The two rival clans faced off against one another, each huddling under their umbrellas. “It’s times like this I wish you ‘adn’t lost all yous weight Christo,” Toothless Tasos observed, remembering how the supermarket entrepreneur’s previous bulk would have acted as a deterrence to violence.
“But I’m fitter without the flab,” the now scrawny Fat Christos hissed.
“Keep out of Gavros if yous know what is good for yous,” one of the Gavronians warned.
“We ‘ave only come for the van,” Moronic Mitsos shouted, relieved to see the rival gang were all approaching pensionable years.
“Yous ‘ave been poaching gavros from our waters,” the other group shouted threateningly.
“Well yous started it by poaching our lobsters and dumping Thomas out at sea,” Prosperous Pedros countered.
Glowering looks were exchanged across the village square by both sets of men. Hands were formed into threatening fists, yet both groups seemed strangely reluctant to make a move that would actually involve leaving the protective cover of their brollies. It looked as though the stand-off would remain a damp squib of inaction until the parrot released its hold on Quentin’s head and viciously attacked one of the Gavronians.
The parrot attack was the cue both groups needed to descend into an amateurish brawl. Fists went flying and umbrellas were used as makeshift weapons. Decades of animosity between the two sets of village men were unleashed in an undignified fight, sending Prosperous Pedros sprawling on the cobbles and poor Quentin receiving a shiner of a black eye. The ham-fisted fight was only brought to a halt when an elderly resident of Gavros arrived in her dressing gown and slippers to give them all a sound dressing down.
“Grown men brawling in the street, yous should be ashamed,” Kyria Eirinopoios screamed. “Stop it at once else I will bang all yous ‘eads together.”
“She’s quite right,” Quentin implored, desperately hoping to avoid another thumping, “this fighting is most undignified. Can’t we settle our differences over a glass of wine like civilised people?”
“K-Went-In is right, let’s all goes and ‘ave a glass of wine together in the taverna,” Achilles the borrowed builder pleaded. He had no appetite for fighting. The brawl had triggered horrid memories of the violence he’d received in Albania when he had pursued Blerta over the border. He had been cowering at the back of the crowd in a cowardly attempt to avoid becoming embroiled.
The Gavronians were pressured into agreement by Kyria Eirinopoios shooing them into the taverna with the pointy tip of her umbrella. As the two rival groups took their seats and raised their glasses Kryia Eirinopoios lectured them on their unseemly behaviour.
“This rivalry ‘as gone on far too long and ‘as to stop. It’s gettin’ as bad as in the olden days when rival ‘eads would be nailed up over doorways. Yous is all past yous prime an’ if we dont’s stop this now in a few years you’lls all be at each other with yous walking sticks.”
The men held their heads in shame at this chastisement, realising their antics had flared up centuries old hostilities kept in abeyance in recent years.
“We shoulds be stickin’ together as fishermen. Our real fight is with them eejits in the European Union what is determined to kill our fishing trade off by offering bribes to destroy our boats,” one of the Gavronians suggested. Fat Christos felt a stab of shame as he had been only too willing to take the bribe when it was convenient. He should have held onto his fishing boat and taught Andromeda how to fish in the traditional way. Luckily he still had Tassia’s dead uncle’s boat and would use it as soon as he taught Andy to swim.
“Yous youngsters is so thoughtless leaving me sitting around in the taxi. Thoma get me a brandy,” Nitsa ordered, entering the taverna. Looking round she flew into a panic when she realised there was no sign of Fotini’s blasted parrot.
“K-Went-In yous best get out in the rain and looks for the parrot, Fotini will kill yous if it ‘as gone missing.”
“The parrot is not my responsibility,” Quentin complained, “You’re the one who brought it along.”
“That’s as may be, but its yous the parrot is so attached to.”
“Not at this moment thank goodness,” Quentin sighed, refusing to budge if only to spare his scalp from more parrot claw incisions.
