Five

I was enchanted by The Swallow’s Tale. As a voracious reader, I devour, cosset, treasure, relish, and adore books. The Swallow’s Tale was one of those books that comes along every few years and has a dramatic impact on me. I must have read it continuously, maybe five or six times in the last few weeks I felt even closer to R. Curnion after the radio interview; it was a kind of affinity. Smiling, I took my black, oval headphones off and placed them on my desk, next to a signed, hardback copy of his masterpiece. I adjusted my headphone hair and swivelled my leather chair to the right and stood up. R. Curnion took this as his cue to leave, but as he got up from his chair, his foot got tangled in one of the microphone wires. We both chuckled. I asked R. Curnion if he would like to go for dinner that same evening. Italian. Turkish. Greek. Spanish. Japanese. He raised his left eyebrow and his face became even more animated by a gentle smile. The offer was just as much a surprise to me as it was to him. R. Curnion was genuinely flattered, although he must have known that the offer wasn’t sexual. He was much older than me. His grey, receding hairline made his large forehead even more pronounced. They say that people with protruding foreheads are intelligent. His jacket was of grey and brown tweed, with leather patches on the elbows and his red cravat was ostentatiously arranged under his neck.

We decided on Turkish. Fish, simit, meze, köfte and baklava. Perfect.

The restaurant had a whitewashed brickwork facade that contrasted with the warm, cosy orangey glow of the inside. The warmness continued in the manner of the waiter, who could not be more obliging. I asked R. Curnion about his other books. He seemed reluctant to talk about his work, and began to ask me about my life as a presenter.

He slowly dissected his fish as if performing an intricate operation. He pushed the bone remnants into a neat little pile on the right hand side of his plate. It looked like an unlit, miniature bonfire. As we finished that course, he adjusted his fork so that it was perfectly vertical in the middle of the plate, leaving two equal halves of pink patterned bone china. I smiled at him, thinking how similar we were; it really unsettled me when people carelessly abandon their cutlery on finishing a meal. It was at that moment that I was suddenly inspired. I could write a book of my own, based on R. Curnion. I didn’t tell him; he would have to wait until after I had written it.

The soft and flowing rhythm of unfamiliar words in the Turkish folk music echoed through the building, through the dining room, towards the short hall that lead to the place of culinary creation. I saw the chef through the hall. He was mouthing every word.