THE INCOMPETENT COOK

Ivor Thomas
Illustrations by Tom Watson

For William

To make you proud

NARRATORS NOTE

In my early twenties I was an itinerant by profession. I travelled in search of an obscure and elusive grail and in the process had some bizarre adventures involving odd-ball characters, off-beat locations and some crazy situations. As fate would have it, the most memorable of these adventures involved food in one form or another; like in Australia where a kidnapper I encountered was saved from jail on account of his lamb shanks with a ragout of mushrooms; or in Israel where knowing how to make a single dish got me a job as cook on board a cargo vessel. Thus, through my travels, I accumulated a humble portfolio of recipes that, in spite of my inadequacy in the kitchen, I can make with surprising success. Whenever I prepare one of these dishes the flavours and aromas transport me back to the events of the moment and each time my memory finds a little extra piquancy to add to the concoction.

The Incompetent Cook includes this modest collection of recipes, but the real story resides in the quirky and
picaresque adventures that lie behind them. (Insert illustration 11. Intro - Bobotie)

Idris Granger

CONTENTS

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

Edmund Parsleys Payback Mr One Thousand The Kenzo Palace Hotel Busting the Sanctions Geronimo The Disappearance of Mr George The Brazilian Affair The Pig-Shoot The Fugitive Recovery Agent

10. Lucille 11. Whither Now Brother?

THE KENZO PALACE HOTEL

(September 1968)

I wanted to go to South Africa, but I didnt want to fly. I wanted to see some of the continent. Everyone at the kibbutz told me, Go to Eilat. The boats that sail from there all stop somewhere in Africa. Id also heard there was casual work on the mines at Timna, King Solomons old mines, near Eilat on the Gulf of Aqaba. If I cant get a boat, I thought, Ill maybe get a job. So I headed south through the Negev, got a ride from Beer-Sheva with a surly truck driver who was the hairiest guy I had ever seen. He wore a dirty singlet that exposed a forest of hair on his back and his chest. At the top of his Adams apple there was a horizontal demarcation line where the black forest became black stubble. I wondered if he had a woman. Shed have bled to death kissing him. The whole way he didnt speak a word except once when he tapped me on the shoulder and pointed over the Jordan River. Zhordan, he said and spat out the window. King Zhordan, he said and spat again. Then he made a lecherous pout and said, Queen Zhordan, ha, ha, and stuck his tongue out and made like he was licking pussy. Ha, ha, ha. A filthy laugh. But he stopped as abruptly as hed started and stared blankly straight ahead again, his expression numbed by the desert landscape. We arrived in Eilat at dusk and, in that part of the world, dusk is a special time of day. An ethereal belt of glowing red light straps itself around the horizon and gradually dissipates through yellows and blues into that deep, blue-black dome. In 1968, Eilat was still a small town, little more than a village, nothing like the size of Aqaba which was clearly visible across the gulf. Eilat was bleak. There were a few kids kicking a football around on a deserted lot and a few stragglers making their way to the cinema, the only entertainment in town apart from a string of bars. I strolled through the streets, drawn by gravity towards the beach. There was nothing happening there either. It was a large beach, a long way from the waters edge to the concrete of the town roadways and car parks. It was totally deserted and featureless except for the ravaged hull of a large fishing boat that lay on its side like the rotting skeleton of a dinosaur. I turned to look back at the town, a soulless, bland and faceless place, a blot on an otherwise majestic canvas. But strategically located, Israels only access to the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean. From the beach in Eilat I could see four countries: Israel, Jordan, Egypt and Saudi Arabia. They all looked the same. I stood there on the beach to take it all in. For many eyes the desert is too barren and hard to be called beautiful. Yet it is always spectacular. And looking down the Gulf of Aqaba toward the Red Sea at sunset was a spectacle for sure, but also intimidating, the power of nature lying dead still in that minimalist, uncompromising terrain. At the tip of the Gulf of Aqaba there is never much wind and the surface of the water was like a mirror reflecting an exact image of the land, a symmetry that you only ever see in a photographers portfolio. Every few minutes the surface was broken by a vast shoal of tiny fish making a pointless leap, disturbing the silence with ten thousand coordinated splashes. This was a twilight dance the little fish put on every evening. It was magical and I was the only person there to watch it. Nowadays people probably pay to see it. A couple of hundred metres off to the south end of the beach, towards Eilats small h arbour, I saw a firelight where a few people had congregated. I headed towards it. As I came closer I saw that, sure enough, it was a little campsite. There were three guys sitting there in silence. I wished Id had a six-pack to make myself welcome. It was a neat little shelter they had there against a two-metre-high wall where the beach met an unofficial car park. Theyd built a small fence out of sack cloth on two sides coming out from the wall with the third side open to

