Help the well-off by feeding them the old dear's cooking – Has JP gone chicken jalfrezi? asks ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
THAT MIKE TYSON had some dig on him. I’m sitting in Mickey D’s at the bottom of Grafton Street, watching some of his, well, greatest hits on my iPhone, even showing the odd one to Honor.
"Hey, look at this poor foc . . . I mean this poor dude. Look, he's beendecked, tries to stand up, but he keeps falling. Watch . . . Once . . . Twice . . . He was about to go a third time when the referee caught him." I laugh. "That was like me coming out of Private Eyes Gentlemen's Club in Paris two weeks ago . . ." Honor laughs as well. She goes, "You funny, Daddy!" and I'm thinking that's actually one of the really lovely things about her at thisage? As in, she's really storting to appreciate my sense of humour.
JP arrives back from the Josh Ritter. He nods at my iPhone, goes, “What are you watching?” I tell him Mike Tyson decking some dude called Trevor Berbick – just trying to get a handle on my son.
He nods. “Yeah, I heard he wants to be a fighter . . .” I give Honor another chicken nugget. “I offered to bring him to Twickenham this weekend . . . No interest.” JP blows hord, shakes his head. “Every parent’s worst nightmare.” I shrug. “You try to love them all the same, dude – what’s what being a father’s all about.”
I ask him how things are going in the old repossessions business. See, a lot of us worried about JP when Hook, Lyon and Sinker went belly-up. It has to be said, though, him and his old man are making a real go of it with this Last Resort Asset Reclaim. They've got, like, seven vehicles on the road now, all emblazoned with the company logo, "We helped build the Celtic Tiger — now we're taking it the fock back!" There's something in his reaction, though, that tells me he's not finding the work all that, I don't know, fulfilling? He just shrugs.
He's there, "It's . . . a job." "Exactly," I go, having always been a glass-half-full kind of goy. "I mean, how many people who failed the Leaving Cert can say that? Especially with the whole CEC going on . . ." He seems, like, sad, though? I heard a story that he had to drive a Porsche Cayenne back to the showroom a couple of weeks ago with some scrummy mummy sprawled across the bonnet, screaming for more time to pay. See, most of us could, like, handle that? We'd wipe the Rimmel foundation off the windscreen and move on to the next job. But JP has this whole, I don't know, spiritual side to him – like he could run off and rejoin the priesthood at any moment if he isn't watched.
He opens his Big Mac and notices I’ve had two bites out of it. He’s not a happy rabbit about that either. But I know what’ll cheer him up – the story of my old dear’s latest humiliation.
"Here," I suddenly go, "did you hear she'sgone chicken jalfrezi?"
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly. Romantic novelist. Except she’s not anymore because she’s just got the straight red from her publisher . . .”
“That’s terrible. Is she okay?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. She’s staying with Delma. You remember Delma from . . .”
“The Move Funderland To The Northside Campaign . . .”
“Exactly. Well, Delma rang me last week, having a major eppo – said, you’d better get out here quick. Point the beast in the direction of Westminster Road. Go into the gaff. And there’s the old dear . . .”
“What?”
“Cooking . . .”
“So?”
"Enough to feed an ormy, Dude. As in, she had, like, a total meltdown and cooked for, like, 14 hours straight. Every surface in Delma's kitchen – we're taking the table, the sideboards, the chairs, the actualfloor – was covered in food . . ."
“What?”
“All gourmet shit as well. Cornish game hens with savoury stuffing balls. Lobster tails in buerre monte with hasselback potatoes. Veal scallopini with blackberries and Parisienne frittes . . .”
“Whoa!”
“Whoa is right. Much as I hate the woman’s guts, the things she can do with a three-ply roaster and a handful of tamarind seeds . . .”
He seems in, like, shock. “So, she did it, what, to vent?”
I’m there, “Dude, she had a meltdown. It’s just a funny story. I thought it’d cheer you up . . .”
“But what happened to all the food?”
“JP, I don’t need a lecture about methane and carbon focking dioxide. I’ve had, like, a decade of that from Sorcha.”
He laughs at me, like I'mthe one missing something here? "I have an idea," he goes. "And I think it's a good one."
“Go on.”
“Well, there’s a lot of hordship out there, Ross. And it’s hitting everyone. I mean, the auction rooms are full of repoed X5s. Parents with professions – real professions, Ross – are asking schools for time to pay their children’s fees . . .” I reach over and grab his Big Mac. If he’s not going to eat it . . .
“I was watching this thing
on the news the other day about
the States – people living in prosperous areas are queuing
up for food parcels, Ross. And
I’m just thinking, there’s no charity here that helps well-off people who happen to be struggling . . .”
“Where’s all of this going, Dude? And bear in mind, I’ve got to get Honor back to her mother before six o’clock tonight.”
“I’m talking about The Foxrock Food Bank!”
"Ah," I go, finally twigging it. " That'swhere my old dear comes in."
“Anything she cooks, Ross, we could come and collect it . . .”
"I hope that wedoesn't include me."
“And I’m sure Fionn would help. We could have, like, an emergency number that people can ring, in total confidence, of course. Then we roll up at the door, within the hour, with a three-, four-, even five-course dinner for them . . .”
I shake my head. "Like I said, it was meant as just a funny story – the woman's obviously going bananas, like herold dear before her."
“Come on,” he just goes. “Ross, if you knew the kind of things I’m seeing – the kind of things I’m doing – in the course of my working day. This could be my way of, I don’t know, making peace with myself.”
So I tell him – not promising anything – that I’ll give her a ring. Like I said, roysh, that whole spiritual side of him really has to be watched.
rossocarrollkelly.ie
