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''The Chef''

David Weaver

gone but not forgotten
‘The Chef’
David Weaver ã
I must admit that I have met some fine chef’s in my travels, but none finer than Cedric Ballamy. I firmly believe that given an old boot from the municipal tip, Cedric could turn it into a gastronomic delight, with the hungry hordes fighting each other for the first taste.
His kitchen smelled of fine rare herbs with bundles of garlic and onions hanging from large hooks driven into the red gum ceiling beams. Olive oil and spicy vinegar seeped their way into hot chillies, cucumbers and ginger, stored in odd shaped bottles along a large wooden shelf. Their delicious smells, mingling with the distinct aroma of smoked hams and home made continental sausages.
In his more famous days, before the curse of whisky had enslaved him, Cedric had cooked in some of the finest hotels in the world, but as his liking for the bottle increased, so did his slide down the ladder of success begin. Now this master of an ancient art was the chef at the Drover’s Dog, the finest hotel, as well as the only hotel, in Mullockgoolie. .
Cedric was a good man, even when in the grip of the bottle. He was small, and as thin as a wire cable stretched on a strainer post. His face had a cherubic look about it, which turned into a sudden grin at the slightest opportunity. His legs were thin and bony and at the end of each were the flattest feet ever seen on either a man or Yeti. He didn’t walk, he waddled.
Many is the time I have watched with amazement as he traversed his kitchen, a razor sharp butcher’s knife clutched in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other, turning out his exquisite works of culinary delight.
His large bull terrier, Bubbles, always sat in the corner watching Cedric’s antics with an air of false boredom written across its stupid face, but even he grinned in delight at some of the antics of his master.
Lying next to Bubbles, his face a mask of pure hatred was Boris the cat. His nature was so mean, a Tasmanian tiger would have been proved a wimp if the two had been fighting over the same carcass.
The night of the Mullockgoolie Football Club end-of-season festivities, was looked upon as the highlight in our yearly calendar, and this year more so, because a premiership had been won against our hated enemy, the Bulla Bulla Magpies.
The only person who looked upon these nights with some concern was Sergeant Jenkins, who invariably invited ten or twelve police friends over to coincide with our celebrations. They usually held a quiet barbecue behind the police station in anticipation of the riot to come. They were seldom disappointed.
Cedric was given the task of catering for the event, but was not overly enthusiastic about doing it. The only menu he was ever given, despite his constant requests for a change, was spaghetti Bolognese and pizza marinara. This exotic feast was washed down with as many eighteen-gallon kegs of beer that could be accommodated before the police moved in. Not the menu for a master chef to show off his talents or stretch his considerable artistic imagination. The reason for the confined menu was the homesick Italian club president who ruled with a rod of iron, and firmly believed he still lived in Calabria where he had once belonged to the rather exclusive brotherhood of that region.
I was always called to assist Cedric on this the night of nights. The manager of the Drover’s Dog believed I exerted a certain amount of control over his wayward chef, but this in fact was untrue. He was his own man and brooked no interference, least of all from me, but as I was also the secretary of the football club, felt it my responsibility to see Cedric through as best I could, with the least amount of whisky.
The night finally arrived and was in full swing, with the food being consumed at a frenzied pace. Poor Cedric was at full stretch reaching for a consoling drink, as well as trying to keep the food coming. I was flat out opening kegs of beer, and pouring furiously for a bunch of very thirsty footballers seemingly trained on blotting paper sandwiches.
Suddenly a quiet lull settled over the gathered crowd, and into the clubrooms walked twenty Bulla Bulla Magpies. Their tattoos laid side by side would have covered the Mullockgoolie bowling green, and I hadn’t seen so much hair since the invading bikies from New South Wales had wrecked the Drover’s Dog in a sudden fit of youthful enthusiasm.
‘You go and tell them to leave,’ said the President to me, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘you have a way with words.’
I walked towards the Magpies somewhat reluctantly. Death comes in many guises but I never imagined mine would be on such a lovely night as this. Just as I had started to accept the inevitable, I noticed in the shadows Sergeant Jenkins with twelve very large policemen. They walked determinedly towards me, but I pretended not to see them. My swagger, meanwhile, became more noticeable, and the night I was prepared to take on twenty Magpies is still talked about in the hallowed bars of the Drover’s Dog.
The Sergeant fronted me and ordered thirty-two beers as if he’d been doing so all of his life. He then turned abruptly towards the Mullockgoolie Football President and walked towards him.
Mr Vitorrio Spalini turned a little pale and wondered if those strange looking plants he’d been growing in the state forest had been discovered.
‘We have come to congratulate you and the team for winning The Flag,’ said Sergeant Jenkins in an understatement of friendly banter, ‘It’s time we helped you celebrate your magnificent win, and when we saw the Magpies approaching to congratulate you, we decided to join them.’
The Magpies shuffled their feet in embarrassment at this strange turn of events. The last thing they had gate crashed the party for, was to offer congratulations to an old foe, but their guns had been spiked by a very smart policeman.
To my amazement, everyone started shaking hands like brothers not seen in twenty years. Slapping backs and laughing as if those odd nights spent in the cells over the past decade had never happened.
But now Cedric and I had a small problem. Thirty-two extra mouths to feed would push our menu to breaking point. I quickly called Father O’Riley to come over and take care of the kegs, and headed into the kitchen to advise Cedric of the bad news.
Without missing a beat, he took a huge swig from a large bottle of whisky already almost empty, and stared at the big pot of Bolognese sauce bubbling away on the old wood stove. He reached down unsteadily into the bottom cupboard of an old fashioned sideboard, and pulled out ten large tins of dog food. Opening these quickly, he tipped the contents into the Bolognese sauce, stirring furiously as he did so. Stopping only occasionally for a large swig from the nearby bottle.
That’ll keep them happy,’ he said looking pleased with himself at his quick thinking.
‘Not bloody likely,’ I thought, wondering about the reaction from the gathered multitude when they tasted his evil concoction. I also made a mental note, that no matter how the evening turned out, I would stick to eating the pizza marinara.
The newly fortified Bolognese sauce, when placed on the servery, was consumed with much enthusiasm. Second and third helpings were bolted down as though Arctic wolves were feasting on the remains of a felled moose. Even the president had two servings, with compliments to the chef as an added bonus.
I must admit I tipped off Father O’Riley about not eating the suspect Bolognese. Not for any other reason than that he is my mate; too much religion for me but nonetheless still my mate. We gorged ourselves on the delicious pizza and to hell with everyone else, a gourmet feed like that would have been wasted on men who thought a pie and chips was the ultimate in dining out.
Towards morning with the bodies of the victims lying around in various states of near death, I discovered Cedric lying under the table in the kitchen. He was in pure heaven. The night had once more been a success and he was happy. No one had been arrested, mainly because the policemen who were there to do the job couldn’t scratch themselves. All in all a good night was had by all.
Cedric suddenly sat up, a deathly look on his face. Then gathering all of his strength he grinned at me.
I smiled back with a certain amount of sympathy and said, ‘Poor old Bubbles is going to be upset with you today for using his dog food.’
‘Don’t worry about bloody Bubbles,’ said Cedric looking serious. ‘I’ve got plenty of dog food left in the cupboard, but it’s my cat Boris I’m worried about. He will tear me to shreds, when he finds out I used the last twenty tins of cat food on the pizza marinara.’
END
 
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