the sea. Within that enclosure there was one large tent and one small tent and a jumble of boxes and bags, a bicycle and a surfboard (wrong beach dude). A couple of plastic cartons had been upended to make seats. A good fire was burning and, suspended over it, a large black cast-iron pot which gave off an aroma that immediately got my juices going. Hi, I said. Without taking any real interest they all replied together, Hi, then carried on gazing into the fire. The big pot was being tended by a middle-aged Japanese guy who was squatting on his haunches. He gave me a distant smile and proceeded to stir the pot. Next to him on the ground was one of those kitsch spice-racks containing small bottles of powdered herbs and spices. He took one out and looked it over, removed the top, gave it a sniff. With a shrug he tossed a good measure into the pot then did the same with another couple of bottles. (Insert illustration 2. Kenzo Palace Hotel) Still nobody said anything and I was beginning to feel like this was a spooky movie when the Japanese suddenly said in a soft voice with a full American accent, Just in time for dinner. I dont want to barge in. I just saw the fire going so I thought Id come over and say hello. Pull up a chair. He gestured to a plastic carton. The other guys looked as though Id broken up a sance. Maybe I was going to mean less stew for them. Thanks, I said. Smells good. The Japanese guy gave me another distant smile. Then one of the others, a Canadian, said When dya get here? Just arrived, I said. By the way, my names Idris. Hey man, Im Steve, said the Canadian, a beach-bum type with thin lank brown hair parted down the middle and hanging over his ears. He wore beads around his neck and his wrists and had the kind of fluffy moustache youd expect on a fifteen year-old trying to look twenty. This heres Hank. Hank raised his right hand, but didnt seem to have the energy to hold it up. It fell back onto his leg with a slap. Hank and Steve were into the Hippie scene. Hanks hairstyle was a small scale Jimi Hendrix with impressive, bushy sideburns which I envied because I couldnt grow them like Steves, my beard was too puny. Girls used to tell me I had soft lips as if they liked that, but it didnt sound masculine to me. I wanted some bristle. And the cook is Ken, said Steve. Ken was quietly cutting up a potato and tossing small chunks into the pot. He nodded at me and smiled. There was a big cardboard box next to the spice rack that contained a whole grocery of weather-beaten vegetables: carrots, parsnips, potatoes, onions and others I couldnt make out in the half-light. Beside him on the sand was a tin plate piled high with meat scraps. I couldnt reconcile the aromas regaling my olfactories with the inferior ingredients going into the pot. So you guys live here? Sort of, said Steve. This here is the Kenzo Palace Hotel. He waved towards the Japanese guy. Kenzo smiled. Hank reclined against the wall, eyelids half-closed, mouth half-open. He sat on the sand against the wall and never surfaced except to eat Kens broth. While Ken carried on stirring the pot Steve told me his story. Kenzo was an American Japanese from Hawaii who had worked for US intelligence during the war. He wasnt happy about that, it put him off wanting to remain in the US, so when the opportunity came up he left the country and went on a bicycle trip around the world. His bike broke down in Eilat so he set up residence here while he waited for a new part to arrive from Los Angeles. That was eighteen months ago. Youve been here eighteen months? Ken smiled that distant smile and nodded.

