Met a lovely new friend Rory this week. He knows what happens under the bonnets of motorcars, so a thoroughly useful chap. I was introduced to Rory by Geoffrey, a British monarchy supporter but otherwise a decent sort.
Geoffrey not only solved my dilemma of how and when to have my fine 14yr-old vehicle serviced, but offered to take me home after I dropped off the old Ford – and bought me coffee and a muffin on the way home! We drank the delicious brew (brewed by a local KZN boykie) sitting outside and solving a few of the world’s problems. Which I told him would only really be solved when the last king was strangled by the entrails of the last priest*. I hope he took notes.
I asked Rory to give the Ford a test drive as somethin’ was ridin’ rough. He said it was something called Miss Universal Joints and that he replaced two of them like a good orthopedic surgeon. Shows how little I know: I didn’t even know the ole Ford had entered the Miss Universe competition.
Aitch had lots of stuff. She had two huge clear glass vases containing coffee beans and golden spirally sticks with bronze woven balls stuck into them, sticking up about a metre tall in all. I dunno. It’s a mystery. Inferior decorating, I guess.
I hadn’t looked at them for ages, and when I saw Tom up a ladder in the study I vaguely thought ‘what the . . ‘ but I knew I’d find out sooner or later.
Sooner. He had the beans between two layers of the tablecloth and was hammering them with a silver ladle, a wooden rolling pin and a cast-iron pot.
Rather crude? I questioned him.
Jamie Oliver does it like this, Dad. Watch, it’ll be the best coffee you’ve ever had!
I’m looking forward to tasting it, fella (grabbing the camera to record another instalment of living with a short chef).
Postscript: Dad, it’s not so good, he says a few days later. The beans are stale.
True, fella, they’ve been out in the open air for about five years, and you really need fresh beans, sealed airtight. We’ll get some and you can do your Jamie thing with them, OK?