Hot dude with a pizza

Last night Guido and I were in bed. Three of us were under the sheets – me, Guido and a soggy four cheese pizza. Not that I was complaining.

“It was early morning in London,” I said, “and an unidentified woman had fallen asleep on an Underground train when suddenly, Bam! I’m not making this up. The traveller I’m telling you about actually dozed off on the Victoria line last Saturday whilst holding a pizza.”

Our conversations in bed are nothing if not highly relevant.

“And the pizza, which she appeared to have only eaten two slices of, had just slid from the box onto the floor.”

“Man, that’s so tragic, but tell me,” asked Guido somewhat irrelevantly, “was it a thin crust or deep-pan base?”

Unfortunately for the woman, the BBC reporter James Longman took a photograph of her and then posted it on Twitter. It was 8am at the time so either the woman was on her way home from a night out or she habitually eats pizza for breakfast. I’m not in any way being judgemental. The picture went viral.

“There’s something very voyeuristic about that photo,” I said.

I tried to visualise myself in her shoes, slumped unconscious in public, totally oblivious to all my surroundings. Actually, it wasn’t too difficult for me to imagine. But if anyone was going to Twitter me up on the Underground I’d want to know about it beforehand.

“Talking of voyeurism,” I said nibbling a corner, “I’ve discovered an Instagram site you’re going to love, it’s called Hot Dudes Reading.”

You won’t be surprised to discover the site delivers exactly what it promises on the tin. It features photographs of random but hot dudes, in public places, who just happen to be reading. That’s the sum total of the action. I’ve become quite obsessed with browsing through it and so have the other 900,000 followers who routinely view it. Whether these dudes know they’re being photographed or not is open to debate but the site has spawned a best selling book, also called Hot Dudes Reading. And now some of the pictures on the site feature hot dudes reading the book, Hot Dudes Reading, so go figure.

The words, hot, and, dude, are always guaranteed to prick Guido’s interest.

“How would you feel if a photograph of you were to go viral?” asked Guido.

I sat sucking some melted cheese.

“That completely depends on what the photograph captured me doing at the time,” I said wisely. “why, you got some ideas?”

Guido is always full of surprises.

“Well,” said Guido, “how about publishing some on the internet of you in bed in a variety of interesting poses wearing absolutely nothing except a slice of strategically placed pizza. I’m thinking – Hot Dude Naked With A Pizza In Bed.”

Going viral wasn’t my first thought. My immediate concerns were (and in no particular order) my stomach, dough consistency, and what would my mother say.

“Yeah,” said Guido nodding, “Cruella could be a major sticking point, especially if I had to explain to her that over a period of time I’d gotten you fat solely for the twisted gratification of persons unknown.”

Anyway, here’s the picture and I don’t mean me spread-eagle on our mattress smeared in a spicy topping.

Personally I’d much rather be a hot dude reading.

Simple pleasures

Yesterday I wandered through the café kitchen on my way out to work thinking, thank God it’s Friday. I can’t say I was looking forward to another day pondering the multi faceted uses for a vintage 1970s shag pile rug. As you can tell there’s never a dull day at the office for a South London interior designer.

“You know,” said Guido staring at the stove flame whilst holding his spoon in the air pensively, “sometimes it’s the simple things in life you derive most pleasure from.”

It wasn’t clear if he was talking to me or the spatula.

“Strip off. Be bold. Get down to the bare bones.”

Then he made a worrying sort of, Mmm… noise.

I looked at my watch. It was nine thirty a.m. and let’s just say I didn’t have the time or the inclination to start taking all of my clothes off. Trust me, Guido’s epiphanies are time consuming.

“Never before have three little words – less is more – seemed so appropriate to me.”

Guido’s eyes started to mist up.

“I see,” I said, seeing nothing at all, “I’ll tell you what Einstein, perhaps we could continue this very interesting conversation when I get home, “but unfortunately,” I said, “I’ve got a client waiting for me in Islington who has a weird but very expensive fetish for Italian polished marble.”

The clock was ticking on that one, trust me. But Guido certainly did get me thinking.

As I dodged other commuters across the concourse at London Bridge Train Station I wondered why on earth I was struggling to balance two satchels and an oversized portfolio when probably only one of them would do. Then down on a Northern Line tube train I sat opposite a guy wearing a Burberry tie and a big man scarf knotted with a flourish and a hat and I thought – aha! That’s actually all I can remember thinking at the time, but it definitely was fashion overkill. Whilst extremely cute, I resisted the temptation to lean over and point out to him that in my opinion the combination of a beard and only a cocked hat really was totally acceptable.

Later last night at home I got real quick to where Guido had been coming from.

Roman food with only 3 ingredients.

