There was meat-fall-off-the bone roast chicken infused with the fragrance of olive oil, thyme, sage and rosemary. There was pesto sauce spaghetti made from fresh basil leaves and pine nuts. There was a quiche and a crispy tangy salad glistening with basil vinegar dressing. And then there was French style apple tart with a scoop of vanilla yoghurt.
I forgot to take pictures of Auntie's debacle.
Suffice to say that for at least one of the victims, the torture was pleasurably exquisite. He ate one of the 2 roast chickens all by himself, a mound of pesto sauce spaghetti and took thirds of apple tart, all washed down with a great deal of whisky and half a bottle of red wine!! Whoa! And Auntie stood by grinning from ear to ear, floating on cloud 9 and breathing the rarefied air of pure ecstasy. This fetish with other people eating can't be healthy for Auntie, you think?
Anyway, the feeling of high was all gone by Sunday morning, and Auntie looked around restlessly for anything that might recapture the sparkle of the night. Too tired to cook, the whole family traipsed down to The Pier at Robertson Quay for lunch. A whole bucket of mussels made its appearance and a slab of braised pork belly and sausages and something like sauerkraut with minced beef balls, swimming in a dark gravy... free flow of french fries.
Now, I am not talking about the emaciated french fries from McDonald's. These were thick slices of potato with crispy outsides and insides that are both fluffy and steaming hot.
Alas... it was too much to bear. Having watched another enjoy food so much the night before, and seeing the table laden with temptation, Auntie threw all inhibition to the wind, put her head down and ate. She ate and ate. Occasionally, she looked up and around with wild eyes just to make sure that no one else was eating from her pile. And when it came to dessert, Auntie declared "I am not sharing."
Today, Auntie is on a diet.