“Today’s play was in two acts; the first produce by Joan. She had tied her jet-black hair in a ponytail with a ribbon of the brightest red silk, matching the colour of her summer blouse and showing off her olive complexion. Her tense, expectant face resembled that of a director on a first night, with front-row critics poised to pan the performance.
But the party hadn’t eaten since seven that morning and the build-up to the first bite of the afternoon had set stomachs rumbling. If they had been offered cold stew, they would have appreciated it, Joan gave a characteristic little shake of her head as she doled out spoonfuls of fish over small piles of yellow pilau rice. “It’s something small, really, to get you going,” she said. “Challo, let’s eat.”
A few dazzling red chillies swam in the turmeric-infused gravy that seeped into the rice, creating little rivers of a deep-gold liquid and leaving no doubt that the first morsel would assail the senses. Those last in the serving order were almost delirious with desire.
The aroma of the steaming piles of food wafted towards the riverbank where a distant pariah dog sniffed the air and trotted towards the group, her collection of skin an boned boyed by the prospect of sharing in Joan’s fish molu.
The culinary foreplay over, a few minutes passed as the serious business of eating went ahead. Joan tensed at the continued silence. Her stage-director nerves were on edge and she fidgeted with the red ribbon in her hair. Had she committed the heinous crime of not adding enough salt to the gravy? Perhaps they thought the fish not fresh enough? Damn that fishmonger, he’d said that the fish had been caught the night before. She never did trust the one-eyed rogue.
It was a definite taboo to ask outright. Were they using silence so as not to offed?
“Joan, that was the best fish molu I’ve had in years,” said Mr. De Lange suddenly, a man not usually profuse in praise. Soon all the picnickers were joining in.
“Joan, did you buy the fish from the on-eyed fishmonger? It was so fresh.”
“Joan, was that your mum’s recipe?” The accolades started to flow.
Joan began to breathe again as she answered all the questions in turn, pausing to eke out as much as she would of the rich and fish from the tiffin cans. As she sat down again for the rest to finish off their second helpings, she said a quiet Hail Mary to Our Lady Bandle, and the emaciated dog looked on in dismay.”