I’m telling you, pasta really does taste best almost naked. Oh and, it’s on the specials board tonight. We still have tables if you want to stop by. If you can’t then here’s the recipe. But just one thing, remember, strip off.

Cacio e Pepe

Bring a deep pan of water to a boil and season with salt; add spaghetti and cook, stirring occasionally, for about 5 minutes before it’s tender. Drain, reserving 3/4 cup pasta cooking water. Meanwhile, melt 2 chopped tablespoons of butter in a large frying pan over medium heat. Add a teaspoon of cracked pepper and cook, until toasted. Add 1/2 cup reserved pasta water to the pan and bring to a simmer. Add the pasta and one table spoon of chopped butter. Reduce heat to low and add 3/4 cup of Grana Padano, stirring and tossing with tongs until melted. Remove pan from heat; add 1/3 cup of Pecorino, stirring and tossing until the cheese melts, and coats the pasta. Add more pasta water if sauce seems dry. Transfer pasta to warm bowls and serve.

Going for a song

This week Guido’s super tiny Spanish parents, the super diminutive Rosa and Juan, invited us round to their place for dinner. All I ever hope for when we go round there is a quiet night in with his folks and a big plate of Rosa’s hot and spicy salt and pepper calamari. Guido’s parents might be small in stature, but trust me, their portion size is always huge. Rosa serves it with a homemade chopped tomato salsa like you’ve never tasted before. If she ever bothers to tell me the recipe I’m going to immediately press it into production at a bottling plant and probably become a millionaire overnight.

Regular readers of this blog may remember that Guido’s parents burst out laughing every time they clap their super tiny eyes on me. Apparently the words – hello, or, how are you? – have never before seemed so incredibly funny.

“Hello,” I said smiling at Juan as he threw open his big front door in downtown Dulwich.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” said Juan bent over double looking up at me, “you so so funny!” He waved me in and hugged Guido.

Juan is so super tiny and his son is so super tall they kissed somewhere around Guido’s knee caps. Unfortunately when Juan starts laughing, it’s highly contagious. So, so do Guido and me. This usually means that by the time I finally find Rosa in the kitchen we’re all almost hysterical but no one can remember what the hell anyone is laughing about.

“How are you?” I asked Rosa, who just happened to slicing vegetables with the same but unaided vigour of a Kenwood food blender switched to its highest setting.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” she shrieked, stopping only to point her big cleaver at me, “you so crack me up and into many MANY tiny pieces.” I’m guessing that would be many many even more super tiny pieces. At the time I could smell the scent of her delicious calamari batter mix so I was just praying she’d manage to serve it all up before she fell to bits.

I’ve got to tell you the fish main course was great. The almond cake dessert was terrific too but nothing could prepare me for what came along with the coffee and I’m not talking about that full bottle of liqueur. Let’s just say you can’t miss an electronic organ when it’s got pride of place with a microphone plugged in right in the center of the room. Especially when it comes with a fully integrated orchestra at the press of a button. And when Rosa sings she really puts her heart and soul into it. Some how she manages to make Margarita Pracatan sould like Maria Callas. I’m surprised the neighbours haven’t shot themselves. I’m hoping for their sakes they’re deaf.

After almost a full bottle of Tia Maria, Guido agreed to play a tune on the keyboard. Rosa, Juan and me sang along, and whilst I have absolutely no idea what it was, I think the four of us might now be taking bookings for bar mitzvahs and weddings. The clip below is the closest I can give you to the real thing (and boy it’s pretty close).

Rosa might overcook the lyrics to any song she says sings, but her calamari is pitch perfect.

Hypothetically speaking

Wednesday night Guido and I were in bed. It was one of those predictable midweek bedtimes when all you’re expecting to do is strip off, slide between the sheets, then shut your eyes. If I’m really lucky I’ll have a dream about getting stuck in a very small elevator with Alexander Skarsgard.

Whilst there was no immediate suggestion of extraneous sex, I could sense Guido was perky. He sat up totally erect. So in the blink of an eye our discussion had shifted from, who was hogging the blanket most, to one of life’s unexpected dilemmas.

“Hypothetically speaking…” Guido said staring at the bedroom ceiling.

I have to tell you my heart always sinks whenever Guido starts a conversation with the words – hypothetically speaking. This is because when it boils right down to it, it’s very rarely hypothetical. Infact, it’s usually the total opposite. What he really means is it’s completely literal. This is the guy who once asked me, hypothetically, how I felt about interesting and alternative uses for peanut butter. And then proceeded use his tartan boxer shorts and a tablespoon to illustrate his point. Go figure.

“If you went to Southwark Street to withdraw some cash from our bank account, and the ATM unexpectedly spewed out an extra £200, what would you do?”

