The husband went up on the roof today with one of our ex-pat friends to fix a leak around the chimney (or chimley as I always say) stack.
This turned into a spectator sport because every male in the street appeared and began offering advice. Another ladder was hoisted aloft, and three of them joined the party on the roof. But this is not the peeve today. That happened after they mended the leak.
They all trouped into the yard and indicated something to eat and drink wouldn’t go amiss. Being a good hostess, I wheeled out the beer and Rakia and knocked up some salad. Nothing grand, a dish of pickled peppers, fresh cucumber in apple cider vinegar, and a tomato salad. Using the last of our home-grown veg, I should add.
One member of the impromptu dinner party took a mouthful of the tomato salad and disappeared down into the garden. He came back with a handful of parsley, which he tore up and threw in the bowl of tomato.
I watched with gritted teeth as this bloody heathen trashed my lovingly prepared balsamic vinegar and basil-infused delight of tomatoes with lemon juice and mozzarella. Apparently, the only herb to put with tomato is parsley: nothing else will do.
Then he decided the food wasn’t salty enough for his tastes and added a ton of the ruddy stuff. Not only to his dish but all the bowls on the table. He sat back with a look of joy while the rest of the group winced and refused second helpings.
The final nail in the coffin for this man ever being invited back to my house was his insistence on dipping his bread straight in the ramekin of salt and eating it.
Miguel de Cervantes said it is a true saying that a man must eat a peck of salt with his friend before he knows him. Well, this guy at my table should have friends pouring out of his arse. But he didn’t make any today.
Maybe the quote needs an amendment? Something like: providing you don’t ruin the host’s food by pickling it in salt.