You work here? Ken smiled and nodded. Ken and me, we both work down at the Excelsior, said Steve. The Excelsior? An Excelsior in Eilat didnt sound right. Its down the other end of the beach, said Steve. Its the beginning of the end for Eilat. Hows that? Its a high-rise hotel, said Steve. In ten years therell be a whole bunch of em along the beach and this place will be full of fat cats tanning their asses. Steve was right. Today Eilat is a big, ugly resort and Aqaba, which has not grown in the same way even though the king has a home there, has retained its charm. So where you from, man? My passport says UK, I said. And what do you say? I went to school in the UK, but I never really lived there. Oh yeah? Whered you live? Different places. North Africa, Singapore, Australia. My parents moved around a lot. Ken suddenly stood up. He didnt have far to travel. He hardly came up to my chest, but h e compensated for his lack of height with an incredibly muscular physique. His legs were burnished like polished mahogany and contoured like a hundred-year-old vine. Get ready for the mortars, he said. What? See over there, he pointed across the water to Aqaba. The lights have gone out. I looked across the gulf and, sure enough, the entire town of Aqaba was blacked out and no sooner had he said so than we heard the whistle of the first mortar, then the explosion. Shit, I said. I thought the war was over. Happens every week or so, said Steve who hadnt even looked up. Hank wouldve been more agitated by a mosquito. Just some rogue soldiers whove smoked some hash and want a bit of fun. There was some screaming from the town centre and momentary sounds of a rabble. Ken lit a couple of paraffin lamps and set them on the ground. I thought he was giving the Arabs something to aim at. Sounds like theyve hit the cinema, said Steve. They go for the cinema and the army barracks, but they never do any damage. If they did the Israelis would wipe Aqaba off the map. There was another whistle and another explosion. Then a third and a fourth. Thatll be it for tonight, said Steve. Its usually three or four and then the funs over. Not quite the sa me as fireworks, hey? Steve was right. The bombs stopped and ten minutes later the lights of Aqaba came on again. Weird, I said. Some charade. A chorus of sirens echoed briefly from the town centre and then the eerie desert silence settled over the landscape and the only sound was the crackling of the camp-fire at the Kenzo Palace Hotel. So what did you come here for? asked Steve. Im going to Africa. Youre not Jewish. It was a statement. I dont believe Kenzo is either, I said. Kenzos different. Hes Kenzo. Steve paused. You gotta destination?

Johannesburg. Oh yeah. Whats in Johannesburg? A woman if you must know. You dont say. She South African? She is. Huh. Easy lays the South African chicks. As if youd know, said Hank. Steve ignored him. So how dya figure on getting to Africa from here? By boat. Uh-huh. And wheres the boat? In the harbour with any luck. All the boats that sail from here go to Africa. Are you serious man, Steve shook his head. Even Hank shook his head. You couldnt get into that harbour with a platoon of Green Berets behind you. Go to the Med Bar, said Ken. The sailors all go there to get drunk. Yeah, said Steve. Theyll tell you to swim. You wouldnt be the first guy to do it, said Kenzo. In eighteen months hed seen a thousand bums like Steve and Hank and me come and go. Kenzo didnt say much, but when he did it counted. And he was positive. Steve was a cynic. I was beginning to like Kenzo. Zen Ken, cook, landlord, warrior, cyclist. You want some food? He handed me an enamelled camping bowl and a plastic spoon Im famished, I said. With a tin mug he ladled out the broth. Here, take some bread. I sat down on the sand and started in on a memorable meal. It wasnt just that the broth was rich and full of flavour; it was restaurant quality. Served in a china tureen and garnished with chives it could have been on the menu at The Ritz for twenty dollars. Hey Kenzo, I said, This is sensational. How do you do it? Luck. Best restaurant in Eilat, said Steve. Even Hank had come to life and was slurping the broth back like a horse at a trough. Steve didnt like his style. Shut up man. Fuck you, said Hank. He was strictly monosyllabic. After the meal he got up and walked down the beach to take a piss, then he came back, smoked a joint, crawled into the big tent and went to sleep. I want to know seriously, I said to Kenzo, How do you do it? Ill tell you what he does, said Steve. He walks past the back of the shops on his way home and picks up all the scraps: the butchers give him carcasses and off-cuts, the fruit and veg stalls give him what they dont sell. And the grocer gives him packets thatve been broken and tins thatve been dented. Ive watched him. Ive walke d back with him. Then he picks all the meat offa the fat and the alchemy begins. You gotta have wine too, said Ken. Yeah, said Steve who liked to save Kenzo the trouble of opening his mouth. Theres always a bottle of that cheap Carmel wine shit he throws in. We ate pretty much in silence, Kenzo in serene contentment, Steve in internal turmoil; a Jewish boy who had come to Israel to find a spiritual solution, only to discover that he didnt fit in and that the homeland was as alien to him as the lonely and hostile streets of Toronto. He wasnt alone. Id met guys like Steve on the kibbutzim, in the