“I’m a bit of a bird lover an’ will be ‘appy to go and look for yous parrot Kyria,” volunteered an aging Gavronian fishermen with a bushy bit of lip upholstery and a lascivious twinkle in his eye.
“Oh what a hero,” Nitsa exclaimed, giving the fisherman a saucy wink.
“Yous want to watch out for that Fotis,” one of the other fishermen warned Nitsa. “He’s a bit of a ladies’ man.”
Slugging her brandy back and hastily opening the top button of her hideous old lady dress Nitsa leapt to her feet saying “in that case I’d better go an’ give ‘im an ‘and.”
Chapter 20: Scared Of A Dark Puddle
The smitten young struck-off doctor dropped Deirdre off at the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ where she discovered a bedraggled collection of hens and roosters sheltering in the porch from the torrential rain. The dripping livestock practically knocked her over in their haste to rush through the door, fully intent on causing havoc in the kitchen.
“Why aren’t you all in your luxuriant chicken coop?” Deirdre pointlessly asked them, adding threateningly, “If you can’t behave I will follow the widow’s example and boil you up in the cooking pot.”
Entering the kitchen Deirdre was alarmed to find the light wasn’t working. Fumbling round in the dark she pulled the sodden shoes from her feet and stepped immediately into an unseen deep puddle of water, causing her to screech like a banshee as her toes came into contact with the icy water. The hens and roosters, scared by her screams, flapped around wildly, resulting in loud splashes as they knocked all the contents off the kitchen table into the puddle.
Shocked by Deirdre’s caterwauling in the neighbouring house Fotini and Hattie sprang into action. “’Appen the murdering rapist what was never caught is ‘aving ‘is way with yous daughter-in-law,” Fotini conjectured. “Grab an axe ‘Attie, this could be our chance to get ‘im.”
Armed with an axe and a newfangled torch the two old crones dashed next door. “Where is the pervert?” Hattie demanded to know, narrowly avoiding decapitating a rooster with the axe she was waving.
“You mean there’s a pervert on the loose,” Deirdre cried in terror, jumping onto the kitchen table. “Do you suppose it is the elusive underwear thief?”
“Well why else is yous screaming like a deranged lunatic if yous isn’t being attacked by a madman?” Fotini questioned.
“I came home to find the house dark and flooded,” Deirdre explained.
“Yous mean you carries on like that over a bit of water and a power cut?” Fotini asked in derision. “Did-Rees yous is a drip.”
“Where is Quentin?” Hattie asked.
“He went down to Gavros with the fishermen in case there was any trouble claiming Tall Thomas’ van.”
“Well a lot of good that gormless ‘usband of yours would be in a fight,” Fotini cackled, adding “no offence to yous ‘Attie.”
“No offence taken,” Hattie told her, “Quentin is certainly as much use as a chocolate teapot if a fight is brewing. Deirdre make yourself useful and find some candles, the power isn’t likely to come back on tonight in this dreadful weather. With a bit of light we can survey the extent of this puddle while Fotini rounds up the hens and gets them back in the chicken coop.”
Deirdre’s weakness for oversized scented candles meant the house was soon brightly illuminated, revealing the botched job Achilles the borrowed builder had done on the now leaking roof. With the livestock locked up for the night and an array of buckets catching the leaky downpour Deirdre set to with a mop while Fotini helped herself to a bottle of brandy and sett
led down to recite a list of “Did-Rees shortcomings.”
Deirdre was wounded to learn her neighbour thought she lacked gumption and led a pampered life. She was comforted when Hattie sprang to her defence, saying “Did-Rees hasn’t experienced your hardships Fotini and has led a sheltered existence in Idaho. Quentin’s job as a tax inspector afforded her a comfortable life and she is an excellent wife and mother.”
“K-Went-In was a tax inspector?” Fotini gawped in shock, spilling the brandy down her hideous old lady dress. “Yous best keep that quiet Did-Rees or else K-Went-In will be the most unpopular malaka in the village.”
“Don’t stir your pot Fotini,” Hattie warned her, “my son is obviously well liked.”
