From Pasta to Pigfoot Read online

  Lucinda Bennett and Faye had been good friends for years despite the differences in their personalities. Where Faye often lacked confidence, Lucinda was never at a loss for words and had yet to meet anyone who intimidated her. Unlike Faye who usually hung back, Lucinda was a firm believer in going after what you wanted, as long as no one got too hurt in the process. Having first spotted William when he had reluctantly showed up at a dinner party at a mutual friend’s house to give Faye a lift home, she had made an instant beeline for him. William, who had never had any trouble dealing with unwanted female attention, had been reduced to adoring putty in her elegant hands before he knew what had hit him. Unlike William’s previous girlfriends who were usually intimidated by his father, Lucinda had given Dr Bonsu’s outstretched hand a miss when she was introduced to him, and instead hugged him like a long lost friend. Her genuine enthusiasm about everything combined with her stunning good looks made it difficult for anyone to dislike her, including Lottie, who had never believed that any girl was good enough for William.

  ‘And they say blondes are dumb,’ Faye grinned in reply to the question as she headed towards the stairs. ‘Actually, I’m meeting Michael in Brixton in about—’ she glanced at her watch and squealed in horror, taking the steps two at a time.

  ‘I was just leaving – do you want a lift anywhere?’ Lucinda called after Faye’s disappearing back. Hearing a muffled scream from upstairs that she took to mean yes, she went back into the kitchen where Lottie was putting the finishing touches to the chicken pie she was making for dinner. Carefully placing the brimming pie dish into the oven, Lottie looked across at Lucinda.

  ‘I take it that was Faye?’ she said, jerking her head in the direction of the dull thuds coming from above the kitchen. ‘Late again, I suppose?’

  Lucinda’s smile was answer enough.

  ‘Well, I know Faye won’t be in for dinner tonight,’ she said. ‘What are you and William up to?’

  ‘We’re going to try out a new wine bar that’s just opened up in town,’ Lucinda said. ‘I’ll wait and give Faye a lift before I head home. William’s working late and says he’ll pick me up when he’s done.’

  A few minutes and several loud thumps later, Faye crashed through the kitchen door, still fastening the buttons on her black jeans, their tight cut and her spiky boots making her long legs appear endless. Ignoring Lottie’s pursed lips as she took in the low cut strappy black top visible under her leather jacket, Faye was almost wringing her hands in desperation.

  ‘Lucinda, let’s go! Now or Michael will go ballistic!’ Her agonised plea was wasted on Lottie who simply sniffed scornfully.

  ‘Faye, when will you stop letting that boy bully you? You’ve only just now got in, for goodness’ sake! At least sit down and have a cup of tea or something before you rush out.’

  Lucinda grinned at the distaste in Lottie’s voice when she referred to Michael. The older woman had never quite recovered from the lecture he had once given her when he warned her that ‘reverse colonialism through domestic service to the formerly colonised peoples of Africa’ could never atone for the centuries of slavery and oppression that had been practised by her people. Although at the time she had pointed out that the only oppression she had ever seen in Glasgow had come from rival football fans against the rest of the community on Saturday nights, her already poor opinion of Michael had sunk to an all-time low.

  Taking pity on Faye who was now literally hopping from foot to foot in agitation, Lucinda slid off the kitchen stool and snatched up her car keys and coat in one fluid graceful movement.

  ‘Okay, let’s go! Lottie, I’ll come over at the weekend. I want to know all about that couple that’s just moved into number 28. I’ve seen them a couple of times now and, quite honestly, the man looks pretty dodgy to me.’

  Blowing Lottie a quick kiss, Faye followed close on Lucinda’s heels as they hurried out of the house. She slid into the padded leather passenger seat of her friend’s sleek silver Mazda convertible, which, rather like its owner, was gleaming and immaculately maintained. Faye looked around the pristine interior and sighed enviously. Her own Fiesta, littered with Mars bar wrappers and old issues of The Black Herald that she had never quite got round to reading, made her car look like a seedy bed and breakfast compared to this luxury five star hotel.