hostels, on the road. Things hadnt worked out back home so they figured that, being Jewish, simply being in the state of Israel would fix things for them. After wed finished eating, cleaned up the debris, thrown the fat to the gulls and washed the plates in the sea, Steve and Kenzo went to their tents. The small one was Kens, the big one for whoever else happened to be around. It was large enough for six. In the morning I walked down the beach to The Excelsior with Kenzo and Steve. The five-star hotel was still just a skeleton, but it wasnt hard to see that it was going to be an ugly structure. They told me I could get work on the site if I wanted it, but I said Id wait until I checked out the harbour and the Med Bar. I spent the day walking around town and then I walked the kilometre along the single road leading down to the harbour and beyond to the Sinai Peninsula. The harbour was basic, a squared-off area with a high metal fence around it and a single entry from the road. A couple of guards stood casually at a boom gate, rifles over their shoulders, smoking and chatting. Within the fence the harbour was chock-full of cargo ready for loading, all crated up. There were two ships alongside, both small freighters. The guards looked approachable. I was tempted to walk up and ask if I could speak to the sailors on the two ships, but I knew what the answer would be so, before I started appearing suspicious, I turned and headed back. Before sunset I went for a swim with the dancing fish then had a shave and a wash at the municipal tap in the parking area behind the campsite. Right beside the tap there was a public lavatory which looked like the Tardis in

Dr Who. It had no magical properties. It was a classic of its kind: two raised footmarks on the floor and a hole
between. The first time I had a bog in there I made the mistake of flushing while still standing on the footmarks and ended up ankle deep in sewage. As I scrambled to escape I could hear Steve laughing. It was the only time I heard him laugh. I put on a fresh t-shirt and headed back into town and the Med Bar. Without a crowd, it was sad and desolate. Aside from a jukebox, there was no concession to comfort or atmosphere: laminex tables, aluminium chairs, peeling paint and a dusty concrete floor. Behind the bar a fat, chain-smoking, middle-aged Arab with toxic bodyodour leant over a newspaper. He hadnt shaved for days and, like the truck driver, had one of those beards that produced a five-oclock shadow by mid-day. Why, I wondered, was this the sailors choice. But the beer was cold and it was cheap. A few locals came in, a few guys from the construction sites along the beach, a couple of loud-mouthed American girls who had been working on a kibbutz. Just as it was getting dark, like Kenzo had said, in walked three Yugoslav beefcakes who were unmistakably sailors. They were already half-pissed and boisterous, but they laughed and were friendly. One of them went up to the bar and spoke to the barman in English. He wanted a bottle of vodka. Another ambled over to the American girls and propositioned them with inebriated gallantry, but they were sorority types and a drunken Yugoslav sailor was not their idea of a squire. I went over to the sailors and asked if I could buy them a beer to chase the vodka. They roared with laughter. Beer to chase vodka. Is excellent. Shalom my friend, you give me beer, I give you vodka. I could feel tomorrow mornings hangover already, but if it was the price of getting a passage to Africa I was ready for the damage. A few beers, a few dirty jokes and half a bottle of vodka later I reckoned I could come to the point. You guys must be sailors, I said. Yes, sailors, said the one who spoke the most English. He said his name was Rad.

