‘Yeah.’ The guy nods impassively as he puts down his load and holds out his handset for me to sign. ‘We’re often a surprise.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, we get a lot of wives in south-west London ordering for their husbands. Fortieth birthday, is it?’
‘No!’ I say, and give him an affronted glare. First: I thought I was being really unique and individual, not just another ‘wife in south-west London’. Second: fortieth birthday? What? Why should I be married to a forty-year-old? I’m only thirty-two and I look far younger than that. Far, far younger. You know, bearing in mind I’ve had twins and everything.
Shall I say, ‘Actually it’s for my twenty-year-old toyboy?’
No. Because I am a mature grown-up and don’t care what delivery people think of me. (Also, Dan might suddenly appear at the door in his dressing gown.)
‘Big order.’ The guy nods at the boxes. ‘This all his favourite stuff?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I almost snap. ‘It’s a bespoke, international surprise breakfast, actually.’
Ha. Not such a south-west London cliché now.
The delivery guy heads back to his bike and I carry the boxes inside to the kitchen. I rip the wrapping off the tray – which is beautiful dull silver with ‘RSL’ engraved at the top – and start assembling dishes. They all come in plain white china (there’s a deposit against that, too) and there’s even cutlery and napkins. The whole thing looks amazing, and my only tiny proviso is that I’m not quite sure which dish is which.
Anyway, never mind. I tuck the printed menu into my dressing gown pocket and decide we can work it all out while we eat it. The main thing is to get it upstairs while the hot things are still hot. It’s a bit of a struggle to carry the tray upstairs without overbalancing, but I manage it, and push my way into the bedroom.
‘Surprise!’
Dan’s head turns from where it was buried in the pillow. He sees me holding the tray and his whole expression lights up. ‘No way.’
I nod in delight. ‘Breakfast! Surprise breakfast!’
I head over to him and dump the tray down on the bed with slightly more force than I was intending, only it was getting heavy.
‘Look at this!’ Dan somehow struggles to a sitting position without overturning the tray, then surveys it, rubbing his sleepy eyes. ‘What a treat.’
‘It’s a surprise breakfast,’ I say again, emphasizing surprise, because I think this factor needs to be made clear.
‘Wow.’ I can see Dan’s eyes ranging over the dishes and landing on a glass full of pink juice. ‘So, is this …’
‘Pomegranate juice,’ I tell him, pleased with myself. ‘It’s totally the thing. Orange juice is over.’
Dan sips at the glass and instantly his mouth puckers.
‘Great!’ he says. ‘Very … um … refreshing.’
Refreshing in a good way?
‘Let me taste,’ I say, and take the glass. As I sip, I can feel my taste buds shrivelling. That is tart. It’s an acquired taste.
Which we can acquire very quickly, I’m sure.
‘So, what is all this?’ Dan is still peering at the white dishes. ‘Is there a theme?’
‘It’s a fusion breakfast,’ I say proudly. ‘International. I chose all the dishes myself. Some European, some American, some Asian …’ I pull the menu out of my pocket. ‘You’ve got marinated fish, you’ve got a German meat speciality dish …’
‘Is this coffee?’ Dan reaches for the cup.
‘No!’ I laugh. ‘Coffee wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? This is artichoke and dandelion tea. It’s South American.’
Dan takes his hand away from the cup and instead picks up his spoon. ‘So this …’ He prods at a porridge-type substance. ‘This isn’t Bircher muesli, is it?’
‘No.’ I consult my list. ‘It’s congee. Chinese rice porridge.’
It doesn’t look quite as appealing as I was expecting. Especially with that gelatinous-looking egg floating on top – which, if I’m honest, turns my stomach. But apparently the Chinese eat it every morning. A billion people can’t be wrong, can they?
‘OK,’ says Dan slowly, turning to another dish. ‘And this?’
‘I think it might be the Indian lentil broth.’ I glance at my menu again. ‘Unless it’s the cheese grits.’
Looking at the tray properly for the first time, I realize something: I’ve ordered too many dishes which are basically a bowl of gloopy stuff. But how was I meant to know? Why doesn’t the website have a ‘gloopy stuff’ algorithm? There should be a helpful pop-up box: Did you mean to order so much gloopy stuff? I might suggest it to them, in an email.
‘You haven’t eaten anything yet!’ I say, handing Dan a spherical dumpling-like object. ‘This is an idli. It’s Indian. Made from fermented batter.’
‘Right.’ Dan looks at the idli, then puts it down. ‘Wow. This is really …’
‘It’s different, right?’ I say eagerly. ‘Not what you were expecting.’
‘Absolutely not,’ says Dan, sounding heartfelt. ‘Very much not what I was expecting.’
‘So, dive in!’ I spread my hands wide. ‘It’s all yours!’
‘I will! I will!’ He nods lots of times, almost as though he’s having to convince himself. ‘It’s just hard to know where to start. It all looks so—’ He breaks off. ‘What’s this one?’ He prods the German meat dish.
‘Leberkäse,’ I read from the menu. ‘It literally means, “liver cheese”.’
Dan makes a sort of gulpy sound, and I give him a bright, encouraging smile, even though I’m slightly regretting having said ‘liver cheese’ out loud. It’s not necessarily what you want to hear first thing in the morning, is it, ‘liver cheese’?
‘Look,’ I continue. ‘You love rye bread, so why not start with that?’
I push the Scandinavian dish towards him. It’s marinated fish with rye bread and sour cream. Perfect. Dan loads up his fork, and I watch expectantly as he takes a mouthful.
‘Oh my God.’ He claps his hand to his mouth. ‘I can’t …’ To my dismay, he’s gagging. He’s retching. ‘I’m going to …’
‘Here.’ In panic, I thrust a napkin at him. ‘Just spit it out.’
‘I’m sorry, Sylvie.’ As Dan finally mops his mouth, he’s shuddering. His face has gone pale, and I notice a bead of sweat on his brow. ‘I just couldn’t. It tasted like some kind of decaying, putrefying … what is that?’
‘Have some liver cheese to take away the taste,’ I say, desperately pushing the plate towards him, but Dan looks like he might retch again.
‘Maybe in a minute,’ he says, looking a little wildly around the tray. ‘Is there anything … you know. Normal?’
‘Er … er …’ Frantically I scan the menu. I’m sure I ordered some strawberries. Where the hell are they?
Then I notice a tiny box at the bottom of the menu: Please accept our apologies. The strawberry platter is unavailable, so we have substituted Egyptian foul medames.
Foul medames? I don’t want foul bloody medames. I look at the tray and feel a crash of despair. This whole breakfast is foul. It’s gloopy and weird. I should have bought croissants. I should have made pancakes.