  As they drove off, Faye checked her watch again, now completely despairing of being on time. It was nearly seven-thirty and the Friday night traffic into town was moving at a slow crawl. It was clearly time for a change of plan.

  ‘Luce, just drop me off at Euston, if that’s okay? I’ll get the tube down to Brixton. With all this traffic, the Underground is bound to be faster.’

  Lucinda nodded. Barely pausing to indicate, she turned left into the road leading to Euston station, cutting confidently across the choked lanes of traffic with supreme disregard for the irate drivers forced to give way. She weaved expertly through the cars slowly inching their way along the Euston Road until they reached the entrance to the underground.

  ‘You are a star! Thanks a million – I’ll see you later.’ Faye gave her friend a hurried kiss goodbye and slid out of the car.

  For the second time in less than an hour she was back underground. The platform indicator showed the next Brixton-bound train was due in four minutes. Yet less than a minute later, clearly having reservations about its original information, the indicator now showed that the train was due in six minutes.

  Faye turned around to find herself surrounded by a small group of women dressed in flowing skirts with shawls tied around the shoulders. Two of them were carrying babies tightly swaddled in coloured shawls. One of the women leaned forward to try to pin a purple posy wrapped in tin foil onto the lapel of Faye’s coat while another held her baby up to her. With a smile that revealed several missing teeth, she held out a rather grubby hand, palm upwards.

  Trying really hard not to grimace at the unmistakable smell of a baby in urgent need of a nappy change, Faye turned her head away from the smelly infant and scrabbled in her coat pocket for change. Clutching gratefully at the fluff-covered coins dropped into her palm, the woman gave another flash of her discoloured smile and hugged her protesting baby to her chest.

  The sound of the approaching train gave Faye the opportunity to slip away, and she moved quickly down the platform as it thundered into the station. This time the train moved quickly and smoothly between stations, arriving at Brixton without incident.

  Well, twenty minutes isn’t that bad, Faye muttered under her breath as she tried to check her make-up in the smudged mirror of her compact while walking up the moving escalator. Of course, Michael could just buy a car and save me from this endless rushing around all the time, she thought moodily. It’s not like he can’t afford it.

  Although Michael constantly scorned the need for a car, blaming car owners for every possible environmental problem, he never had any complaints about her driving them everywhere or even using her car himself when it suited him, Faye thought irritably. Look at Lucinda – the lucky cow just sat at home and waited for William to pick her up whenever they went out.

  ‘Here, Faye! Over here!’

  She turned to see Michael waving vigorously at her. He was wearing a long black leather coat over fashionably baggy jeans and a black woolly cap covered his hair. Her resentment was quickly forgotten as the familiar warm rush of pleasure at seeing him swept over her.

  She sighed as she looked into his brown eyes, fringed with the thick long lashes that always reminded her of a cuddly puppy. I know he can be difficult, she thought, but he is so gorgeous.

  Resisting the urge to hurl herself on him, she hugged him tightly and pressed her warm eager lips against his cold mouth. Only briefly returning the pressure, Michael patted her awkwardly on the shoulder before quickly disengaging himself and rubbing his hands together against the night chill.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’ he said casually. ‘Well, for once you’re not that late,’ he added with a smile. ‘Come
on, let’s go.’

  Propelling her out of the crowded station and up the stairs, he draped an arm around her shoulders as they set off down the street at a brisk pace.

  ‘So, like I said on the phone, I have to do a write-up for the paper on this new restaurant that opened up last week. The owner is Jamaican and from what he told me when I spoke to him, his vision is to offer really authentic home food. If we like the food tonight, I’ll set up an interview for him with a couple of food writers I know – I’m sure he’ll appreciate the publicity.’

  As they walked, he moved his arm away and hugged himself against the cold. Wanting to stay close to him, she tried to slip her hand inside the crook of his arm but his hands remained resolutely clamped against his forearms. Sighing, she gave up and pushed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, forcing herself to concentrate on what he was saying. Struck by his unusual cheeriness – Michael usually needed a lot of jollying to emerge from a sulk as prolonged as his recent effort – Faye looked up at him with narrowed eyes.

  ‘You’re very chirpy tonight,’ she remarked. It was also out of character for the Michael she knew not to have made any further reference to the previous weekend.