We have ship in harbour. Two days already. When do you leave? We leave day from tomorrow. Early in morning. Dont need extra crew by any chance? Extra . . .? Do you need more sailors? More sailors? Ha! You want come on ship? Yah, I want to come with you on ship. Where you want go? Africa. You want go Africa? Ha! He turned to his pals and spoke to them in their language. They all laughed. And when they laughed they didnt chuckle, they roared. Everyone in the bar turned to look at us. Is excellent, he said. You come with us. Very good. We take you. We have good time in Africa. My friends want that you come on ship for Africa. Is new face on ship. Is good. We need new face. The trouble is, I said, how do I get on the ship? Hmm, ya, said Rad. Could be problem. Could be very good problem. He turned to his pals again and they had a sotto voce exchange which, for drunken Yugoslav sailors, is an accomplishment. They seemed to come to an agreement. We have idea, said Rad. Tomorrow night, we come get you in boat. You go to beach tomorrow night when is dark and we come get you in boat. Go to beach where is broken boat and we find you. Ya? I go to beach tomorrow night and you will come and get me in a boat. Ya, exact, said Rad. Make ten oclock because captain he go bed nine oclock. Okay? Okay, I said. Fantastic. Amazing. We laughed some more and drank some more and I couldnt believe my luck. I had been in Eilat t wenty four hours and Id already hitched a ride to Africa. Was there a catch? Were these guys kosher? Were they really going to come and pick me up off the beach in the middle of the night and whisk me back to their ship in a cloak and dagger operation? Man, I was so excited my skin was itchy. I lurched back to the camp. The fire was smouldering and Kenzos stock pot was still warm. I took an enamel mug and scooped up some of the new brew. This one had a touch of chilli, but just as good; didnt seem to matter what spices Ken used, made no difference to the quality. After a gutful of beer and vodka, it was just what I needed. Next day I was jumpy as a bean. I took another walk down to the harbour to see if I could identify Rads ship. Sure enough, one was flying the Yugoslavian flag. I could see the on-board cranes loading cargo and I could see men on the deck. I tried to make out Rad and his friends, but they were anonymous Lilliputians from where I was standing. I walked back to the camp. I went for a swim. I chewed my nails. I still found it hard to believe I was going to be swept up off the beach in the dead of night and spirited away to a ship bound for Africa. It was too much like the Arabian Nights. It was like a criminal activity; an innocent crime. I was part thrilled and part scared. Unlike my brother who liked to live dangerously, I was not the swashbuckling type. Discretion before valour was my motto. Steve was the first to arrive back. I had to tell him what was happening even though I knew he would mock. You believe those guys? he said. Man you really need a reality-check. What planet did you say you were from?

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A little while later Zen-Ken arrived carrying his bags full of the days scavenging. Idris is going to Africa tonight, said Steve. Kenzo didnt blink. He let it sink in, then said, You want some dinner before you go. God bless you Kenzo. Let me help, I said. I needed something to do. So I sat there in silence with Ken, stripping bits of meat off the fat and bones hed brought home. There were chicken feet, chicken carcasses, lamb chop bones and a mass of off-cuts, a jumble of vegetables and bruised fruit. It was all destined for Kenzos stock -pot along with a few more incognito flavours from the kitsch spice-rack. You cook? asked Ken. Scrambled eggs is about my limit. Ken smiled. Its easy. You just gotta keep it simple. Miraculously the broth was just as good as ever. It was like an accident it was even edible, but the accidents happened night after night. After wed eaten, I got my stuff together and washed up. Ken looked at me the same way he looked at me when I arrived. He was an enigma and he had his own solitary orbit. I think the only meaningful relationship he ever had was with his twelve-speed trans-world mountain bike. Kenzo, I said, I am never going to forget your stock-pot. Its a phenomenon. Ken laughed quietly. You take care. We shook hands warmly. Im comin with you , said Steve. I gotta see this escape to Africa. We walked down the beach the two hundred metres to the spot where the dinosaur hull lay eerily. I checked my watch: nine-thirty. I sat there with Steve in silence feeling his derision. He rolled a joint. Here man, he said, Have a suck on this. Itll take the pain away. As the clock slowly ground out the minutes to ten oclock I began to feel more and more like a gullible twit. What was I doing taking the word of three drunken Yugoslav sailors. This was a country half at war for Gods sake. We had bombs dropped on us two nights ago. I still couldnt get over how everyone had treated the mortars like theyd been a few bad apples tossed over the fence. So, said Steve. This South African friend of yours, she Jewish then? As a matter of fact, yes she is. Whats her name? Lucille. She pretty? Shes tall and fair and blue-eyed. Dont sound Jewish. It was true. She looked more Scandinavian, a statuesque creature with shapely limbs and an athletic physique. She moved like an athlete too, fluid and coordinated in a manly way with a lazy swagger like Robert Mitchum playing a cowboy. Thinking of her amplified the tension. She was the cause of me doing this. Steve smoked his joint. We sat in silence for a minute then he said: I dont like Jewish girls. Theyre too fuckin tight, man. What about you? I asked. You got a girlfriend? Hell, no. I thought Id like the Israeli girls, but theyre either butch or tight. You going to stay on here? I dunno. Maybe a month.

