CHAPTER ELEVEN
The French Cuisine
Freshen up, I came out of my room the next day with my purse and went straight to the kitchen where I was greeted by mother and daughter
“I came over to your room yesterday to call you for lunch and dinner but your door was locked” Maria informed me
“I am sorry, I wanted to sleep without disturbance”
“I was alarmed when you didn’t answer, I had to check the CCTV to be sure that nothing was wrong” Maria added
CCTV? In this house. That is a violation of my privacy. I will need to do something about that
“I am sure you are famished, please go to the dinning, we will serve your breakfast”
I nodded and went into the dinning where I found Alice in a sport legging and jumper gulping water in front of a fridge.
I am sorry but is there fridge everywhere in this house? Alice dropped the bottle in the dustbin next to her and looked at me up and down. Judging from the sweat on her body and her sharp intake of air, I say she went jogging
“Are you going somewhere?” she asked with a farrowed look
“Yes, I need to get to a bank and create a bank account”
“You can always do that on your phone”
“I am allowed to go out right, I mean the elephant in the house is out” I countered back
“Of course, you are. I just figured it would be easier and less stressful for you”
“If you don’t mind, I would do it the Nigerian way”
“Suit yourself” She resigned “But I would have to follow you”
“I won’t expect anything less”
“But please if you are going anywhere next time, let me know” is she kidding right now? “I need to prepare” She added and left. I really don’t understand why The French need so many preparation before doing something
Maria and her daughter, Isa came in with the food and set the table up. It was spaghetti with so many unnecessary decorations
“This is Spaghetti Carbonara” Maria announced.
Oh! This concoction has a name....
Looking at the cutlery next to the place, I guess I am suppose to eat this with fork and knife, I am pretty sure the spoon was left as decoration. When I was in boarding school, we were always expected to eat with fork and knife but I never learnt it. I always felt it was a waste of my time. I never did then and I won’t start now.
I dipped my fork in and took my fork filled with spaghetti and I cringed. Too much onions and too little pepper
“Is it not to your liking?” the elderly woman asked with concern. Looking at the woman’s face, I felt so bad, I mean she must have put her best into this. Back in Nigeria, Mama would knock my head for what I just did. An elderly woman made food for me, who am I to badmouth her food? There is no greater disrespect than that. I adjusted my face and smiled brightly to her
“Of course, it is… there is just too much onion” I muttered
“You don’t like garlic?”
Oh fuck! It was garlic, I hate garlic. I can’t even stomach onion which is still a baby to garlic
“Thank you for the meal, it is really delicious” For a French tongue, I added internally. I just have to find a way to adjust. It is not like garlic would kill me.
“Tell me your favourite food, so I can made it for you” really? I am sure she hasn’t heard of it, not to talk of making it
“Eba with okro soup”
“What?”
And that confirmed my suspicion
“It is a Nigerian delicacy, don’t worry about it. I will just have to adjust to French cuisines” I tried to assure her, the woman nodded and then left.
I looked at the meal closely and I saw that it was garnished with onions too. Fuck! There is no way I am adjusting this.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT SATURDAY
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