- I was on my first morning walk with Ribena, the gates had just opened and there was a row of dogs walking down towards the entrance of Many Tears.
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Crediton Short Story Competition 2. Free spirits fly out of the fruit when it is cut. Cut them quickly and they bounce into the air as coloured balls of energy. I peel away their tough skins, ease away their stones and pips and lay their naked flesh before me. Evening service preparation is nearly done and I take pleasure in the time left. The silent space. The pale, green softness of avocado, the ripe mango torn from its stone and sweet strawberries.
These and more I respectfully prepare for the palates of the men and women who come to dine in Mr Win’s fish restaurant at The Waterfront. My wife and child are at home. I picture Jihoo’s dark hair against the white cotton pillowcase. One eyebrow, one nostril, the right half of his lips already sunk from this world. All that is left of him is his small half head. My wife sits, her feet bare, at the other end of the bed reading from a book of Korean fairy tales she found in the market.
My mother also told stories, of singing stones and owls who knew too much. Consolation for children and mothers, especially those far from home, it seems. Her cool fingers turn the pages and secretly trace the black and white illustration of a scaled dragon, wings outstretched high in the sky.
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A snow peak of a dark mountain far below. Her voice never falters as she reads, she does not want to share the privacy of this image, the tangle of memories that flood and overflow as a single homesick tear.
For a short while it is all hers. A pleasure of memories she does not share yet with her child. I know her so well that when, at last, I arrive home at three in the morning she will turn her satin slipped body to me and whisper sleepily, .
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And I will shower, comb my black hair smooth, scrape under my nails, slip in beside her and place my hand on her smooth, naked buttock, for comfort, before falling asleep. The Matre’d is beside me waiting for my knife to pause. He is the first Singaporean to have won at Monaco, his blood is high octane fuel and his fortune is millions of dollars multiplied by the golden hairs on his head.
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His girlfriend’s last film was with Sean Connery. They are aspirational, inspirational people. I signal to my sous- chef to take my place, place my knife beside the cut of salmon and bow to its spirit. It acknowledges my departure and continues to float gracefully back and forth through the air. This is an exception, I am strictly back- of- house, I do not parade among the diners at the end of their meal basking in their appreciation. I leave that to Mr Win. He is the owner, he takes the plaudits: I am simply the chef.
I am paid to work here, I do it to the best of my ability, that is all. She turns her head towards me as I enter the dining room. Her cobalt eyes absorb my black and white check bandana and small shoes in a glance. My feet pad across a shimmer of carpet that flows to her and her alone. I must choose one,’ her pale hand silks through the air towards the ceiling high fish tank. The choice is figurative as these fish are only for the pleasure of our customers eyes. It is usually the men who chose the fish.
Since they were boys their fathers have described the taste and texture of everything from the sweet, white flakes of flower crabs to the firm, mouth filling Humphead Wrasse. The season to be eaten, line- netting, free fishing and hand diving. The fruits and vegetables to accompany them. The sauces that enhance the sweetness of flesh or bitterness of skin. They never take them fishing though.
The salt brine of endless waves lapping against a harbour wall, the rotting seaweed, the hungry scream of seagulls, the slime of dead fish, the rise and fall of the tide is a mystery to them. The fish, in the fish tank, are as jewels on the women’s hands. They glitter emerald green, sapphire blue and ruby among the venomous onyx, lionfish. Her sun- kissed companion is fully absorbed in the wine list. He remembers nothing his father taught him, he was interested in cars not fish when he was a boy, but this lack of knowledge, of authority, must not be allowed to show.
What can I do?’His dark eyes lock on mine. They say – the modern woman must be allowed to appear independent but I will be the fall guy if she chooses wrong. In season right now. From the Silver River in Quandong. He looks relieved. She is happy but still her thoughts are with the fish, not with him and between them the soft space expands imperceptibly. He leans back in his chair and the connecting energy pulls thin.
The Silver River Arbutos comes gladly with me. She is as elegant as an air dancer at the Palladium Theatre.
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I place her on a bed of wishu rice embedded with pomegranate seeds, her skin has deepened to a glowing ember that cracks allowing the saffron yellow flakes to hint at their appearance below. Soft papaya and tiger striped star fruit decorate the honey- salt sauce. Through the glass door I see the men in their white shirts loosen their coloured ties. The women in their little, black dresses, flash their wrists like mating signals. Our diners are the living, breathing coral of our world. Gliding, the waitresses move gently between them as to be hardly noticed.
