The Bartons came over to chez moi. The fun began.
Food, lots: (potato chops, chicken kichdi, mutton vindaloo, dal gosht, steamed rice, butter garlic naan – From Cafe Funky, excellent Parsi fare, do try; next day: a handiful of Goa sausages, bread, jarjir (Eruca sativa) incl. dark chocolate, chikki, chakna and banana chips.
Spirits, wotter lotter it.
Conversation, lottest (ending at 530 hrs and 330 hours, in that order).
After two nights of rigorous indulgence, one would expect the next morning’s meal, the all important breakfast, to be a light affair. A bit of green tea. Or a chai. A ciggie. Simple talk (grunts and groans, more like). And that’s about it.
But no. Albert Barton has other plans. Terrific and calorific. Or, terifically calorifical. So, without further ado, I present The Elby Club. Why Elby, you ask? Well, it’s his joke. You gotta ask him.
The Elby Club
Fry eggs (1 per) both sides; pinch of chili and tumeric powder on the yolk, salt to taste. With other hand, lightly toast bread (3 slices per), butter ‘em up – be generous. Next, spread some pesto.
On slice, place slices of onion and tomato; sprinkle fresh coriander leaves (no stalks, never ever ever, please- the m. Barton insisted even as the f. Barton insisted that Barton, the former, ceased and desisted from wastage).
Cap with slice No. 2. On it, slap on some prosciutto. Whack a slice o’ processed fromage. Dash of fresh pepper. Bash in some finely chopped chillies. Crown with lettuce. Round off with slice No. 3. Mustard or ketchup, optional. Prayer to St. Lawrence, must. Make ‘aaah!’