Fotini scowled, realising Hattie was right and her new neighbours had been welcomed by the villagers. Changing the subject she said, “talkin’ of stirring the pot I ‘ad a strange phone call from Stavroula earlier. She only wants me to put a curse on ‘er meddling superstitious sister-in-law.”
Her ridiculous assertion broke the tension in the room. Soon the three women were laughing heartily, cooking up curses, knocking back the brandy and emptying the odd bucket as they waited for Quentin, Nitsa and the parrot to come home.
Meanwhile the smitten young struck off-doctor had no liquid refreshment to help him while the tedious hours away. Having dropped Deirdre off at the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ he had driven back to Astakos and parked the limousine at the top of the harbour, waiting to drive Masha and her fool of a husband home. He was in for a long night as he also had to drive the producer back to Paraliakos, a journey he was dreading in this atrocious weather. He was beginning to go off mail order Masha as she treated him no better than a lowly flunkey. Selfishly it hadn’t crossed her mind to invite him to share the meal at Stavroula’s taverna and his stomach rumbled as he settled down in the driving seat to forge Masha’s signature on a pile of glossy photographs.
The boredom of his task coupled with the hypnotic lull of the rain soon sent him to sleep. He was snoring obliviously when a sudden flash flood turned the road into a roaring river, lifted the limousine up and carried it out to sea.
Chapter 21: Herring Under A Fur Coat
“Yous is in for a real treat tonight,” that old fool Vasilis promised the local television producer, welcoming him into the taverna. “My daughter ‘as been slaving over an ‘ot stove all day to show yous what real good ‘ome cooking is. She thought yous would like a change from all that ‘orrible stuff the boring Kyria Papadopoulos cooks up on ‘er dismal show.”
Vasilis paused mid-flow, distracted by mail order Masha making ‘cut-throat’ gesticulations over the producer’s head.
“Are you that desperate for a vodka Masha?” he asked, just as the producer announced “Kyria Papadopoulos happens to be my mother.”
“Glad to see yous is in favour of a bit of nepotism then,” Slick Socrates said, yelping painfully as mail order Masha’s stiletto ground down on his toes.
The producer took a good look around at the gathering. Knowing mail order Masha was married to an older man he erroneously jumped to the wrong conclusion that Slick Socrates was Masha’s husband. When the octogenarian Vasilis was actually introduced as Masha’s husband he could hardly hide his astonishment such a glamorous sassy woman could have saddled herself with this weedy old relic. Presuming the elegant Thea was Stavroula he rushed to tell her she would look a picture in front of the cameras, giving her visions of soap opera stardom as she fluffed up her hair and simpered in the most unbecoming manner.
Stavroula rushed out from the kitchen wearing a borscht stained apron, smiling obsequiously in an attempt to make a good impression on their important guest.
“Welcome, welcome,” she gushed, adopting a preposterously posh accent, “take a seat. I have a culinary treat for you this evening. I’m sure after watching the dire Kyria Papadopoulos do nothing more than stir dreary pans of onions you will be most impressed by the feast I have cooked.”
Stavroula was so carried away with her grovelling she failed to notice Slick Socrates attempts to shut her up until she felt him stabbing her shin with the sharp prongs of a fork.
“Ow, whys yous stabbing me yous malaka?” she screeched, reverting back to her usual peasant speak. Slick Socrates whispered to his beloved the producer was the son of the woman she was so freely maligning. Blushing to her roots Stavroula attempted to backtrack, saying, “Of course I never miss a show and felt terrible when Kyria Papadopoulos set herself on fire.”
“It is true that mother’s cooking show has been slipping in the ratings and she is considering retiring,” the producer confirmed. “We are thinking of trying out a different format. We plan to audition new hosts for the show by giving several cooks the opportunity to create their best dishes in front of the cameras and let the audience decide who should become the new regular host through a phone-in vote.”
