamins and prolonged starvation as the criteria for our librarian's choice, I was hardly surprised to not find what I was looking for and was about to call it a day when I noticed a particularly parched looking volume, bound - or what there was left of the binding - in dirty brown leather encased with plastic film. It was probably just as well that it lived on the 'Reference Only' shelf, for I'm sure it would never have survived a trip out, or exposure to daylight.

It was entitled:- 'The World On A Plate'. Hmm. Interesting, I thought, and a brief scan of the index confirmed my hunch that this was exactly what I was looking for. A veritable compendium of international cuisine - though dated, admittedly.

Hungrily - and I mean both in the knowledge and mouth-watering contexts - I carefully turned the sepia pages, keen to find some Arab speciality for our friends, and equally anxious to avoid tearing the fragile vellum. Impatient as I was, after what must have been a full half-hour of wading through boring vegetarian bibles, I couldn't resist pausing, from time to time, as description of dish after exotic dish caught my eye. 'Pindang Serani' was one of the Indonesian offerings: mackerel with chilli, garlic and turmeric. I could have eaten that there and then. Meanwhile, in Belgium, we were being tempted with Asperges j la Flamande; delicate asparagus with egg and white sauce. Delicious!

I must admit that throughout all of my limited gastronomic forays, I had never had cause to even consider Russian food a contender for my blue ribband, but this book made me wonder. Zrazy a la Nelson wasn't very Russian sounding though it did sound good. Fillet steak - and nothing but fillet - in an onion, mushroom and tomato sauce, all nestling happily on a bed of croutons. Oh dear, I go all weak just thinking about it. There was so much more, too. Globe Artichokes a l'Espagnole, Swedish Baked Eel, Fried Lobster from China and an Australian Oyster Pie. I could go on, but I think it's unfair to you.

Anyway, my geography being what it is - and in the absence of any entry under the heading 'Bahrain' - I plumped for a dish from the country that I imagined to be fairly near to it - and where the book had, originally, fallen open: Indonesia. India, as I discovered some time later, is a mere hop from Bahrain compared with this place, but my mind was made up.

Ead and Kasim were punctual on the appointed evening. Karen allowed me to answer the door when the bell rang. (Most unusual for her not to break her neck to get there.) I might have guessed; she waited a full five minutes before sweeping in, all efficiently, from the kitchen, wiping her hands and apologising for the delay - explaining that she was in the middle of preparing the meal.

"I beg your pardon?" I choked.

"Fix some drinks love," she brushed my protest to one side. "We're having an Indonesian dish, Ead."

Ead smiled an innocent smile. "Yiss," he said.

"It's called 'Samballs, or something," she advised.

"Sambel goreng ati," I corrected her. "Liver, tomatoes, paprika, coconut and..."

"Quite!" snapped Karen. "Now, what about those drinks?"

"...chilli."

"Are you dear?" she looked at me inanely. "Put the calor-gas fire on if you like."

We took our drinks in the lounge. Even at a second viewing, I can't say that I found anything more endearing about Kasim; less, I would say, once he started to belch. And that was before he'd even sniffed the meal. I shuddered to think what he'd be like once he'd eaten it.

All the while, Karen chattered at the pair of them, claiming that she had spent the entire morning scouring Indian spice shops, and how she’d insisted on fresh ingredients. Once or twice, I attempted to cut across her and shame her into admitting that it was I who had sacrificed the past two days in pursuit of this repast, but I gave up - as I usually do in favour of peace. Although she seemed oblivious to the fact, it seemed to me that her audience had not got the foggiest idea what she was talking about, and for all they knew, they might well have been saying 'Yiss' to suggestions that they were ugly, stupid or both. 'Yiss,' they kept repeating. 'Yiss plizz.'

I'd wondered how Karen would get round the fact that there were still finishing touches to put on the dish before it was served. As usual, she had the answer - and the gall to come out with it. "I've left everything ready," she said to me. "All it needs is a stir and putting on the plates. It won’t hurt you to do that much, will it?"

"No," I said pointedly. "It won’t hurt me at all."

I was not sure which was the hotter; the scalding steam from the cooker, or the steam that was coming out of my ears. Whichever, there was only one way to cool it. I grabbed a half-bottle of chilled Muscadet from the fridge and literally poured it down my throat. The effect was almost instant, and certainly magical. Within minutes I felt charged with a new confidence and decidedly giggly. So giggly, in fact, that I found myself offering no objection at all when what I took to be Kasim's greasy hand began running up the length of my back. Oh well, I thought, he's not that bad if you shut your eyes - which is what I did as I turned around to face him.

I opened them just in time to see that it was Ead whose not unattractive mouth was just centimetres from my own, lips pursed, and tongue lurking.

"Yiss?" he asked.

"Yiss plizz," I said.

Now, this was much more like it. I could easily picture Ead appearing on the horizon, materialising through the heat-haze on his camel, and I could have sworn that I heard the strains of the Lawrence of Arabia theme in the background when he kissed me.

