Category: Food & Drink

Finger Lickin’ Good

Liam’s kid brother called by for a couple of days. These days he’s a very important businessman and had been attending a conference in Izmir. For some inexplicable, obscure family reason his name is Troy. The only other Troy I know used to be a stripper whose real name is Nigel and is hung like a Trojan horse. Our Troy inherited the entrepreneurial gene in the Brennan Clan and is doing very nicely whereas Liam will remain a penniless creative genius, to be applauded only after his demise. My brother-in-law wears his success in an unassuming, non-showy way. He shares our solid liberal values. I think of him as the acceptable face of capitalism, particularly when he insists on picking up the tab for his poor relations.

The Brennan brothers enjoyed a two-day fraternal love-in of liver failing proportions with me in tow. Naughty boy Troy has a desert dry wit, a mischievous streak and an unhealthy obsession with Kentucky fried chicken. Bodrum has already succumbed to the American cultural imperialism of Mcdonald’s, Burger King and Starbucks. The locals are lovin’ it. I must confess I’m partial to a Big Mac myself from time to time. It’s good for lining the stomach before hitting the sauce. I assume it’s only a matter of time before Colonel Sanders invades our shores with his secret blend of eleven herbs and spices.

We competed to see who could drink who under the table blending grape with the grain diluted with Rakı chasers. I can proudly declare that this diminutive English proddy romped home. So much for the legendary Irish reputation for hard drinking. My emerald lads conceded defeat with typical Celtic good humour. ‘I ain’t care,’ Troy slurred as we poured him into his cab for the airport carrying his liver in a jiffy bag.

Troy is a quality pro bro.

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That’s all Folks!

Liam’s was making strawberry jam and, just as the kettle was coming to the boil, the electricity pylon blew up again. This time some poor little bird flew into it. The luckless creature exploded into bits like an old Hannah-Barbara cartoon leaving a flurry of feathers to float gently to the ground. Five minutes later, power was restored and Liam returned to his preserves.

Jam-making is the true vocation of all hardened emigreys.

Don’t Dilly Dolly on the Way

Move along the bus. Plenty of room on the roof

Charlotte and Alan invited us over for dinner in Yalıkavak. Charlotte used us as guinea pigs for her latest culinary acquisition, a lavishly produced padded vegetarian cookbook. The meal was splendid. As usual, we journeyed by dolly and, as usual, it was chock-a-block. It was a lively excursion. We were entertained by an animated row between the driver and an unseen female passenger at the rear of the bus arguing about the distance covered by an indi-bindi (short hop fare). Her loud and persistent protests were met by a robust stern-ward defence by the driver who feverishly waved about his official fare chart. Since he was paying little attention to the road ahead, he was oblivious to the small scooter carrying four individuals slotted together like Lego that weaved ominously in and out of the traffic around us. A disaster was averted by an evasive wrench of the steering wheel prompting a sudden lurch of the bus. All in a day’s work by a dolly driver.

Pot and Kettle

Chrissy phoned and invited us to meet Mandy, a long-time friend visiting from Blighty. Chrissy does not take no for an answer and with heavy hearts we reluctantly agreed. We met at a village inn for an aperitif. The restaurant is run by Giray the Kurd who has a much deserved reputation as a local Casanova and the regular ride for visiting VOMITs.

Bernard tackled me about our London landlady Karen who had just returned to Blighty. He didn’t think much of her and thought her rude. Pot and kettle sprang immediately to mind. I moved the conversation on to where to eat. Given Chrissy’s long history of food fussiness I asked her to decide. She chose to stay put and we took our table. Right on cue, they were exceptionally rude to the waiters, all tut-tutting and clicking of fingers. As expected, Chrissy hated the food. To be fair our chicken kiev, though delicious, did resemble a deep fried turd. However, this doesn’t excuse their hideous small town Raj demeanour

I went to take a leak as much to take a short break from their irritating fastidiousness as to empty my bladder. As I got back Chrissy was tackling Liam about Karen. She didn’t think much of her and thought her rude. I went up like a rocket. Chrissy spluttered into her chicken. A sharp and nasty exchange ensued with Liam targeting Bernard while I rounded on Chrissy. Liam eventually stormed off and sought sanctuary on the beach. I demanded the bill, paid and left. I hope that’s the last we see of the Vipers in Paradise, an epitaph coined by Karen, ironically.