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And then? I guess Ill go back to Toronto, pump gas or some shit like that. We fell silent again. I sat that there squatting with my arms around my legs and my chin resting against my knees, thinking what a meal Steve was going to make of a no-show. It would make him feel better about himself. Ten oclock passed. Ten-fifteen passed. Steve kept looking at his watch and then at me with mock sympathy. And then we heard it the slow metamorphosis from the buzz of a fly in the room to the unmistakable reverberation of an outboard engine. At first, I didnt believe it could be, but as the little dinghy materialised out of the darkness it was heading straight for the beach. And then I saw a man waving. And then I saw that it was Rad waving. I leapt to my feet a waved back wildly. I swung my bag around my head. Even Steve real ised it was real. Fuck me, youre not going to have to swim after all. Hey Eedrees, Rad jumped out as the dinghy ploughed into the beach. You got your shit? Im ready, I said climbing on board. Who your friend? Thats Steve. He came to wave good-bye. Okay, we go. He barked in his language to the guy at the motor, gave the dinghy a shove and jumped back in. In seconds we were moving again. Steve stood on the beach with his jaw hanging in disbelief. Go for it man, he said. Wow man, like good luck. I waved to Steve as the dinghy pointed back out to sea. In a blink I was in another world, speeding through darkness, skimming across water, flying through wind. We didnt speak, the engine was too noisy. When we had covered the distance to the harbour, but were still a couple of hundred metres from the ship, the driver killed the motor and the two of them pulled out oars and paddled silently the rest of the way in. The harbour itself was fully illuminated, but on the sea-side of the ship everything was dark. It wasnt a large vessel, but when the little dinghy was alongside, it looked huge. A gangplank was lowered to water level and two ropes were suspended from the deck above to hoist the dinghy back up. The driver detached the small outboard motor and carried it up the gangplank. Rad motioned for me to follow. He hooked the dinghy up to the ropes and then scrambled up himself. Inside the ship everything was compact. Even the dining area was cramped. Rad was furtive and hurried. Come, he said. I followed him through some narrow corridors until he opened the door of a cabin and ushered me in. Okay, you sleep here. We go bed now ya? I wake you when sun is out and we see captain. Captain can say fuck off ya? He can say, Rad, you asshole, what you do with this kid?. But we hope ya? Ha ha. Thanks a lot, Rad. Its no big deal if the captain says no. Its been fun anyway. Ya, fun anyway. You sleep now, okay. I wake you early. I heard a couple more doors bang and then there was silence, just the gentle murmur of the ships engine deep down below. I slept fitfully, never able to relax enough to slumber. My heart had been racing since Rad appeared out of the night and even deep-breathing couldnt bring my pulse down. Too much excitement never was good for me, even as a boy. I used to get heart-flutters when I was frightened or tense. Just as the first glow of dawn illuminated the cabin Rad knocked and opened my door. I was wide awake and fully dressed. I speak to captain. He not smiling, but you see him now. So we walked back along the narrow corridors and onto the bridge area which was also cramped. Off to one side the captain had a private office. It could have been a ship brokers office in London. All the furniture was a varnished marine timber and every available piece of wall space had a framed photograph of unremarkable