All in black they appear and disappear as needed. The sommelier, with key and corkscrew paces from his wine cellar to the dining room cradling bottles of liquid dreams. His pink waistcoat is in contrast to his serious manner. He fills the crystal glasses of my couple with champagne as their silver spoons scoop the creamy, orange roe from barbed sea urchins. Sliding the heavy, green bottle into the ice cooler he backs away. All night he will match a diner with their perfect wine. He examines their shoes.
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Are they conventional, comfortable, old- money shoes or experimental, ankle- enhancing, stylish? He examines their clothes, their hair and their hands. He has an exquisite sense of smell; the mothballs, the tobacco and shoe polish.
People are so comfortable with their own smell they do not hid it as easily as they think with dabs of perfume or sprays of scent. He knows who arranged roses in a bowl that morning, who kissed their child goodnight before coming here and who washed their hair in rainwater. Standing close to them drawing their personalities deep into his nostrils has taken him a lifetime to perfect. The earthy types have ordered shitake mushrooms, root vegetables and slow river fish and those of the air are craving pigeon breast, lapwing brain and souffl. Those that are hidden are seeking something to be found in oysters or chocolate bombs. I observe my couple are finishing their amuse bouche.
Sweet beetroot, as crisp as a flake of pink sea salt, swept against the fiery heat of creamed horseradish flushes their cheeks and thaws their coolness. I have prepared the densely fleshed tuna for him. Sensually strong and overpowering, combined with hints of peppery arugula and undertones of meat juice. It lingers in his mouth as he swallows and in his mind as he wonders at the combinations of smoke and fire within the world. Each morsel reminds him of the giant tuna crashing through vast seas, the dangers escaped, the years and years of purpose. The tuna’s existence, every part of it is here on this plate.
He pauses and considers his own life. He gazes at his companion who is lost in her own world of white water, thundering over black rocks, of endless networks of rivers and streams and the uplifting of pure springs and crystalline drops of water in sunlight, and they smile. The tuna and Arbutos cavort in the air over the table, between my couple. They are playful and excited, and brush against each other in a way that lingers and exposes them. Their bodies glide together and apart and together again. They twist and tumble and I see her arch her back accentuating every glistening molecule.
He catches himself, steadies himself, becomes one with the moment, allows the air to pass around him. Then as my couple finish their meal, accept that there is no more to be gleaned from their plates and lay their forks aside, the spirits crash together. The ocean Levantine and the river spirit come together as one. Joyously they dissolve, mingled heat, a shiver of delight and they are gone. My couple lean closer now, he slips his hand over hers and the strings of energy are tightening and glowing. His heart is pumping stronger and her skin tingles.
They allow the bitter lemon sorbet to slide down their throats cooling and easing the passion that is rising. Each pip filled strawberry stains the inside of their mouths. It is agony this lingering. My strawberry spirits dance with glee, the naughtiness at keeping this couple waiting. The woman pushes her bowl away and there is a moment of horror among my tiny spirits. To be created for this moment of life giving energy is the epitome of their existence. They will not be ignored.
They fight for her attention, bouncing and kicking in front of her eyes, until reluctantly she picks them up between her fingers and places them between her lips. The pink tip of her tongue flicking with pleasure as she finishes the bowl. They step out into the warm night. He has placed a feather white wrap around her shoulders. I watch them from the opposite pavement as I make my way home.
Neon signs and car lights rainbow the ink- soaked water of the harbour. Pausing at the gilded front door that swirls with curved, blue sea serpents, the paparazzi flare their cameras and my couple draw nearer, acknowledging each other. The woman lifts her arm and waves into the movement of seething darkness below. Another camera flashes and she is lit up like the moon. All anyone can do is gaze in wonder at her glorious beauty. A girl cries out in ecstasy and our small world is suffused in a joy that flings out its happiness like coloured confetti and all there are laughing, touching each others arms, hugging.
An outpouring of emotion spreads; a contagion that in old age is a memory and remembered warmth. I shower and run my fingers through my hair. Switching off the light I am in darkness, standing in our bedroom.
