by Morna Sullivan
bloody Mary
“What does paprika do,
love?”
She studied the labels searching for
star anise and cloves. She was intent on replenishing her supplies after cooking
her Christmas aromatic ham. A well-stocked spice rack was a necessity. Wouldn’t
you think the herbs and spices would be arranged alphabetically to make it
easier for customers to find what they’re looking for?
She was aware of a pungent smell to her
right. She wasn’t convinced it was coming from the jars and boxes in front of
her. It certainly didn’t smell aromatic or appetising and didn’t belong in this
food aisle. A splash of Old Spice might have helped disguise it.
He was standing looking at her,
expecting an answer. She looked back at him, taking everything in as she
replied.
“It’s pepper – just like white or black
pepper except with more flavour.”
“Pepper? Are you sure, love? Then why
don’t they just call it pepper? Is it not more exotic?” he asked.
“Well, it’s a kind of pepper. There are
lots of different sorts. Look, there’s hot paprika and smoked paprika,” she
said, pointing out the jars.
“Oh, I like it hot,” he said,
smirking.
She pretended she hadn’t heard his
retort and returned to scrutinising the shelves. She lifted a refill box of
cloves and popped it in her trolley. Surely this supermarket had star anise. It
was usually well stocked. She’d already been in three supermarkets this week
looking it and they’d all been sold out.
“Would you use it for Indian?” he
asked.
Ignoring him clearly wasn’t going to
work.
“You could, but you would need to use
other spices too. Like turmeric and fennel seeds or cardamom and coriander
seeds. Paprika would give the dish you’re making a good colour but you need the
flavour too.”
“Oh, right.”
Under his pulled down beanie hat he
looked puzzled. Tall, a bit older than her, tired and relatively attractive, but
puzzled.
“It depends on what flavour you want,”
she said.
“I want Indian. Is paprika
Indian?”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s European
originally - from Hungary
possibly.”
“Are you sure it’s not Indian? I’m sure
she said it was. Are all spices not from India?” he asked.
“A lot are Indian - but spices come from
all over the world.”
The smell didn’t seem as bad now or
maybe she was getting used to it, or it was being masked by the spices beside
her. He looked as if he’d been wearing the grey work trousers with pockets all
the way down the legs and the faded navy blue hoodie for the last few days. They
were stained with oil streaks and mud.
“How would I know which ones are
Indian?”
He still looked puzzled, bewildered and
overwhelmed by the colourful choices in front of him.
“The jar labels will tell you. You know,
the spices can be quite expensive. You might be better buying one of those mixed
jars like curry powder or tandoori mix or tikka masala because you need quite a
lot of different spices to get the right flavour. If you don’t use them often
they can lose their flavour in time. Which Indian dish do you
like?”
“I like paprika, love,” he replied. “She
said she wanted paprika in it.”
He shuffled over in his muddy work boots
to look at the ready mixed spice jars. She took advantage when he moved out of
the way to find the star anise refill box and popped it into her brimming
trolley. She also took the chance to take a better look at him. His eyes looked
tired and his body was slightly hunched as if this was all too much of an effort
for him. He probably wasn’t as old as he first appeared.
“They’ve a lot of Indian dishes in the
ready meals section and the freezers. You can heat them up in minutes in the
microwave. They’re quite tasty. You can also buy jars of the sauce already made
up. It’s not bad if you’re in a hurry,” she suggested, trying to be
helpful.
“Thanks – I know you can buy
them.”
“It would save you time.”
“I have to cook this myself. I promised
her. I promised myself. What’s that you’re buying? Is it for a curry?” he
asked.
“It’s star anise. I use it to flavour my
spiced ham. Its quite sweet. It’s used in biryani dishes. It won’t bring much
colour to the dish. I don’t think it would help your curry.”
“I want paprika. She’ll know if I don’t
use it.”
“You could get away without using it.
Paprika will add to the colour but there are other ingredients that give colour
too. You could add more tomatoes, or buy a jar of curry sauce and add paprika.
Paprika won’t give the strength and depth of flavour you’re looking
for.”
“What about this? What about turmeric?”
he asked.
“It’s used in Indian cookery. Lovely
colour, but you’d need to use other spices to get the authentic flavour. What
curry are you making? Do you have a recipe?” she asked.
“I really like paprika, love,” he
said.
“That’s a good start. What do you like
about it? Is it the colour, the smell or the flavour?” she asked.
“Everything. And I like its name.
Paprika! Most of all I like how it sounds – exotic, warm, spicy, mysterious,
magical, tantalising. Just like her. I like her name. She’s called Paprika
Moldova. We’re meeting for the first time tomorrow night. I’m cooking dinner for
her. She said I had to use paprika and she’d know if I had. She’s lovely isn’t
she?”
He thrust a photo on his phone in front
of her.
“She seems very
attractive.”
“She’s a consultant
surgeon.”
“Really - she looks quite young - to be
a consultant. I know it’s none of my business, but how long have you known
her?”
“A few days. We’ve been chatting online.
She’s very friendly.”
“I’m sure she is. What if you don’t like
her when you meet?”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Why don’t you just go for a
drink with her - maybe see how you get on. You could maybe cook dinner the next
time. She might not appreciate the effort you’re making.”
“I’m sure she will.”
“Sometimes people you meet online aren’t
quite the same when you meet them in person.”
“Sounds like you’ve had your fingers
burned.”