We Have Ways of Making You Talk

News travels fast. Following our dice with death Chrissy rang out of pretended concern, a conversation which turned into an inquisition. She demanded to know why we hadn’t mentioned our invite to Clement’s bungalow. Chrissy just hates to be kept out of the loop and clearly expects us to check every social engagement with her first. Liam felt interrogated and told her so. His legendary patience with ladies of a certain neurotic disposition has finally begun to fray.

Setting the spat aside, we celebrated Karen’s final evening (and her powers of survival) by dining out in Gümüslük Bay, a tumbledown beauty famous for its fish restaurants. The catch of the day is displayed like a triumphant trophy in cold cabinets. It’s a pity this shimmering little pearl is tainted by overzealous restaurant press gangers. Despite the hassle we managed to celebrate Karen’s last day with aplomb and a record amount of overpriced mediocre wine.

Party Poopers

In honour of Karen’s visit we decided to throw a bit of a do, our very first. We were a tad anxious. We didn’t want to transgress the unwritten social rules that must be obeyed. We sought the advice of catering Guru Chrissy on the food situation. She assured us that nibbles and a cold platter would be acceptable for a cocktail party. Guests will know to eat beforehand.

Our début soiree was well graced. Liam and Karen prepared a delightful spread of cold meats, cheeses, mezes, breads and objects on sticks. Karen mingled amiably with la crème dispensing easy urbane charm. We had our first delicious taste of Charlotte’s mother, Lucia, a seasoned older lady with a twinkle in the eye and a racy past. The more Lucia imbibed, the more her carefully cultivated middle class Donegal brogue degenerated into Bogside. Towards the end of the evening, we showed a DVD of our civil partnership ceremony – a calculated risk but one that went down a storm. Eyes welled, even those of macho Chuck.

Bernard got incredibly pissed very quickly and fell into the car at the end of the evening. He wasn’t fit to drive but managed to arrive home without running down any street dogs or wrapping his flash BCSD car around the trunk of an olive tree. Drink driving by emigreys is depressingly commonplace. Chrissy telephoned the next day and explained why Bernard had got so drunk – he didn’t eat because there wasn’t any hot food. ‘If it had been my party,’ she loftily pronounced, ‘I would have served a lasagne.‘ What a bloody cheek.

Mrs Madrigal’s Visit

Karen is Mrs Madrigal

Flush from her Thelma and Louise road trip of Dixieland, jet setter Karen parachuted in for a few days of rest and relaxation. Our London landlady and I became acquainted at work and our attachment is one of the few that has endured in civvy street. Chrissy was were obstinately keen to meet her and dropped by for coffee. The encounter didn’t go too well, nor had I expected it to. Chrissy will never rub along with any female friend of ours for she is determined to be top fag hag.

Mrs Madrigal lookilikee Karen is a superb cook and threw together a culinary tour de force. Liam tried to wrest her from the stove. “Bugger off and get me another drink” she insisted. Our livers took a royal pasting as we chatted into the small hours. The next day we all had wine flu and the kitchen resembled Sarejevo during the Bosnia War.

Vile Coffee and Nobody Famous

When Liam and I got hitched we asked for Thomas Cook vouchers as wedding gifts. We had already made the fateful (or was it fatal?) decision to migrate to Asia Minor and didn’t need a brown Kenwood toaster with a cornflower motif. Nor did we want his and his John Lewis bath robes. Since then we’ve slowly used up most of the vouchers for our Blighty flights but the process was becoming a bit of a drag. Vouchers can only be exchanged in Thomas Cook travel shops and these are as rare as ethnic minorities on Midsomer Murders. We decided on a final spree and used what we had left on business class tickets to London via Istanbul with Turkish Airlines.

