I´m worried my blog is fast becoming a glorified monologue of people who give me food, but I just can´t help it. I must walk round with my mouth open.
On Wednesday night I was sated from an Ecuadorian chicken dish cooked by a new lady friend. I´d been sous chef, but really that meant just chatting up other people in the hostel kitchen whilst she slaved. After dinner I pleaded tiredness and retired to my room. I was in bed five minutes when a French man came in and we had the most wonderful bonding conversation. "Would you like to share my steak and red wine?" Of course! He hadn´t seen I was in my pajamas (the perks of a top bunk bed) so I quickly put my pink jeans on top (everyone knows they´re stretch right?) so he wouldn´t think i was the type of person to go to bed at 10pm, and scurried after the scent of cooking meat. So far so bien.
Thursday night RRRRrrroman had hitchhiked out of my life and I was wandering listlessly around the hostel after a tiring day in the national park. Oh hi Pedro! I´m glad you like my most flattering travelling tee shirt. He made me burger, rice, and very thin circle potatoes. Not sure if it´s a common Brazillian dish because our shared language was as thin as the chips... but it was very nice, and easily accompanied the wine.
Friday, I endured a 16 hour bus journey sitting next to a very chirpy Irish boy so i was feeling a bit ragged by the time I touched down. Until Italian Andreas asked me if I knew where the supermarket was? One thing led to another and he was soon standing over the stove warming our soup and egg, whilst I carried on being a terrible sous chef. I nearly gave him a heart attack recounting how I cook pasta. "But to me it is as easy as brrrreathing!" "Oh so you don´t throw spaghetti up on the ceiling to check if it is cooked?" Luckily he recovered enough to uncork some wine.
I´ve never met so many people who think a rubbish sous chef is so cute!
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