  He gave a careless shrug and carried on without comment.

  ‘So who’s coming this evening?’ she said a few minutes later, interrupting his flow again.

  He put his arm around her to steer her away from a tramp staggering towards them, clutching a can of lager. When they were safely past, he released her and continued at a brisk pace, his hands buried deep inside his coat pockets.

  ‘Well, Philomena can’t make it,’ he said. ‘She’s got a poetry evening with the Brixton Caribbean Women’s Circle. She’s the main organiser, so she couldn’t get away.’

  ‘So it’s just Luther, Wesley and Jiggy then?’ Faye asked slowly, looking forward to the evening less and less by the minute. Michael didn’t answer immediately and she looked across at him curiously.

  ‘Well, Wesley’s sister, Jasmine, will probably come with them,’ he said casually. ‘I invited her as well.’

  ‘Who?’ Faye stopped walking and stared at him.

  Reluctantly forced to stop, he sighed with exaggerated patience. ‘Jasmine. She’s Wesley’s younger sister,’ he repeated. ‘She’s a part-time lecturer at a college in Balham. She’s nice – you’ll like her.’

  He slipped his arm through hers and pulled her along with him as they walked around a corner and into a small side road, past dark vacant lots and shabby-looking terraced houses with huge satellite dishes fixed to the roofs.

  Her LK Bennett boots had been designed to be easy on the eye, not the feet, and she was now beginning to feel their pinch. To her relief, the restaurant was only a few minutes away and they were soon in front of a building with a large sign bearing the words Pigfoot Etcetera in pink letters above the image of a large platter of pink pigfoot nestling on a bed of dark green spinach leaves.

  Walking into the restaurant, Faye was immediately hit by the smell of fresh paint combined with the musky scent of lighted candles and the unmistakable odour of paraffin. Inside the poorly lit room, about fifteen wooden tables had been laid and in the centre of each one was a small bouquet of blue silk flowers and matching pink salt and pepper mills. Paraffin lamps set on metal stands were dotted around the room, adding to the odd and old-fashioned décor.

  At the far end of the restaurant, she could see a narrow bar topped with an array of glasses and manned by a slim black man wearing a white shirt under a black and white waistcoat with a matching bow tie. As she and Michael moved into the restaurant, the bartender pushed a CD into a player behind the bar and reggae music softly filled the room.

  Faye turned her attention back to Michael who was exchanging loud greetings with a tall dark man in his early thirties striding towards them.

  ‘Faye, this is Trevor Royal,’ Michael said, grinning at the other man. ‘He’s the owner of the restaurant.’

  Trevor smiled broadly at Faye, the gold tooth at the front of his mouth glinting in the muted lighting of the room. Faye shook his outstretched hand and, conscious of his expectant gaze, she cast her eyes around the restaurant trying desperately to find something positive to say.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like this place before,’ she said truthfully.

  Trevor’s smile was now even wider and he stroked the small gold hoop earring in his left earlobe thoughtfully.

  ‘Yeah, we wanted something a bit different, you get me?’ he said, gesturing broadly around the room. His voice was deep and his accent pure South London. He pointed to one of the paraffin lamps.

  ‘See those lamps there, yeah? That was my girlfriend Angie’s idea – she’s the chef. When they was growing up in Jamaica, that’s what they used to keep in the house for when the power went off.’ He burst into a huge roar of laughter, slapping Michael on the back until he joined in while Faye watched them both in bemusement. After a moment, Trevor abruptly stopped laughing. Placing a heavy hand on Michael’s shoulder, he led them to a large table in the middle of the room.

  ‘All right then, Mr Reporter,’ he said loudly. ‘Here’s your table for tonight. Best one in the house – know what I mean?’ He winked at Michael knowingly and burst into loud laughter again.

  Trevor threw his arm around Faye’s shoulders and shouted towards the bar.

  ‘’Ere, Phil, come and find out what Mr Reporter and his woman want to drink!’

  Wincing at the sudden volume so close to her ear, Faye slid out from under Trevor’s arm and pulled out a chair, having learned long ago that there was no point waiting for Michael to do any such thing. According to him, pulling out chairs and holding doors open for women was an insult to their equal status with men.