Best of the authentic colonial city of M. A colourful town of fading glory that's. Dilapidated but still grand. M. It was the sisal barons of. Parisian architects to build the opulent.
Paseo de Montejo, a wannabe Champs- Elys. It is not packed with. You never feel you are trudging the well- worn path of. Grand Tour. The white horse- drawn carriages gaudily. Mexican families than. Like Havana, for which the city doubled in the film Before.
Night Falls, the historical centre known simply as Centro. Unesco makeover. It's not always easy to spot.
While the. cobbled streets are mostly swept, and the gardens of the Plaza. Grande are manicured and in flower - its glossy- leaved trees. There are as many derelict buildings as there are restored ones. All. are secured by old iron bars. Peer into a run- down house, with.
The opportunity to buy into this fading glamour has been taken. American artists and bohemian sophisticates. Jeremiah Tower (Alice Waters' partner at Chez. Panisse in California) and sculptor and ceramicist James Brown and. Alexandra. For this reason, M. It. is behind these closed doors that the secret life of the city takes.
The key to this domain lies with John Powell of Urbano. Rentals and his restored houses. Rent one and, if you are lucky.
Having modelled in a previous. New York and been a button maker for Herv.
But the. city itself took hold of him. Days with Powell will unfold in a joyfully authentic ride. Breakfast might be buttery croissants from. Escargot, a chandeliered bakery that could hold its head up on the. Left Bank in Paris, accompanied by segments of oranges and.
Lunch could be the best seafood in town. Marlin Azul, a turquoise- walled joint with red vinyl booths and. At the weekend, he may sweep you off half an hour down the. New York interior.
Laura Kirar as a surprise birthday present for her. Richard Frazier. It is hewn out of the rock next to their. Your contribution could be. Ladies with coiled, oiled hair make tacos by hand in the. Then it's back to the city, for a party at the eye- popping home. Puerto Rican patrons of the arts C.
Pardo's wife. Milena Muzquiz, half of the performance- art band Los Super. Elegantes, may give an impromptu lip- synch rendition of a new. Uma Thurman's twist in Pulp Fiction. You may end up. discussing the merits of avocados with Noma's Ren. Ermita, a pretty hideaway in the.
Oaxacan bowls in one glass cabinet. At centrally located L'Orangerie, the. Their grandest, El P. Advice, for example, about what time is best to visit Parque. Santa Lucia to watch couples dancing to classical salsa (before. Sunday - and make sure to taste the melting, fragrant. Ana Sabrina's stand), as well as.
Cantina La Negrita for Mexican brews, chilli- dusted popcorn. And, of course. where to buy the best hammocks. If ever you've lusted after a hammock, this is the town to get. Meridans are serious about hammocks - most homes have them. Hamacas el Aguacate is a family- run.
Red- lipped and generously bosomed, with tropical flowers in. This is not the only shopping. Panama hats of varying quality are available from.
Liz Minelli and in the market district you'll find. Ladies with coiled, oiled hair in the back of. A line of heavily made- up. Jesus statues welcomes equally lurid shepherds with.
At the next stand are huge bowls of stacked chillies: red. Pale, lumpy- skinned courgettes.
Stagger out into the plaza to have a cold drink on the bench. Casa Rubio across the road. Mexican belts and shirts, cowboy- style. Afterwards, we go to the chic Oaxacan restaurant Apoala on. Parque Santa Lucia, to recover on the terrace. Order is. restored with a seriously delicious lunch of sea- snail ceviche with. Jorge Pardo, his daughter and, most significant to our.
This is what happens here; meet. For Pardo, M. So. M. It's either world- class gastronomy at. Roberto Solis's restaurant Nectar, or tacos. After much discussion.
Noche Mexicana, the weekly Saturday- night. Paseo de Montejo, a few steps down the road. The night ends, late, at La Fundaci. The bar staff are. I leave town the following day, head ringing. Meridans. If it's true you.
I lived in M. There are three baths. Doubles from about .
There's a proper bar, large, airy rooms and the hush of. Doubles. from about . Most have pools, courtyards and rooftop. Check out owner John Powell's brilliant blog www. From about . It's also good for people- spotting over a cup.
British Airways flies from Gatwick to Canc. For more information on Mexico. Mexican tourist board through www. Read our feature on more of the best winter sun.