Before I entered Nic’s semi-detached house, I already knew no one was there, and no one had visited the property. I had wedged a bit of folded paper by Calco between the door and the frame after I left, and it was still there upon my return. I learned this trick from Sean Connery’s 1962 film Dr. No, but I didn’t use a strand of hair. I didn’t own that fancy hair gel by Brylcream he used. Also, the environment was different because I was exposed to the windy streets while he was acting in a movie, and the scene was shot in a room. So I beefed up the trick and claimed it! I did this because I was extremely concerned and could not figure out why someone would give me his home and never turn up.
I entered the maroon-painted main door and crossed the corridor. I took a couple of steps down into the kitchen, which had a glass pavilion with a fancy winter garden attached to it. It was really a diner, with greasy, worn-out natural wood flooring. Neither the kitchen nor the dining room was dirty in the unbearable sense. Still, they were utterly clogged, disorganized, and in desperate need of a thorough cleaning. It was clear that no decent woman had lived there in ages. The dishes weren’t done; newspapers—The Independent, The Financial Times, The Guardian—and many magazines were all over the shop. The glass table was touched up, but it was populated with tons of junk mail, open envelopes, letters, unpaid bills, and all sorts of stuff. There were “Forever Living” products by the dozens and generally a lot of random clutter that had no business being in a kitchen–diner combo.
The mess didn’t bother me, nor did I want to clean it up. I thought about it several times, even after that day, but somehow I didn’t want to go down that route where I would become someone’s janitor. Perhaps it turned me off because I had spent most of my previous life as a modern slave to those more privileged than me.
Having said all this, I had quite a big issue because I had never regularly cooked for myself before. Of course, I knew how to make scrambled eggs with bacon or ham, potato purée, something quick to fill me up, or a good sandwich.
I had never tried to cook rice before. Since rice was the cheapest item in the supermarket, I knew it would fill me up. If it could feed 1.4 billion Chinese people, surely it could provide for one Austrian. So, after some logical thinking, I started cooking rice in the frying pan along with cooked carrots and sliced onion rings, seasoned with sea salt I nicked from Nic. Everything was a disaster: one part of the rice was soaking wet, the other was like sand between my teeth, the carrots were overcooked, and the carrot-onion combination was disgusting. The sole reason I ate it was that I dislike wasting anything, especially food. I washed up my pan but couldn’t resist passing the fridge without taking a peek.
It wasn’t right what I did, and to this day, I feel ashamed about it. But I believe I told Nic about it years later, and we laughed over it. If not, he will know now after reading this paragraph. I opened the fridge and helped myself to the most delicious bowl of salad I had ever tasted in my life. It featured substantial organic avocado chunks, the finest cherry tomatoes, a variety of whole seeds like sunflower and pumpkin—far too many to list—a collection of roasted mixed nuts, crisp spinach leaves, wax beans, kidney beans, lima beans, soy dices, all infused with sesame seed paste. The salmagundi was seasoned with Korean (Amethyst) bamboo salt, Cambodian Kampot pepper, Japanese Shibanuma soy sauce, Herati saffron, and Leonardi balsamic vinegar from the hills of Modena, where the typical grape varieties of Lambrusco and Trebbiano are grown to obtain the so-called grape must, the primary ingredient of balsamic vinegar.
Nic’s salad couldn’t have been touched by anyone on the agglomeration, and I committed petty food theft from “The Best Salad in the World.”
Although I didn’t want to overdo it, I had a fair number of forkfuls before I rushed back and carried on scanning the prices at Sainsbury’s on Garratt Lane.
Upon my return, the wedge of paper was still there, so I went to the room to relax and napped. It was about 6 p.m. and already dark outside. I couldn’t fall into a deep sleep because I was vigilant. Suddenly, I heard some noises in the house: steps, chopping, the shifting of items, and the water tap being turned on and off.
I gently removed the twig of a common hornbeam (Carpinus betulus) that was jammed between the door handle and the thick red-carpeted floor. This was good practice and an accessible solution as a security precaution. If someone burst in, it would give me sufficient time to jump up and react. I peered at the door, opened it gently, popped my egg-shaped head through the gap, and listened. It was now clear that someone was there preparing some food.
After stepping into my flippers, I went down the stairs and into the kitchen. I saw a grey-haired, fit, middle-aged fellow enjoying a bowl of salad. The reason for the tap going on and off and the chopping became immediately apparent. Obviously, he had to top up that bowl. I’ve always wondered in later years, during these flashbacks: why didn’t he mention anything? There was no one else living in his house except me.
However, Nic was a gentleman, and some of his house keys were circulating around London. He was a good-hearted person. He could have given some keys to friends, ex-lovers, regular female visitors, or even ex-tenants, who could have made copies. He must have known what was up but mentioned nothing about the missing salad.
I approached him and introduced myself. He replied, “Oh yeah, you are Stefan. Finally, I’m pleased to meet you.” He looked slightly surprised and said, “Sorry, I was busy.” He said more words, which I didn’t understand, so I asked, “Could we speak in Hungarian?” He switched languages and said, “You’re so quiet; I thought you had already left.” I said, “I’m sorry. I’m still here, and I was waiting to meet you.”
I wanted to talk about my stay, but he said, “Don’t worry; I don’t have time right now. I need to deliver these ‘Forever Living’ products to my customers. After that, I’m going for a swim because I’m preparing to run the London Marathon in April next year. We’ll talk on Thursday.”
This worked handsomely for me because I could stay there for almost a week without a penny being asked or paid. I didn’t bother to look for accommodation because I had a good feeling about this guy and the situation.
After a long and amusing conversation on Thursday, he said I could stay for three weeks for free, after which I had to leave or pay £400 per month. With this incredible offer, I was safe and dry. I only needed one thing to achieve total happiness…