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merchant vessels. The captain was not how I imagined the captain of a Yugoslav merchant ship to be and completely different to his sailors; a pale, bald man who looked more like the local bank manager in his week-end clothes, a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved, blue-checked shirt. I was expecting starched whites with a peaked sailors hat. He spoke English without a tarce of an accent. You and Radovan had an . . . escapade last night, He didnt look angry; in fact he had a soft smile. This is highly irregular and Radovan knows this. I apologise, I said, but it was an opportunity I just couldnt pass up. I understand. I did a similar thing myself when I first went to sea. So yes, I understand. With wars and piracy and hijacking and all these problems of the modern world it is becoming more difficult to be a roving adventurer. He paused and stared at the ceiling, swivelling his chair slowly back and forth, lost in his own thoughts. Nowadays, even the proliferation of sexually transmitted diseases places restrictions on a young mans, shall we say, enterprise. Rad looked at me and raised an eyebrow. The captain noticed a book sticking out from a pocket in my bag. You like reading Mr . . . er? Idris, I said. Idris Granger. He stood up and extended his hand: Captain Selic. Yes, I said, I like having a book with me. Good for train trips and waiting rooms. And what are you reading today, Mr Granger? I pulled the book out and showed him. Ah. Catch-22. Something . . . how do the Americans say, out of left field? Ive only just started it. But yeah, its pretty crazy. Myself, I am reading the German writer, Herman Hesse. He was attracted to Buddhism and oriental thinking, did you know that? Ive read Siddartha, I said. Hesse is popular right now. Yes, he is popular with your generation because your generation is looking for a new enlightenment. That is why these new psychedelic drugs are popular. Some people believe they provide enlightenment. It is safer to read Hesse, I think, but perhaps not so much fun. Youre right, I said. Gods not working for our generation and we are looking for alternatives . Eastern mysticism and drugs get the headlines, but there are a lot of cult religions out there now too. Theyre all voodoo as far as Im concerned. You are not a man of faith, Mr Granger? Im not looking for a doctrine to follow, Captain Selic. Im looking for a purpose. He laughed. You are a philosopher, my friend. Regrettably this ship is not in great need of philosophers. What was this guy doing as a sea captain? He should have been teaching literature at some obscure university. He swivelled his chair back and forth and rolled his pencil around in his fingers. I could see his internal barometer trying to gauge the conditions. I thought hed drifted off on another reflective excursion when he suddenly stood up and said: I am sorry, Mr Granger. I have instructions not to take anybody on board the ship from Israel, no passengers, no crew, no hitch-hikers . . . nobody. My heart dropped, my shoulders dropped, but I tried to hide my disappointment. I shrugged. Well, I cant say I wasnt expecting it. I would like to say yes because I have been in your position myself, but these days, Im afraid, the risks are too great, especially in this part of the world.

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Rad then spoke up and muttered something to his Captain and the captain responded likewise. He turned to me again. How old are you? Twenty-one, I said, lying a little. Rad has been sailing with me a long time. He says you are a good chap. Good company. He says you can be trusted because you drink like a sailor. Rad winked at me. This is sailors logic, the captain went on. You can be t rusted because you drink like a sailor. I am not a drinker myself. Never agreed with me. Saved me a lot of trouble, Im sure. Not to say money. But sailors need their alcohol. The captain paused again. It was a benign silence while he ruminated. He looked me in the eye with a gaze of bemused curiosity. Im a good worker, I said. I will do anything you ask of me? His gaze continued. Then he asked abruptly, Can you cook? Can I cook? The cook broke his arm a week ago and he needs an assistant. This was totally not what I expected to be doing on a ship, but in spite of my incompetence in the kitchen I didnt hesitate. I can make the best stock-pot you ever tasted in your life. Stock-pot, he said. He looked at Rad and Rad laughed a hearty laugh as though Id told them a dirty joke. The captain laughed too. Okay. Ill take the chance. You can come as far as Mombasa. Then he turned to Rad and said in English: Show him the kitchen.

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KENZOS CLASSIC STOCK

This is Kenzos stock made with the benefit of a modern kitchen and some ingredients not available on the bleak streets of Eilat in 1968. Ingredients Bones chicken, duck, turkey, goose, pheasant Veg onions, carrots, parsnips, leek, celery Bacon Soy sauce Pepper Honey Water Wine Herbs and spices there is no limit to the combinations of flavours you can use in a stock, but here are a couple of basic ones: sage, rosemary, bay-leaves, thyme, oregano, marjoram cumin, cardoman, chilli, turmeric, cinnamon, coriander ginger, lemongrass, chilli, garlic, cloves, star-anis

Method Fill a large pot with the water and the wine. Add soy sauce, honey and pepper and all other herbs / spices Throw in all the bones Fry the bacon and then fry the veg in the bacon fat When the veg start to soften add them to the pot (liquid should cover contents) Bring to the boil and simmer for 2-3 hours Allow to cool and then drain liquid through muslin (a nylon stocking will do) Put stock in fridge overnight (the fat will congeal on the surface) Remove the fat You are now left with a delicious clear liquid that can form the basis for a thousand different dishes from soups, to stews to sauces. You can also use it to make a Bullshot in a small glass pour vodka, Kenzos Classic Stock and garnish with a sliver of lemon. Goes really well with cold meats and anti-pasti.

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