As dilemmas go it was a pretty good one. I lay there trying to get my head around all that hard cash. Trust me, there isn’t a whole shed load of it in our bank account and, if the lease for the new cafe in Denmark Hill ever gets signed, then there will be even less of it. You have no idea what £200 could do for me right now.

“Would you hand it back or pocket the cash and spend it?” asked Guido.

This time it was my turn to stare at the ceiling. I was mentally thinking about counting out all those crisp notes and then stuffing them into my wallet.

“Well?” said Guido.

“Give me a minute,” I said, “I’ve got it narrowed down to a pair of tan Ted Baker lace up shoes or a spa day at Champneys.”

“I see,” said Guido. He said that with an air of obvious disapproval.

“As you know I’m clearly a shallow person who likes nothing better than spending other people’s money,” I said. After all this time together you’d think he’d have gotten me figured out by now. I mean, really.

However I felt obliged to be contrite for just a moment.

“You?” I asked.

“I think I’d probably act out my Robin Hood fantasy,” said Guido. “It’s not exactly robbing from the rich to give to the poor but if I saw someone who I really thought needed it on Bankside then I’d share it around.”

I thought about being down and out but wearing Ted Baker shoes. It wasn’t all bad.

“I see,” I said. I wasn’t feeling at all sleepy. “Well if you fancied it, I suppose we could re-enact some of your favourite Robin Hood scenes before lights out?”

All it took was a couple of fertile minds to turn a double bed and four pillows into Sherwood Forest. I particularly enjoyed the part where Guido pretended to fire his bow and arrow from the top of our chest of drawers.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Eat it

Today I was sitting in the café quietly minding my own business. I was idly stirring a frothy cappuccino whilst torturing myself with thoughts about my diet.

It’s one thing thinking about dieting but trust me it’s a whole other ball game actually doing it. Unfortunately, as well as stiring my coffee, I was also slicing a thick slab of milk chocolate layer cake. I stuck my finger into it. Then I pulled it out again and gave it a very long and satisfying lick. It tasted dreamy. I tried to imagine a life without cake. The only way I could possibly entertain it was if I became a monk.

Stop laughing. I wasn’t sure if eating layer cake was on the approved list of monk activities. I’m guessing there are some dos and a considerable amount of don’ts. Whilst warming to the idea of a spell in a monastery,  I’d need to balance all that abstinence with a good bottle of Rioja and a 12 inch Pappa John pepperoni pizza every couple of nights.

My thoughts got interrupted.

Two Japanese tourists sat down at the table opposite me and excitedly ordered Guido’s Full English Breakfast. This was despite the fact it was half past two in the afternoon. By their reaction to it I’m not sure they’d seen anything like it before in Yokohama. Guido’s breakfast includes hot buttered toast, bacon and egg, hash browns and a couple of spoonfuls of baked beans. I can highly recommend it no matter what time of the day it is. Just add ketchup. When it got delivered they didn’t pick up their forks and knives, instead they spent the next ten minutes carefully examining a fried pork sausage.

My mother always used to tell me, you are what you eat. That’s what she used to say to me as a naive and flabby kid, “You are what you eat darling, so just accept it,” which was pretty damning at the time because all she ever fed me was her fatty ham pie. No wonder I have a complex about pastry. Make of that what you will. This of course was rich coming from the woman who only ever seemed to consume gin and the occasional ice-cube. And you can make of that what you will too.

Sometimes I think controlling my weight would be a whole lot easier if Guido wasn’t a chef and didn’t lovingly cook all day long for a living. It would be really helpful if whatever he did was as far removed as possible from a pan of melting chocolate.  He’s not the brightest screw in the tool box but a quantum physicist might be good. I’m guessing if Guido was a quantum physicist he wouldn’t come to bed with warped ideas for sex with Nutella spread, which just goes to show you really can’t have your cake and eat it. Instead he’d probably bore me rigid between the sheets with tales of the cosmos and distant galaxies, but at least I’d be thirty pounds lighter and feel a whole lot better about getting sucked into a black hole.

I looked at the Japanese couple. They’d harpooned the sausage and were now waving it about as an Instagram photo opportunity.

I stuck my finger back into the rich cake icing. Sometimes food just has to be eaten.

The ugly truth

Last night Ted and Gary came round to the café to play poker. The four of us sat in one of the dimly lit booths after closing time. We ate olives and nuts and we drank a lot of wine. Needless to say Guido and I lost spectacularly.

“I’m a little worried,” I said. Ironically I wasn’t talking about the hand of cards Gary had just dealt me. “Apparently it’s been proven,” I said crunching a macadamia, “that very attractive couples who are married are statistically more likely to get divorced.”

“Oh no, please no,” groaned Gary raising his eyes to the ceiling, “tell me you’ve not been reading another one of those ridiculous on-line surveys.”