“I have. And I’ve heard all sorts of
weird and wonderful online dating tales. You have to kiss a few frogs before you
meet your prince. And, believe me, there are a lot of frogs – very few resemble
their online photos. But I could be wrong. Paprika Moldova could very well be
the beautiful, intelligent, rich, young woman you expect her to
be.”
“I know what you’re thinking – what
could she possibly see in me?”
“No – not exactly. I just don’t like
seeing people get hurt. Sometimes when something seems too good to be true, it
is. You can’t be too careful. Do you really want this stranger in your house?
Sorry, I’ve said too much. Its none of my business. Don’t let me put you off
cooking your Indian meal. You could always practice making it for yourself so
when you meet her the next time you could cook it for her – or for someone
else.”
He looked straight into her eyes. She
shifted from one foot to the other and glanced at her shopping
list.
“I should have just lifted the paprika
without speaking to you.”
“You should just buy it if it’s what you
want. But you should maybe also get one of those ready mixes. You can’t go wrong
with them. You could always experiment by adding paprika to one of them – maybe
the tikka masala one?”
“I like trying something new,” he said,
again looking straight into her eyes.
She was beginning to feel very warm
under her puffed feather down coat. She loosened the hand knitted stripy scarf
wrapped tightly around her neck. Why had she bothered coming out shopping
tonight? And why had she even bothered to look for cloves and star anise? It
wasn’t as if she needed the spices tonight or tomorrow or even next week. Then
she recalled one of her New Year’s resolutions - to get out of the house every
evening – even if it was only for a walk or to the supermarket. One of her other
resolutions was to make an effort to speak to strangers. Well she was definitely
ticking all the boxes tonight!
“Are you going to cook chicken or lamb?
Maybe you’re vegetarian?” she asked.
“Me a veggie? Do I look like a
veggie?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend
you.”
“Does it matter what I cook it with?
It’ll probably be chicken.”
“No. It shouldn’t. Chicken will be
lovely. That’s what I usually cook,” she said.
“How do you know all this? Are you a
chef, love?”
“No, but I like cooking. I did an Indian
cookery course last year so I know a little about it,” she said.
“You seem to know a lot about it. I like
it hot.”
“You can add more spices to make
the dish as mild or spicy as you like,” she said.
“Definitely not mild. I like a spicy
dish,” he said.
“Most men seem to have a palate that
tolerates spicier food than women.”
“Right.”
“That course was great fun. It was at
the local tech. You should look it up on the internet. They might still be
running it. They usually start a new course after Christmas. I learned so much
about cooking Indian food. Everyone was really nice. We cooked a different dish
each week. Do you know ‘Tandoor’ on the Bristol Road?”
“Yes, I’ve been there loads of
times.”
“Well, it was the guy who is the head
chef there who took the course, Sanjeev Rashid, lovely guy. So it really was
authentic. He used to tell me off each week for chopping my onions the wrong
way. Who’d ever have thought there were so many ways to chop onions? And so many
types – red ones, white ones, Spanish ones and shallots. The large Spanish ones
were the worst. My tears were tripping me when I chopped them. According to him
you have to chop them different sizes depending on the dish you’re making. He
certainly knows his onions – and all his spices. I used to chop them as big as
possible as chopping onions always makes my eyes water and I wanted to get it
over with as quickly as possible.”
“You seem to know your onions, and your
spices too love. I’m sure you could teach me a thing or two.”
She smiled as she remembered it had been
more than onions making her cry this time last year, but the onions had been a
good excuse to blame for her tears, dropping into the meal she was making in the
class, adding a bit more saltiness with each tear drop. Sanjeev hadn’t told her
off, even though she knew it broke every food hygiene rule in the book. He’d
just smiled kindly, clearly knowing the difference between onion induced tears
and those brought on by a broken heart. As each week passed her tears
had lessened. She put it down to perfecting her onion chopping skills, rather
than her broken heart starting to heal.
He selected a jar of tikka masala mix
and a jar of turmeric and put them into his basket.
“I love Indian food. It’s so much
healthier when you cook it all from scratch. Don’t forget your onions,” she
said.
“Which sort should I use?”
“I’d recommend starting with the large
Spanish ones. I’ve found they’re best for disguising heartache.”
“Sounds just what I need, love,” he
said.
“You should try that cookery course. It
was one of the best things I’ve ever done. I made new friends – real people. I
love calling into see Sanjeev in the restaurant now to swap
recipes.”
“Ok. Thanks for the advice. Maybe I
will.”
“Don’t listen to everything I’ve said.
Good luck with the cooking and your date with Paprika tomorrow night. Maybe I’ll
see you back here in a few weeks buying more spices to cook for her again. Maybe
you’ll have signed up for that course.”
“I hope so, love. I might, but then,
maybe I could cook dinner for you?” he asked.
“When you’ve got the flavour right, I
might like that,” she said, smiling back at him.
“Maybe you could help me with
it.”
“Maybe I could. But what about Paprika?
What will she think?”
“I think I’ll give paprika and Paprika a
miss. I’ll go for something with a more distinct flavour that can bring out the
best in the dish. I’ll focus on cooking what I like.”
“That’s important. You’ll enjoy it more
then.”
“I’ll have fun experimenting in the
kitchen. See you back here then.”
January wasn’t looking so bleak after
all she thought, as she stood in the checkout queue and set her onions and
spices on the conveyor belt.
