The place was empty. A waiter showed me to a table and passed me a sheaf of menu pages. I thanked him, nodded appreciatively at the listed contents then ordered a meal that would plunder more than half of my entire life savings. But Gahd sir it was worth every coin. A three-course meal, plus a half carafe of casa rosa. The Starter I had was this: the Chef Special with Prawns and Mussels and Choice Fruits à la Mer and it came in a fishblood gravy — how else to describe it — with wee splashes of syrup at the side of the plate and a skinny trail of green peppery stuff. And thick bread to wipe it up; a sweet bread with a cake-like crust that one hesitates to describe as crust at all and yet as tasty a bread as ever succumbed to my advances.
I was not alone after all. Gadzooks. This reached the higher slopes of sentimentality. Two fine-looking elderly ladies were to the side of the room, having a laugh together, both tucking into whatever it was, marzipan jelly and devilled ice cream with marshmallow sauce, chocolate nuts and very thin, mint biscuits, onchontay madames. These ladies were French, a la chic chic
Meanwhile strong men crumbled, their bellies succumbing to the heaving seas. Why oh why did we have the last six pints of stout, they screamed to an uncaring hurricane! Or was it eight pints? Oh for fuck sake, Quick quick quick, was the shout, and which way doth the wild wind blow? Always spew portside. Such I had learned from a venerable sage of the sea.
Between courses I endured a moment’s anxiety. Okay now my life had been short. Who could argue with that? Me! I would have argued. It had been forever! But I had already ordered the grub so no way back. Sink or swim.
For the main dish I ordered another Chef Special. And never antagonize a Chef. We all know that. Chefs are unpredictable creatures in diverse ways when off-duty but not in the fucking kitchen.
But no Chef worth his salt ever disliked a trencher-man. Any Chef worth his weight in biscuits was above and beyond the call of La cuenta por favor. For any creature such that that creature was a Chef, what occurred on the plate was the sole and overriding issue.
The strict course of action was to finish the plate and wipe it clean, to cry for bread and sook up the gravy. That gave one a head start. Sympathy would be mine. Whereas to order such a meal and dilly-dally with it! A veritable slap on the face. No Chef worthy of the name could endure the insult.
It was true. I knew it for a fact. I had experience of Chefs, having worked in a restaurant on three occasions, howsomever in a cleansing capacity, having failed to traverse the higher rungs of the cookery ladder.
For the Main Course, oh boy: Halibut Steak in Basic Garlic Sauce, with Chargrilled Tomatoes and Okra. Chargrilled tomatoes! A girl of a loquacious bent once advised me that along the Chargrilled vegetable route lay a cancerous labyrinth, that once entered could only advance. What did I care. Plus a mélange of thick red onions, red cobweb cabbage and chunky red peppers. Placed alongside this a pewter bowl with a further trio of vegetables: dark-green broccoli, blue-white cauliflower and slender green items that may have been beansprouts, peapods, or a luxury vegetable item rarely seen on workaday dinner plates and whose name seldom registers in the brain of such as oneself, to wit, me. Little wonder the two elderly ladies laughed so loudly. I waved across.
A waiter lingered by the ladies’ table for a moment’s conversation, poured tea from the pot. I noticed that the fellow’s crisp white teacloth dragged from his elbow across the dessert plates. It must have been the roll of the sea for these waiters were top-notch servers, given they operated as gigolos on the side and were wont to exhibit a smug exhaustion. Of course I envied them. Of course I did. I was a personable young fellow. The position of gigolo was not beyond me.
Ah but a most delicious and succulent repast. The waiter now served me Choice Cuts of Cheese and Rare Stuffed Olives. One’s compliments to the Chef. A brandy to follow would have been injudicious. On second thoughts
No. No second thoughts. Not even the cheese and Stuffed Olives. I moved to a leather seat by a porthole. The shutter had been drawn. I tried to push it up but it was set fast. It would have been too narrow to clamber through. I knew how to clamber through narrow apertures but this would have been impossible, certainly in consideration of the recent repast.
And alack alack alack oh, the waiter was presenting a la cuenta. He was of a kindly demeanour. I smiled and accepted the slip of paper. I folded it twice over without looking, slipping it into my pocket. I toyed with it for many minutes, unable to confront what could only be a disaster. Life had never been easy. Today was no different. I glanced sideways and roundabout.
And the porthole cover remained stationary. By a glazed display cabinet the waiter was reading a folded newspaper. By the upper-deck exit stood his uniformed colleague. I was on guard misooh!
Ach well.
Time certainly passed. Where had the elderly women gone?
I was in a state of extreme dolority, always a time for sore reflection. But what transpired during this time for sore reflection is anyone’s guess. Did I faint? I was resting with my head against the side of the wall, on the other side of which raged a hostile sea. Maybe I dozed. I sighed and my breast heaved and my heart was heavy, and oh, all manner of self-castigatory musings were mine. My fuck. I couldnt afford the damn meal what in God’s teeth was I to do may the decks open up and the seven seas swallow me oh Lord, for such would have been my fervent prayer had I been inclined towards such a course. Oh Maid de la Mer rescue me.
But no such rescue occurred. Reality had never been more stark. At last the light tap on the shoulder. I sighed and braced myself. It was more of a bad dream than a nightmare.
Both waiters were before me: We are approaching the harbour sir. The doors of this restaurant are closing, they are closed.
I have no money.
You cannot settle the bill sir?
I cannot, no.
They sighed.
I apologize, truthfully. I do not have the money. I over-extended myself. Is there a Catering Manager?
You have no credit card sir?
No.
It must go badly for you.
Is there nothing can be done? Your food was just so good and enticing I mean it was just so so good.
The waiters shook their head. It was apparent that what was happening had not been unforeseen. They had spotted me from the outset. They knew me for a risk. Och well. All to the good. Such was my conclusion.
I shrugged but my brains were going nineteen to the dozen as my grannie used to say. Where was my grannie now, now that I needed that venerable worthy? She would have gathered me unto her vast skirts and hidden me asunder.
The harbour police greet our arrival, said one waiter.
You will be handed over to them, said the other.
May I go to the upper deck until then?
Alas no, it is not permitted.
I nodded. Nothing was to be done. Once more I was afoul of the Fates. I closed my eyes and imagined stepping over bodies to the upper deck and outside, letting the wind blow the sweaty staleness from my clothes, the rain like buckshot, one’s head bowed, the scalp spattered.
I again prayed. In an earlier time I prayed regularly to ward off evil and to bring material gain. How come I gave it up? Goodness me.
The storm abated. The small islands would have emerged from the heavy mist and torrential rain.
Soon the ship docked, the passengers disembarked; the two elderly ladies, the dishevelled and recovering stout drinkers, the lithe-legged female tourists.