Then, something unexpected happened - as though what he had just done was not surprise enough. Trembling, I stood there, helpless in his arms; weak at the knees, as they say. Ead brought up his finger-tips to gently embrace my temples and looked deep into my wide glazed eyes. What does he want, I wondered, my heart pounding with anticipation. What would he say to me if he could? Would they be words of love; low breathless sighs of passion?

I got my answer.

"I can't resist fat birds," he said. "Why don't we split?"

He had such a sincere look about him that I had to snort. The saucy devil was no more Arab than you or me; well, not through the last generation, or two, anyway.

"What about Kasim?" I asked, stifling a loud hoot in case Karen should hear. "I s'pose he speaks English too?"

"No," he said. "He's only just come over. He's my cousin."

I started to edge away from his embrace. "We shouldn't be doing this," I pointed out.

"Why not?" he sneered. "You obviously like it; though if you can't stand the heat..."

"I don't know that I can," I said. Anyway, what's with the play-acting? Making out you can't speak English."

"It's good for pulling the skirt," he smiled. "And does wonders when you get lumbered with a big talker like your mate. They run out of things to say eventually. Also saves a fortune on drinks. There's not many who have the nerve to go through your wallet when you look blank at them."

I straightened myself up and fiddled with the plates. "Some other time, perhaps," I said. "We've got this lot to eat tonight."

Ead looked disappointed; about as disappointed as I felt, though he wouldn't have known. "Look," he said, "I don't really fancy this stuff. It was good of her to go to the trouble and all that, but I'm a steak and chips man myself. Why don't I eat a bit of it, make out I'm feeling ill and nip off? You could meet me in the pub later."

"Seems a bit mean," I said. "She is my best friend, after all."

"Oh sod her," he advised me. "She can take care of herself."

"We'll see," I said, ushering him out of the kitchen.

"At last," Karen crowed sarcastically when I entered with the serving-bowls. "Took you long enough. What were you two doing out there anyway?"

"Sorry," I said. "Ead wanted me to make him some special sauce; isn't that right Ead?"

"Yiss," he frowned, totally unable to acknowledge that he understood me or deny it.

"Tuck in," Karen ordered the guests.

Kasim appeared to know what that meant all right. He heaped a mountain of yellow rice - or Nasi kunning, as I had announced it - onto his plate and spooned it into his mouth until his cheeks took on the shape of water-wings. The meat dish, he left in the serving bowl and merely dipped-in for the occasional spoonful that went straight into his gaping chasm on top of the part-chewed rice.

"I'm glad you like it," Karen approved. "Makes it so much more worthwhile when it's appreciated, doesn't it Beth?"

"It certainly does," I said, biting the insides of my mouth against laughing or screaming. I was not sure which emotion had the upper hand.

"Go on," Karen encouraged Ead, who had done little more than move the garnish from one side of his plate to the other. "It's really quite delicious."

I watched Ead and Ead watched me, sneaking the odd suggestive wink from his drowsy long-lashed eyelids whenever Karen's concentration focused on her plate. I knew then that I disliked him.

"Oh silly me," I said, pulling my napkin from my collar. "I've forgotten Ead’s sauce."

"I knew it," stamped Karen. "I really can't trust you to do anything properly, can I. Of course, I'd have mentioned it myself, but I didn't want to embarrass you."

"Well I'm sorry," I repeated, then excused myself to get the stuff.

The power failure put the kibosh on my plans to watch television, so I settled myself on the sofa in candle-light, listening to the transistor-radio. Ead had left, as he'd said he would, and Karen had since locked herself in her room, crimson with shame; unable to protest her innocence that it was not her cooking that had caused the man to run screaming from the lounge and suck on the kitchen tap for the next ten minutes. He'd looked diabolically ill and Kasim had had to virtually carry him back to their car. It would have been an Oscar-winning performance - had he been shamming.

I don't know why I feel so protective towards my friend. Maybe it's because she's not as clever as I am?

"I'll not let you cook again," she scolded me when she emerged. "It's all your fault."

Knowing how her mind works, I suspect that creating over the incident was no more than a smoke-screen to disguise her joy that one of my dishes should go wrong.

"Sorry," I said, "but I thought it was quite good. And so did you and Kasim, at the time."

"Ead didn't," she whined. "Well not that sauce you gave him, whatever it was. He won't want to see me again now. You realise that, don't you."

"Perhaps he found you too hot to handle," I suggested.

Karen paused and thought about it. "Maybe you're right," she concluded, tidying her hair and squinting at herself admiringly in the mirror. "Anyway," she said, "I found him a bit of a bore. Didn't say much, did he."

"No," I agreed, upturning the gravy-boat into the sink. And you were wrong again weren't you Karen? I thought, watching the sludge reacting with the water as it went down the drain. He did have a discerning palate after all: I could still see bits of it on his plate.

We never did hear of the two Arabs again; probably because we moved on to Great Yarmouth the next day. And like the big soft-touch that I am, it fell to muggins, here, to crawl under the van and refill the batteries before we left.

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Copyright Albert Woods (2012)