The idea had been brainstormed in the television studios with some producers arguing they should opt for a glamorous presenter, while others argued the vital component of a successful cooking show was a host with excellent culinary skills. The producer himself was firmly in the glamour camp and Stavroula certainly failed at that hurdle. Nevertheless the unanimous decision had been to let the public decide, though a few well placed brown envelopes could still influence the outcome.
“We are looking for a host who stands out and has something new to offer,” the producer expanded.
“Perhaps someone who could introduce foreign foods to your audience,” Slick Socrates said. His suggestion earned him a return stabbing from Stavroula’s fork as she was clueless when it came to cooking foreign fare. Her one and only attempt to cook up something not traditionally Greek had been her miserably failed effort to woo Quentin and Deirdre with her botched version of a McDonalds, consisting of frozen chicken nuggets swimming in a sea of olive oil garnished with oregano. Ignoring Stavroula’s warning glare, as his attention was fixated on mail order Masha’s silicone chest, Socrates expanded his point:
“Stavroula has cooked up a delicious pan of Russian borscht this evening and I’m sure Masha would be happy to share her tips for other Russian delicacies.”
“I only cooks borscht,” mail order Masha said, emphatically refusing to be drawn into Stavroula’s kitchen.
“Yes, but you can advise Stavroula on other popular Russian dishes,” that old fool Vasilis jumped in.
“And I’m sure Quentin and Deirdre would be happy to share their American recipes with you Stavroula,” Thea chimed in.
“I certainly like the idea,” the producer declared. “Stavroula I have decided to give you a trial slot in the new cooking show if you roll with the idea of cooking up foreign food, but the final decision will be down to the public vote.”
Stavroula managed to beam and grimace simultaneously. Whilst she was delighted to have secured a slot on the televised cooking audition show she was not at all happy to be landed with cooking foreign food which she considered to be inferior muck. Her heart sank even more when the producer suggested she base her audition show on a foreign Christmas dinner.
“I’m starving, where’s the borscht Stavroula?” mail order Masha demanded, determined to eat and run.
“I will bring the tureen of borscht out now, ladies come and give me a hand,” Stavroula said, once again adopting a contrived posh accent and finally mastering the correct pronunciation of the soup.
Thea and Masha followed Stavroula into the kitchen where she immediately reverted to peasant speak. “Them idiot malakas couldn’t keep their stupid ideas to ‘emselves. ‘Ows I supposed to cook up a foreign Christmas dinner when anyone in their rights mind eats pork and potatoes, or pork and celery?”
“I never understood why I can’t have both celery and potatoes with my pork,” Masha complained.
“It’s not done, it’s one or the other,” Stavroula insisted.
“I suppose you eat borscht,” Stavroula sneered.
“No, at Russian Christmas we drink vzvar and eats kutya.”
“What are they,” Thea asked.
“Vzvar is a festive drink made from dried prunes and kutya is a type of tasty porridge,” Masha explained.
“Po po, I can see me winning the cooking show audition with a bowl of malaka porridge,” Stavroula despaired.
“We also eat herring under a fur coat,” Masha volunteered.
“’Ow long do I ‘ave to cooks a fur coat for to make it edible?”
“It isn’t a literal fur coat; it is a grated mix of boiled vegetables laced with pickled herring.”
“It sounds as disgustin’ as yous ‘orrid borsct,” Stavroula sneered contemptuously.
“Sometimes a stuffed pig’s head is served,” Masha enthused. “When I was little father sometimes let me scrape the jelly from the pig’s head with a spoon, as a special treat.”
Stavroula shuddered at the thought, opining “Masha that sounds disgusting. I wouldnt’s even serve a stuffed goat’s ‘ead at my table.”
“But yous is ‘appy enough to eat revolting goat’s innards at Easter,” Masha countered, recalling the ubiquitous Greek favourite of kokoretsi. “An’ that ‘orrid magiritsa soup is even worse than Yiota’s tripe stew.”
“My Easter magiritsa is a work of art,” Stavroula declared.
“Yous can keep your lambs bowels and lungs, it’s not civilised,” Masha argued, recalling with horror her first experience of bits of offal floating in greasy lemon soup.
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