More Chilli peppers

It all started with Jimmy, he used to carry around dried chilli peppers in a matchbox and eat them with everything. I recall once we went to a pizzeria in Dean Street or somewhere in the backstreets of Soho, and he was so upset because he had run out of chillies and the restaurant didn’t have any – we found a compromise in the form of a generous sprinkling of garlic. I paid the bill. The pizzas were excellent, the owner only spoke Italian and the tablecloths were red checkered like in the movies.

One day Jimmy’s cousin from Nigeria was in town and they spent the days cooking and talking with clicks and stange African words. The hot sticky okra was especially memorable.

But the real passion for this plant came when I went to the West Indies for the first time, it was like coming home. Memories of past lives flooded in and entities came to see me and pay their respects. Denis was there of course.

Jimmy is sometimes here with me. I helped his daughter once, she had gravely misuderstood him. He died in the aftermath of a stupid car accident in Burgundy, on the eve of his real comeback.

The chilli peppers have been omni-present ever since

More on chillies in future posts.