Fifteen years ago, I celebrated the opening of the New Millennium by standing in the sea in Grenada, wearing my kilt, raising a glass of whisky to my dear, recently departed, Mum. This is my record of the end of that holiday of a lifetime.
“Oo dare to order plain omelette from zee keetchen of zee greatest chef in zee ‘ole Caribbean?!” yelled Jean-Paul at the terrified Grenadian waiter, waving his hot spatula inches from the poor boy’s nose.
“Twenty years of ‘ard graft in zee ‘ottest restaurants in Paree so I can prepare zee best New Year Gala Dinner menu ever seen in zees ‘emisphere, to be insulted by some reech American touriste!”
Five days later, most of the guests had departed and Jean-Paul sat chatting to the friendly, unassuming British couple who remained.
“No, no. Please. I like to ‘ear zee feedback,” insisted Jean-Paul.
“Well, it might please your guests if you could mix your haute cuisine with some laid-back Caribbean,” suggested the gentleman, tentatively. “For example, my wife resorted to just a plain omelette on New Year’s Eve.”
“Ah! YOU are zee geelty wan!” exclaimed Jean-Paul, leaping to his feet, waggling his finger threateningly in the direction of the terrified lady’s face.