Well, clearly I had.

“Researchers at Harvard University asked two women to judge the attractiveness of 238 men in their high school year books. They then accessed ancestry.com to uncover the men’s marriage and divorce data.”

Nobody said anything.

“And guess what? The men who were facially attractive had shorter marriages.” I sipped my wine. “Just saying.”

When I say I was worried, what I really meant was that on a scale of one to ten I was a – barely concerned two and a half. This was on account of the fact that the survey failed to go into any details about how bothered you should be if, as is the case in my relationship, your partner happens to be considerably better looking than you are. Naturally I was hoping my wonky nose and bushy eyebrows would help even out our longevity on the marriage front.

“Which just goes to show what those intellectual dummies at Harvard do all day long,” said Guido re-shuffling his deck.

“Hey, you know Jean-Paul may be onto something,” said Ted nodding, “l mean, think about it, Brad Pitt?”

We all sat for a moment silently contemplating whether Brad was hot in his year book picture. The conclusion was that he probably didn’t have braces, pimples or wore thick glasses.

“If I hadn’t met Ted I would’ve been perfectly happy to take my chances with Brad until he got completely bored of our relationship and dumped me for Jennifer,” said Gary.

I tried to think of a funny amalgam of Brad and Gary’s names but couldn’t afford (literally) to get distracted from poker. And any way, if anyone should’ve been having sleepless nights about that particular survey then I reckon it was Ted and Gary.

Ted is a handsome semi-retired millionaire silver fox and Gary is a highly chislled flight attendant with great biceps. Nobody illustrates the brace position like Gary does. Let’s just say the fact they also both look utterly fabulous together probably means their relationship is teetering on a knife’s edge.

“Yeah, well apparently the study also suggested that having a good looking partner also meant that others would treat you with a lot less compassion,” I said, “which explains why you guys never let me win at cards.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Guido later in bed, “you have to remember we’re probably the weirdest couple combination there could possibly be.” And if that wasn’t a back handed compliment then I didn’t know what was.

I lay in the dark. I wondered if Brad was in bed and if he was, what was he doing, and who was he doing it with.

Statistically I was just thankful I wasn’t there.

My mirror has two faces

Sometimes there’s a difference between what sort of a person you believe yourself to be and the sort of a person everybody else thinks you are.

I try to be a good person. Really, I do. As a general rule I’m outwardly pleasant to most of the people I meet (except for the klutz who pushed me in line for the bus this morning). However I’ve never formally introduced everybody to what I call my bitter and twisted inner voice. It lives happily in my head and it really isn’t very pleasant at all. I still say good morning, or, hold the door for a complete stranger whilst smiling sweetly, but sometimes I’m thinking – God what a horrible suit, or, could you hurry up please I really don’t have all day you know. I’ve always thought that’s how everyone’s head operated. I’ve assumed they’re all doing exactly the same straight back at me in equal measures (I see you’ve not managed to lose any weight then, still can’t believe you’re screwing that hot chef, and so on).

Last week I was asked by a tutor friend of mine to give a presentation about creativity to an evening class full of enthusiastic mature students at a night school. Rather than names on badges I noticed they’d been specifically asked to write two words on a sticky label to reveal their personalities. During the coffee break I found myself chatting to a blonde called, Vivacious Fun, and a guy with a very intense stare called, People Person. It struck me how they really didn’t live up to their labels. She wasn’t the life and soul of the party, and the guy with the stare turned out to hate everyone in the room.

I told Guido all about it when I got home to the café.

“When I began high school,” I said, “a sheet of paper with our names on it was passed around my classmates and we were told to write underneath two words to illustrate our first impressions about one another.”

“Why do I get the feeling this is one of your stories which ends horribly and you’ve been mentally scarred by it for the rest of your life?” said Guido warily.

“Well, naturally I was heartbroken to read that someone had scribbled under my name, Total Wacko,” I said shrugging. “But what could I do?”

“I guess their first impression about you was wrong,” said Guido diplomatically. What else could he possibly say?

“Yeah, but, no.” I said. “You see it’s true, underneath I am a total wacko so whoever wrote that was actually very astute for an eleven year old.”

“All I know,” Guido said lounging on our sofa in a pair of super tight boxer shorts, “is if I had to write two words on a sticky label that best described me right now I’d be totally honest about it. No kidding. No lies. Total undiluted truth.”

I knew Guido was trying to make me feel better.

“I believe you,” I said, “so what would the two words be?”

I cynically braced myself for something altruistic like, Amazing Chef or Under-rated Footballer, or as is much more closer to the truth, Sex Maniac.

Lucky Guy,” he smiled.

That’s the great thing about Guido. What you see is what you get.