little low, little high

They say the best fiction stems from experience - though I hope creativity is allowed too - so it's nice when life unfolds like a storybook. This is one of those moments. It might not be extraordinary, but it was out of my ordinary.

A few days ago I was full of cold and tasteless, so plumped for a hugely fiery lunch of prawns with garlic, spring onions, two chillies, ginger and lemon. The ingredients were chopped and lying in Venn diagrams when M. walked into our kitchen. It's shared accommodation, and we're lucky enough to have cleaners for the communal areas. We said hello and M. started on the sink. Seeing my disorgazboard he said,

'Coriander would be nice'
'It's off, sadly.' I held up the recently binned bundle. A convivial pause as I put the pan on the heat. As I reached for the oil he pointed to some butter on the table. 'It will be nice with butter'
'I think I've only ever done it with oil'
'No, but put some oil with the butter, or it ...'
'... burns?'
'Exactly. You get it hot, cook the prawns a little, put in the rest, but don't for leave too long, or do you know?'
'They get tough.'
'Yes.' He had put down his sponge by now, his eyes riveted to the board. The pasta was bubbling over. He was concerned to hear that I'd added neither oil nor salt - '... they'll stick. You can't salt them unless in the pot. Do you have olive oil? Look.' Taking the pan from me he drained it into a colander and, drizzling oil over them from a height, shook them to glistening point.

'Should I start the prawns?'
'It's ready, hot. Go!' The prawns hissed and slid in the furious butter, and as I stepped back M. took the pan, threw in the aromatics and shaking his head at the proffered wooden spoon started to toss the lot. The plump prawns flipped and plunged together like a flaming pancake. 'Can you get the rosemary?' I was already out the door and running. Briefly vacillating between two or three sprigs I ran back and put them on the board to be chopped and crushed under his knife. M. poured the curry onto the pasta with a flourish, adding, 'You should buy better pasta. It is only a few more pennies. I could tell you three hundred pastas.'

I was unbearably curious, so he told his story. He is a recently retired chef who has worked at the town's two most prestigious Italian restaurants, as well as its unrivaled seafood establishment. He told of long nights slaving over 350 servings of pasta, days preparing ragu, and Salmon roast the Scottish way. His current job is less tiring, he says, although he did hint he might have been too frank at times. He tried the dish and approved, although he wouldn't have a bowl and 'the chillies are for your taste with the cold, but maybe less the next time'.

Leaving he thanked me for trusting him, as if I was the one doing him a favour. He's decided to go back to being a chef - and if I ever need a whole trout filleted, I'm to tell him.