  Trevor walked over to the bar to prod Phil into action and Michael took a seat across the table from Faye. Frowning slightly, she looked across at him and whispered.

  ‘Should you have told him that you’re a journalist?’ She ignored the darkening expression on his face. ‘I mean, aren’t you supposed to be undercover to see what their food and the service is really like?’

  Whatever response he was going to make was cut off by Phil’s arrival at their table. Waving a languid hand in the air and with a stubby pencil and small notebook at the ready, he smiled politely at them. Up close, he was even thinner than he had appeared half-hidden behind the bar counter and Faye stared enviously at the tiny span of his waist. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and strongly accented and with a pronounced lisp.

  ‘Welcome to Pigfoot Etcetera and a good evening to you. I’ll be back to take your food order but what are you all drinking now?’ He nodded in the direction of the bar. ‘We’ve got some divine rum from the islands.’

  Frowning at Faye’s involuntary shudder at the word rum, he tossed his head and added somewhat petulantly, ‘Or maybe I can fix you a nice fruit cocktail? I can recommend the Tropical Island Sunset. It’s fresh pineapple juice with a touch of cherryade and just a hint of crushed mint?’

  Anxious not to offend further, she nodded in agreement and absently fingered the waxy vinyl tablecloth while Michael ordered a glass of Jamaican rum that Phil assured him was ‘full-bodied, rich and honeyed on the nose’. Although it was now well after eight o’clock, with the exception of the owner and bartender, she and Michael were still the only two people in the restaurant. Suppressing a sigh, she followed Michael’s cue and picked up her menu, a small, laminated card stuck in a wooden stand next to the improbably blue flowers. The short list of dishes was almost without exception centred on the main ingredient of pigfoot.

  ‘Pigfoot Royal, Island-Style Pigfoot, Spicy Rice with Pigfoot, Pigfoot Supreme…’ Faye read out the list with dismay. Towards the bottom of the card, in smaller print, was a short selection of non-pigfoot dishes and two types of dessert.

  I suppose I should be grateful they don’t have Pigfoot ice cream, she thought morosely. She leaned across the table, keeping her voice low.

  ‘Mich
ael, this place isn’t exactly heaving with people. Don’t you think it’s a bit risky setting up a restaurant for only one type of food?’

  He looked up from his menu. ‘Maybe you don’t eat this kind of food in your cosy Hampstead world,’ he said, his words laced with sarcasm, ‘but down here this is part of the culture.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, it’s still early; it probably gets busier later on.’

  Chastened by his dismissive response, she subsided into her chair and went back to scrutinising the menu. She looked up as a cold shock of air wafted across the overheated room and cut straight through her flimsy blouse. Wesley stood in the doorway of the restaurant and was holding the front door wide to let Jiggy, Luther and a petite girl with a mass of red gold curls through.

  Jasmine, I presume, Faye thought curiously. The girl slipped her coat off as soon as she walked in, revealing a short red skirt and a close-fitting white top.

  ‘Hey, guys! Over here!’ Michael’s voice sounded overly loud in the empty restaurant. Without waiting for them to reach the table, he rushed over to greet them, hugging the girl and kissing her warmly on the cheek before shaking hands with the men. As she watched the small group heading in her direction, Faye’s stomach muscles tightened involuntarily in alarm.

  Clearly relieved to see any paying customers, Trevor Royal also rushed over to greet the new arrivals and stopped them to shake hands before they could reach their table. His loud booming laugh reverberated around the room as he rubbed his hands together joyfully.

  ‘Welcome to our little piece of home, my brothers and my sister, right here in London town!’

  Faye watched in disbelief as Michael moved swiftly to their table to pull out the chair next to his and help Jasmine into the seat. What the hell had happened to the “insulting the emancipated female” line, she thought furiously, glaring at her boyfriend who studiously refused to make eye contact with her.

  Aware that the other new arrivals were eyeing her somewhat warily, Faye forced a smile and rose to her feet. She shook hands quickly with the three men, mumbling what she hoped sounded like a polite greeting.