Sauce #53 | Grand Slam

a merguez & chickpea stew-soup

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A close friend recently told me how he knew he’d married a Yorkshirewoman when, on their honeymoon in a swanky resort in Tanzania, she insisted they share drinks and not over-order at dinner because it was all bound to be so expensive. The lack of prices anywhere was a clear sign that everything was premium. They filled up at breakfast, assuming that must at least be included, surreptitiously making packed lunches to take on their daily excursions. Occasionally he was allowed to order a glass of wine in the evening. She braced herself for a gargantuan bill on checking out.

“Anything from the minibar?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well all the other food and drink was included so there’s no balance to pay.”

He says he nearly walked out there and then.

We are not in Tanzania, and we are not in an especially swanky resort, but we are on an all-inclusive holiday and making the most of it. There are self-serve drinks stations wherever you look. The kids must be averaging three cokes and at least four ice creams a day. Rosie and I are endeavouring to get our money’s worth in as seemly a fashion as possible, going long on seafood and maintaining what is generally known as a ‘light buzz’ from midday. This can lead to some poor decision making. Nora made a friend and we said we were happy to keep an eye on them while her friend’s folks relaxed by the pool. They accepted gratefully, and were, perhaps, seven or eight Aperol Spritz to the good when I asked if they’d return the favour for a bit while I played pool with Thom and Rosie did some yoga.

After half an hour I went to check all was well and found the other kid’s parents by this point knocking on double figures on the cocktail front and the girls nowhere to be seen.

“Nora said they were going back to the room to change for dinner,” they explained.

Given Nora did not know where our room was, nor did she have a key, this felt problematic. An increasingly fretful 20-minute search ensued, during which they managed to lose their other child, which was good going. When we eventually found them they said they’d just been to the loo, though the ice cream on their faces told a different story.

Talking of poor decision making, I ended up staying awake until 1.30am to watch Rory McIlroy slay a dragon. Much as I can only imagine what my neighbours thought was happening when, alone, I watched Ben Stokes play the greatest innings of all time, hollering and yelping and bellowing and, eventually, weeping, I must have cut an exceptionally odd figure, alone again, in the corner of the increasingly rowdy hotel bar, watching an iPad, fist-pumping, gasping, grimacing, and, again, eventually weeping with joy. Whether you’re interested in golf or not there’s something profound about witnessing an achievement of that magnitude. I suspect that’s how the other guests in this hotel feel when seeing me go about my business in the buffet each day.

Much like golf, at a buffet patience is key. You can’t go in all guns blazing on the pan con tomate and paella, because a) it’ll fill you up and b) you may well find out there’s grilled bavette and razor clams over on the other side. A double bogey right there. Sure, spring rolls are fun in a way but have you considered the fried turkey breast? How often do you get to eat fried turkey breast? I saw a chap yesterday dressing his salad with gazpacho and you know what? That’s a great flex. A really great flex.

So that’s where I’m heading now. It’s lunchtime and I’m going to fill my figurative boots, and my literal plate, multiple times.

Here’s a recipe that’s sort of Easter adjacent, in that it’s got lamb in it. See you back in Blighty.