Tags
barista, Botticelli, Brassica, Brunetti's, Chinese New Year, Commissario Brunetti, Commissario Montelbano, David Cameron, Donna Leon, Donna Tartt, Hunter wellies, kiddychino, Nicola Sturgeon, Rebekah Brooks, salted caramel eclair, SamCam, Singapore Sling
(image by abc 10)
So basically you have been unfaithful to ‘Costamuchamoulah’ cafe here in
Suttonford? Brassica accused me.
It wasn’t like that, I tried to defend myself. No bog-brush bearded baristas
were involved, I assure you. It’s just that ‘Brunetti’s’ salted caramel eclairs in
Melbourne were so tempting.
That Italian name’s familiar, Brassie interrupted.
You’re thinking of Donna Leon’s Commissario Brunetti, I surmised, knowing
she’d read a couple of the volumes in the series at her ‘Bookworm’ group.
But, you know, I’d prefer to make a tangential mental leap to summon up a
vision of Commissario Montelbano- the young one, I mused. Actually, one
of the waiters who brought me extra marshmallows was kind of like him. He
had the same bandy legs, but Botticelli curls.
Mmm, quite a lot of Italian guys do. Yet, you’ve been swanning round the
globe while the rest of us were generating mould in our ‘Hunter’ wellies from
the condensation build-up of Apocalyptic precipitation levels?
Join Nicola Sturgeon’s clan. But not David Cameron’s.
How so?
She shares your taste in trending wellies. Apparently Cameron wore a cheap
pair when he visited the flooded areas.
Oh, that was for the press, she exclaimed. Do you think SamCam would
let him out in anything cheap if he was (say) visiting Rebekah Brooks for a bit
of a pot supper, after helping her to muck out at her stables?
Okay, I’m sorry. By the by, I would be surprised if SamCam, as you call her,
allowed him out at all, when he is off-duty. She would probably prefer him to
come home smelling of roses.
Why do I always get Donna Leon and Donna Tartt mixed up?
Dunno. Easily done. I took my tablet out of its case.
Look! This was us on our final evening at ‘Raffles’, on the way home.
Put it away, barked Brassie. I’m not interested. Anyway, you said you
went there twice, so I can’t forgive you.
She couldn’t resist a peek.
What were you trying to do? Live up to your gravatar?
No, I was just having a ‘Singapore Sling.’
She drew me an even greater disapproving look.
Not a ‘fling’. You can get virgin ones, you know, I pleaded.
Silence.
No, actually. Look, I’m not trying to be elitist. Nowadays
it is a virtual extension of a creche. Kids everywhere. All these
special venues are commandeered by fathers in baseball caps
and shorts and mothers pushing giant buggies with babes who
only require feeder cups. You dress for dinner and they throw theirs
on the floor- or ground-, if we are referring to the outside courtyard.
Sometimes the infant accessories even manage to project their
regurgitations into your lap.
I do so agree on the distinction you make between ‘floor’ and
‘ground’, Brassie reflected. But, have you always been irritated
by kids, Candia? I mean, didn’t you once teach the little darlings?
Surely teachers like children?
Don’t bank on that, I replied. D’habitude, we only like the well-behaved
ones, of which there are fewer and fewer. I don’t mind them at informal
eateries at lunchtime, but if I am spending a mint on a rare grown-up
treat, I prefer a kiddychino-free zone.
Kiddychino?
Coming to ‘Costamuchamoulah’ by Chinese New Year, I predict.
We both sighed.
