It isn’t commonly known, darlings, but Aretha Franklin was an extraordinarily keen rambler.
I know this because we rambled together: year after year, holiday after holiday. One wet summer she persuaded me to walk the whole of The Thames Path. I don’t mind telling you now, mes choux, that 185 miles of Kemble-to-Woolwich drizzle was not this fox’s idea of a decent break away from the travails of being a Food Freedom Fighter. I’m not really much of a cagoule sort of chap, you won’t be surprised to hear….
So the following February, when The Queen of Soul made her usual call from Detroit to open up the annual discussions about where we would ramble next, I had no choice but to assert myself. Reminding her of the sodden trudging of the previous year, I informed her that she’d better think, think about what she was trying to do me, and that if we were to ramble together again, it would need to be in significantly warmer, and drier, climes.
And so it was, darlings, that in the spring of the same year, ReeRee and I found ourselves in Cyprus, singing our heads off as we marched up and down the beautiful, parched landscape, and not a drop of rain in sight.
As was often the case on our trips together, we’d earmarked one particular day as being the ‘hard day’ and so for that night I’d insisted on booking us into a proper hotel, instead of the usual youth hostels and dormitories that Aretha favoured.
And thank goodness we did, mes choux. Because that day turned out to be less of a ramble and more of an ordeal, quite frankly. By the time we finally crawled into the hotel it was getting dark and we were nothing short of pooped.
ReeRee and I checked in to our rooms and agreed to meet at 8pm for a sharpener before dinner. (Only a scoundrel would start dinner without having knocked back a jolly stiff one, darlings.)
Having showered and brushed my brush, I made my way downstairs only to find ReeRee draped off the arm of an admittedly dashing and incredibly hirsute local chap.
“Rey,” she said slowly, and in a tone that immediately put my foxy senses on high alert, “this is George.”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” I said, extending a paw. Manners maketh foxes as well as men, mes choux.
The handsome young Cypriot smiled and Aretha, pupils dilated to saucers, giggled like a school girl on her first date.
“Now Rey, honey, it turns out that young George here is a singer too, and so we’re gonna have us a lil’ artists’ dinner together tonight: just the two of us, sweetie. I know you’ll understand.” And then she raised her right eyebrow in a way that suggested that she didn’t really give a fig about whether I ‘understood’ or not and that yours truly should be making himself scarce.
Well, darlings, this silver fox wasn’t going to take that lying down.
“Aretha, darling,” I said firmly, “I really must protest, and in the strongest possible terms. We’ve just walked 20 kilometres together through some of the hardest terrain either of us has ever rambled in, and you’re now jettisoning me for some fellow you’ve literally just met?!?!”
“That’s right, Rey”, she drawled imperiously, “and now if you’ll excuse us, my beautiful Georgie Boy and I need to wet our precious artists’ whistles with an ice cold martini or two. Foxes not invited.”
She grabbed the young Greek’s bulging bicep more tightly and turned towards the bar.
“ReeRee!,” I shouted after her, “How could you? Look at what we’ve rambled together today. And I’ve been with you, loyally, every step of the way. When the river was deep, I didn’t falter. When the mountain was high, I still believed. When the valley was low, it didn’t stop me; no, no.”
At this point the dishy young Greek interloper removed a notebook from the breast pocket of his frankly rather vulgar jacket and wrote something down. Arm in arm, the couple then sidled towards the bar without so much as a backwards glance.
I knew that they were most certainly not waiting for me.
I never saw or heard from either of them ever again. Respect? Au contraire, mes choux, au contraire.
To add insult to injury, ReeRee, who was always responsible for the holiday kitty, had left me literally sans un sou. So your favourite Food Freedom Fighter had to suffer the gross indignity of washing up the restaurant’s mezedes dishes for the best part of a week.
But, as you know darlings, every cloud has a silver lining. Demis, the kitchen’s kaftan-wearing plongeur (and something of a warbler himself) taught me how to make his favourite Cypriot recipe. I’ve set it out for you below and do trust me when I say that once you’ve tried it you’ll be wanting to eat it forever.
In fact, forever and ever (as Demis was overly fond of saying).
R.
X
DEMIS’ GOAT, LEEK & POTATO CASSEROLE
Serves 4
Ingredients
175ml excellent olive oil
1.5kg potatoes
250g leeks
1kg diced goat
Pinch of cinnamon or allspice
2 tbsp tomato purée
2 bay leaves
Instructions
Prep:
Chop the leeks - ever so finely (Demis really couldn’t have been clearer on this, mes choux) and cut the potatoes into wedges.
Veg:
Heat the oil in a large, heavy pan before adding the potatoes. Cook the potatoes for about 8 minutes or so, on a medium heat and stirring frequently, until golden. Remove them with a slotted spoon and put to one side. Now add the leeks to the same oil and cook until soft. Remove and set aside the leeks.
Meat:
Introduce to the meat to the same pan and cook for up to 10 minutes or until it is nicely browned.
Stew:
Pour the wine and spice into the pan and season with salt and pepper. Mix the tomato purée with 450ml of water, and add the mixture to the pan, along with the cooked leeks and the bay leaves. Cover and simmer for an hour or so, before adding the potatoes and simmering for a further hour until all the ingredients are tender and the liquid has reduced to a thick, glossy sauce.
Serve immediately.
(Having made sure to have had an ouzo or two as you go, naturally darlings 🇬🇷.)