We could hardly contain our anticipation when we arrived at the domestic terminal at Bodrum Airport. We breezed past the hoi polloi like minor celebs to the business class check-in and onwards to the business class lounge – vile coffee, limitless booze, dry croissants, nobody famous. The flight to Istanbul was pleasant enough with a welcome glass of bubbly and a hot breakfast from a fixed-smile waitress wearing too much tarty slap. Istanbul’s Atatürk Airport was a frenetic potpourri of the exotic and the mundane. The bazaar medley included a mysterious sect of elderly men in Persil-white towelling togas. We fled the bedlam to the utter indulgence and serenity of the business class lounge – vile coffee, limitless booze, dry croissants, nobody famous.

We boarded our Heathrow-bound plane expecting to turn left into unashamed comfy luxury and regal pampering. Our excited smiles crumbled as we were directed right towards our hard standard size seats. There was no more extra leg room than ordinary emergency exit seats and the food was only distinguishable from economy fare by the china crockery. The much vaunted entertainment selection consisted of an obscure disaster movie about a runaway train and an hour of adverts from the flickering mini screen that descended from the bottom of the overhead lockers. I’ve been better diverted on charter. Booze was provided only on request. Worse still, just a thin curtain divided us from the plebs back in coach. The experience left us disenchanted with a wasted wedding gift and lamenting our decision to reject the brown Kenwood toaster with cornflower motif. What an expensive flop.

Nine days later we returned to Heathrow with heavy hearts. We breezed past the hoi polloi like minor celebs to the business class check-in and onwards to the business class lounge – delicious coffee, limitless booze, butter-moist croissants, nobody famous. We boarded our Istanbul-bound plane expecting to turn right into our barely above economy cabin. Our resigned expressions were transformed into crazy grins as we were directed left into unashamed comfy luxury and regal pampering. We sank into our soft capacious seats with sixteen button-operated positions and in-chair massage. The individual screens provided entertainment of boundless possibilities. Spoilt for choice, Liam couldn’t decide so flattened his seat and took a cat-nap instead. The three course supper was haute cuisine and our camp thin-wristed attendant silently filled my glass without prompting as he swished down the aisle. Just the ticket.

Back in Istanbul, we headed to the business class lounge – vile coffee, no croissants, no booze, nobody famous. We boarded a dedicated business class mini-bus to our return flight to Bodrum – glass of bubbly, cold supper, proper crockery. All our flights provided stainless steel mini cutlery. I assume terrorists can’t afford business class.

The Pink Pound

We caught up on all the dire economic news in the UK though the credit crunch seemed to be completely passing Soho by as I tottered through. I have long been used to being fleeced by brewers and inn-keepers who target the pink economy. The tradition has continued with the £4 pint of cooking lager. Despite the extortion, I spotted lots of conspicuous consumption and people doing what they have always done – shop, sup and cruise. The queens fiddle while Rome burns.

Rum, Bum and the Navy

God Bless Her and All Who Sail in Her

We were invited by the Honorary British Consul to cocktails with the captain aboard HMS Cumberland while it was in port in Bodrum. I sponged down my sailor boy outfit and rehearsed the steps to the Village People’s ‘In the Navy’ while Liam spent all weekend running up a skimpy black thong on his Singer. He intended to amuse the plucky tars by his lip synching rendition of Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’, legs astride a gun barrel. He reckoned they deserved a little light entertainment after an arduous tour of duty chasing savvy Somalian corsairs across the Indian Ocean. We hoped to see the cut of the Captain’s jib and a reccy around his engine room to survey the magnificent greased pistons. Liam had a mouthful of pins to hem the lacy loincloth when we received word that the rum punch was off. No frigging in the rigging on the frigate for us. I assume our brave boys are steaming at full speed towards Libya to help evacuate foreign nationals in the event that mad Gaddafi decides carry out his deadly threat to torch the place and murder his own citizens. What a party pooper.

Watch ‘In the Navy‘ by the Village People.