Dawn broke over the islands.
Jean-Marc awoke in a shock, another storm and the lightning outside had struck at a critical moment in his rather sexual dream. Shame. The dream was gone. Time to get up.
Another day in the Grenadines, living with the sun.
It had become a ritual at dawn: going down the hill to the beach to buy some fish from the local fishermen before the best of the night’s catch departed on the 7am ferry for the market in nearby St. Vincent.
But somehow today was different.
Getting out of bed, Jean-Marc felt drowsy. The night had been a long one, he had cooked for some rich Canadian tourists on the other side of the island, and the evening had been splendid. Like any instinctive cook, he had known that the fresh lobster (or crawfish/langouste to use the proper name, unlike lobster, they have no claws) needed little done to it to make an impression on his clients. He had started with mini lobster pizzas, followed by half a lobster for each guest boiled first in sea water then cut in half, simply grilled on the plancha and served with a garlic, lime and olive oil dressing. Chapatis made with the local wholemeal flour and a thick sauce made from local “pease” (a kind of West Indian pulse like Indian split beans) had accompanied the lobster and his now-famous nutmeg, cinnamon and rum ice-cream had completed the menu.
No frills, nothing fancy really and everyone had gone home happy. Sometimes the giving and making others happy for a short moment is a greater reward than the money.
But it had been a late night, the quick stop at the rum shop on the way home had been a mistake and the smoke with long gone Mackey too.
So, this morning, the fish could wait. No plans to cook today, nothing in the diary, “we can take it easy” he thought.
| Putting on the coffee, Jean-Marc went out onto the terrace to see the storm disappearing to the east and the early sun rising over the Grenadines, the islands stretched out to the horizon and this view reminded him, as always, how much he belonged to this place. He looked down to the beach, it was still in a poor state from the damage incurred by the last hurricane that had come through: some trees had their roots dangling in the air, others had fallen onto the sand where the surge from the storm had drawn all the sand out to sea and a 2 metre drop had replaced the gentle slope toward the surf. Nature will build the beach back, it just needs time. |
 From above Jean-Marc's place - photo Rory Higham |
Thinking about the other implications of the recent storms, Jean-Marc thought of some of the positive effects: the electricity system on the island had been completely destroyed and rebuilt bringing with it much of the comfort of modern civilisation.
He recalled the days when there was electricity just for two hours every day and there were refrigerators which worked with gas bottles. Now there was a constant electric current, telephone, hi-speed internet and even cable TV.
Indeed this little paradise was becoming less and less isolated from the outside world which is probably a good thing ... but it remains the West Indies nevertheless. The electricity company brings power, internet and TV to your home ... but along a wire which is supported by a brand new telegraph pole put up right in the middle of the track, so you can’t drive up to your house anymore because of this big post in the way.....but it doesn’t matter, .....this is the West Indies.
Jean-Marc put on the TV as he waited for the coffee machine to finish. The usual early morning TV shows picked from the US satellite TV offer and piped, most probably illegally, down the line to his house. Cartoons, depressing morning news, and then a cooking show.
H
e looked at the TV chef on the screen, it was a familiar face. He starts to wake up,“....and for our final recipe today I am going to show you how to make my famous chicken rolls stuffed with mushrooms...” *
There was something about the presenter, the flattened chef’s hat, the bush of curly hair sticking out from underneath, the glasses hanging on a rasta strand around his neck, “I’m looking in a mirror” thought Jean-Marc.
“....you can use any old mushrooms for this simple recipe, best are the cheap chinese black mushrooms which you can buy in any oriental supermarket, make sure to soak them in warm water first...”
But No!, the only mushrooms which work for this recipe are the Trompettes de la Mort from south-west France which come only every 5 years or, if need be, the similar “gombos trompetas” from the covered market across the Duna from the Gellert Hotel in Budapest.
“....and to hold the stuffed chicken rolls together, use a slice of ham...any ham will do...”
“Any ham will do???”, but No!, it only works with thinly sliced ham from the Gascony black pigs or the similar ham from pigs raised on acorns in Southern Spain near the Portuguese border.
“....of course all these ingredients are included in our ready-to-zap pack, look for Captain Marco’s Stuffed Chicken Rolls in the frozen section of your local supermarket....”
Jean-Marc is wide awake now, not only is one of his own recipes being beamed out to the world in a sterilised adaptation which must result in a faded shadow of the original dish, but worse, the TV chef seems to have usurped a look, environment and approach to cooking which seems to be a direct copy of Jean-Marc’s own.
He looked closer at the TV screen, can it be someone who had attended his cookery courses at his country inn in South West France, can it be someone who has pillaged his website for recipes, where did they meet?
The TV programme concludes “Don’t forget you can purchase many of my delicious original recipes in my range of frozen produce easily prepared in the microwave, look in your local supermarket for Captain Marco’s Gourmet Delights....”
Jean-Marc recalled how he had been called “Captain Marco” himself nearly 30 years before when he had been one of the first to promote the use of oriental spices in his dishes prepared once a week at a friends Parisian restaurant. At that time the French thought that “spicy food” was limited to couscous and harissa, there were only two Indian restaurants in Paris, many vietnamese restaurants but, on the whole, they were preparing a pale and diluted version of anything authentic, and only one or two shops where one could find cardamom, fresh ginger, lemon grass, haldi, coriander, and the range of chilli peppers, dried and fresh, hot and mild, which had become the trademark of Jean-Marc's cuisine.
More than stealing a recipe, which could be kind of flattering, this TV chef seemed to be stealing a whole identity, an approach, a demi-lifetime ....
Jean-Marc looked away from the TV set and out at the rising sun which now was beaming down on the island. The vegetation outside, still damp from the passing storm, gave out that beautiful smell of the tropics.
Somehow he had known that today was not going to be a normal day.
*The real recipe for the chicken rolls can be found here
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