Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [56]
‘Where’s home?’ she asked.
‘Devon. I’m a country boy at heart.’ Like it was something to be proud of, she thought scornfully.
But then she found herself saying, ‘I’m from the countryside too.’
And in response to his questions she told him a bit about Knockavoy. At least, about its scenery. The huge waves of the Atlantic, the way they were sometimes so high they came in people’s windows. The air that was so potent that ‘My friend Tara says you could eat it with a knife and fork.’ Poor Tara, Katherine thought. She’s right, she is obsessed with eating. ‘I sound like an ad for Ireland.’ She smiled.
‘It must have been hard to leave.’
‘No. I couldn’t get away fast enough,’ she admitted. ‘I like the anonymity of London.’
‘It’s an urban wasteland,’ Joe teased, ‘where people don’t care enough about each other.’
‘Maybe. But it has great shoe-shops,’ she quipped.
He laughed, and looked at her with open admiration. He really was good-looking, she thought. This annoyed her.
Their main courses arrived. Joe’s was an awesome vertical affair. ‘How do they do it?’ he asked in admiration, deconstructing it with his eyes. ‘I see. A layer of bruschetta, a layer of chicken, a layer of basil, a layer of sundried tomatoes and a layer of mozzarella. Repeat as necessary. Blimey, don’t try this at home, viewers!’
‘Can you cook?’ She didn’t know why she’d asked. What did she care?
‘Oh, yes.’ He twinkled. ‘I make a great Thai green curry. Would you like to hear how?’
Winding her tagliatelle, she nodded, her spirits starting a slow slide. Now he was going to try and impress her with his New Man ability to cook. Oh, the tedium.
‘Well, first off you go shopping for the ingredients – any Marks and Spencer’s will do. Go to the chilled section – this is important, Katherine,’ he wagged an admonishing finger, ‘because lots of people make the mistake of going to the frozen section – and pick up a ready-made Thai green curry. Then when you get home take the cardboard off and prick the plastic cover with a fork, four times. No more.’ He paused, then continued meaningfully, ‘And no less. Then – and this is my well-kept secret – though it says on the back to microwave it for four minutes, just do it for three and a half.’ He nodded sagely at Katherine. ‘Then take the plastic cover off and put it in for another thirty seconds. You get a lovely, what we experts like to call, caramelized effect.’
He finished with a grin, and she actually laughed, entertained and relieved.
‘Well, it goes a bit hard,’ he admitted, ‘which is nearly the same as caramelizing. Then serve with rice, which can be delivered by any Indian takeaway. Now, you tell me one of your recipes.’
‘OK,’ she said, slowly getting into it. ‘Let me have a think. Right, this is a good one. Ideally you need a phone book, although of course leaflets dropped through your letterbox will do at a stretch. Pick up the phone, dial a number, ask for a twelve-inch, thin-crust marinara with extra tomatoes, then – and this is the vital bit – tell them your address. And there you have it – a delicious meal served in under half an hour! Delivery boy’s moped permitting, of course.’
‘That’s useful to know,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘I might try that some night when I have my husband’s boss to dinner.’
‘Do you ever cook?’ She sensed a kindred spirit.
‘No.’ His brown eyes were sincere. ‘Never. Do you?’
‘Do you hate people who make a big fuss about cooking?’
‘I don’t exactly hate them. I just don’t understand them.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘If God meant us to bake cakes why did he invent Pâtisserie Valerie?’
‘Quite.’
They eyed each other in companionable silence.
‘We could co-author a cookery