There must be something wrong, I thought as we headed for the car, little Eddie prancing along beside me in fine style—two peas in a pod. Life would be different from that day on—and how!
In those few minutes of negotiation I had been won over, I had assumed the protectiveness of a loving parent who will not hear ill of their child. I did not want to hear why Eddie was sent back to the litter. Fate had been sealed. The Gods had spoken. I had, in a matter of minutes, decided that Eddie and I would be inseparable friends—until death would us part.
Yes, Eddie was going to be my mate; my buddy and his past should be left at that. Some things are better not known. “What you don’t know won’t hurt you.” And that rather quaint saying, although I did not know at the time, became a valuable lesson in life.
And that takes me to a time when I learned too much about a woman I was fond of and finding difficulty in handling certain information played a large part in ruining a good thing.
During the 1980s I lived on the twenty-sixth floor of a high-rise in Montreal. The usual course after a failed marriage, as described in a previous essay—but this time it was my pain to bear. Often, as I waited for the elevator, pleasant strains of Mozart or Bach would surge from beneath the door of an apartment just opposite the elevators (lifts). Accompanying the orchestra would also waft the heady aromas of sensational food. Whoever lived behind that door had fine, classical appreciation.
While awaiting the elevator, particularly on workdays, it was my practice to pace up and down trying to guess which of the four elevators would arrive first. It made not a bit of difference in the grand scheme of things but it made me feel clever when I got it right. Small things amuse small minds.
One day it happened that while pacing with mind detached I was startled as the door to that apartment opened and out rushed a woman with a bag of garbage destined for the garbage room beside the elevator.
“Hello,” she said, with a perfect English accent. I confessed to being taken by surprise and struggled to say something about the food or the music, but only managed some sort of grunt instead. It was her smug smile which captured my thoughts, I think she knew I was there because, dressed as she was, she would have taken a peek through the peep-hole in the door before springing me.
In a flourishing swirl she had dumped the garbage down the chute and was back standing before me. Tall, young, blonde, beautiful and wearing only a loose housecoat. She thrust out her hand.
“I’m Elizabeth, you must be my neighbour, what’s you name?” At that very moment the awaited elevator doors burst open and I jumped in like a trained seal.
“Chaucer it’s Geoffrey Chaucer and I like your taste in music.” That was all I could manage as the doors closed and dropped the 26 floors to the garage level.
Elizabeth and I became rather good friends and saw much of each other. We liked so many of the same things. She had a wicked sense of humour and loved her music. She was a dedicated student of fine food; she drove a Porsche and simply adored drinking expensive Tattinger Champagne while languishing in the bath—with lots of candles aglow.
Stuffed quail was Elizabeth’s signature dish. Roasted to golden perfection and stuffed with her secret recipe, a seafood melange spiked with Cognac. She was a master of the senses and knew exactly how to employ them for maximum pleasure.
That summer of 80 I spent lots of time with Elizabeth. On perfect days I would finish work mid afternoon and off we would go in her blue Porsche to the picturesque Laurentian Mountains with its many lakes. As one might expect from a woman with such taste Elizabeth had a fair-dinkum picnic hamper—a bought one with all the gadgets neatly arrayed within.
My mobile batterie de cuisine was a few plates and things tossed into a cardboard box or a carry bag, that was my picnic hamper—practical, but not suave.
Elizabeth’s wicker box was the size of a suitcase, the sort you might take to France for a month on the Riviera. Inside the lid was housed a tartan blanket and finely crafted Irish linen napkins with an “E” embroidered in the corners. The main compartment had a compliment of plates and cutlery sufficient for six. All were in their respective piles and secured by supple leather straps with golden buckles.
In shockproof containers were the wine glasses. No flimsy plastic, only hand cut lead crystal was suitable for the fine Chardonnay waiting in the chiller. The cork had always been pulled and a half glass missing from the bottle. I never knew or asked if it was to test the quality of the wine or to set the mood of the cook. It didn’t matter which.
We would pass a couple of hours savouring her culinary preparations. Always, there was a prawn cocktail of eight, not six, jumbo prawns on a bed of shredded lettuce, napped in a creamy sauce, ever redolent of garlic. Elizabeth always added a touch of the wine to the sauce just before serving. It caused a perfect marriage between seafood, sauce, wine and company.
Paté campaigne was standard with delicate slices placed on toasted oatmeal, smeared judiciously with one or more from her collection of fine mustards. Sometimes there were bagel halves with smoked salmon, cream cheese and capers. Or, chilled teriyaki breast of chicken with a mild ginger, cream sauce. Although there was never more than the two of us, rations were generous enough for four.
And so we would lie on that tartan rug listening to the birds and watch the sky, and, depending on the wine sing a duet from some classic—it made us giggle like naughty children.
Such days would close with us flying down the autoroute, top off the Porsche and symphony blaring.
Don’t worry, Eddie is still in the story.
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