A Cocktail Horror Story
“The kitchen is burning, the kitchen is burning. Mike, Mike, do something!”
I froze! That was my kitchen!
And that was Lyanne in panic, shouting at Mike for help. Mike is her American boyfriend. All three of us worked in the same Department in the IAEA Headquarters in Vienna.
Mike is seldom in Vienna, so when I learned from Lyanne that he is in town, I invited them for a drink at my place. It is rare for both of them to be at home in Vienna when Mike visits. Lyanne makes travel plans for both of them. One day, they are in the country; the next, somewhere else; and then Mike is back in the US. It surprised me to hear Lyanne saying they would gladly come “tomorrow.”
She suggested that perhaps I could also invite another couple, friends of ours—Harald and Elisabeth. Elisabeth was also a work colleague.
“It’s only for a drink, “I said to Lyanne. I didn’t have to tell her that I could only do that much because of my recent surgery. Not ready to entertain big time when I do all the work. That was Ok with her.
I was thinking of cocktail drinks—Aperol when I said to come for a drink. It’s easy to make. But knowing what they like most, I check my bar to see what I have. I found the things one needs for a caipirinha—a bottle of Pitu, that essential Brazilian spirit. I got fresh limes in my fridge and a bag of crushed ice in the freezer. And the stuff for Margarita —I have it, too. Let La Vida Loca begin.
Lumpia was the best finger food I could think of to go with the drinks. It was a coincidence that I had all the stuff in my freezer—lumpia wrappers, shrimp, ground pork, and beef. And there was fresh tofu that I got the other day, together with the coriander. In my kitchen apron, I was Nora Daza or Aling Charing once more. Suddenly, my kitchen smelled exotic again. Daza and Aling Charing were Filipino cooks and cookbook authors.
I was wrapping the last lumpia roll when my doorbell rang at precisely 4 p.m.—very punctual, very un-Filipino. I forgot for a while there that my guests were not Filipinos. I may have an Austrian passport, but I am still a Filipino to the core—getting late for an appointment is no big deal. We always say sorry naman with a smile. Trapik e! (Sorry, traffic on the road.)
Lyanne was carrying a big bag. Inside were the ingredients for caipirinha, which I have at home. Just to be sure we have enough, she said. Mike, a bucket of ice, which I also have. In case we ran out, that was Lyanne again.
Lyanne was our caipirinha bar-tender in the office and in Walter’s garden some summer ago. I had one too many of that drink at the end of work in the office when she made caipirinhas to say TGIF to everyone. I could feel the spirits getting into my system—my head was spinning, I was getting loud, talking nonsense (or making sense), scaring some that I might out them. I’ve been told we’ll be back at work on Monday.
Walter picked me up from work after Lyanne phoned him. I won’t be able to make it home, she said. I woke up the following day with my head pounding and saw the trail of what I had worn at work, scattered from my doorway to my bedroom.
“No more caipirinhas for you, ever again!” Parting words from Walter after he dropped me off at my apartment and drove home. He had to carry me practically to his car parked outside Checkpoint 3 of the UN. It was a long walk, winding, in fact, if you were thoroughly inebriated.
It must have been a nightmare for Walter that he yelled at Lyanne as she was about to hand me a glass of caipirinha that one summer day in his garden–the day we had another caipirinha get-together party.
„No caipirinhas for him!“ That night, I saw one garden guest stumble to the ground as she crashed into the garden wire barrier fence on her way out. One too many drinks. That was how I may have been when Walter picked me up that fateful caipirinha night in the office.
Never again, I swore until the next caipirinha day when we could have been charred to death beyond recognition.
I ran to the kitchen and saw the casserole where I had deep-fried my lumpia, engulfed in flame. There were billows of black smoke in the kitchen, yet I could see that the blaze was an inch away from kissing the exhaust fan. Lyanne told me to put the lid on the casserole to stop the flame, but it didn’t help until I covered it with a wet towel. Then, we opened all the doors and windows in my flat and ran out to the walkway until the smoke cleared. We were gagging and must have been loud, but no one but one person noticed the commotion. Finally, Lyanne explained that there had been a kitchen fire, but it was over now.
Mike and I were still coughing when we returned to the living room. Lyanne said we should start with the caipirinhas—to shake up our nerves. After my first sip of the drink, I burped—it tasted of soot. My lungs must have been blackened from the smoke I inhaled. Mike said his sinuses felt clear. What a way to get rid of his winter problem.
My guests said they had had their fill when I suggested that I still make some, although I would need a new cooking pot. The one caught in flame was beyond rescue. When I spooned out the batch of fried lumpia from the casserole, I left the frying plastic spoon with the oil in it, which was still boiling hot. It began to which must have started the fire. The heat caused the plastic bottle of vinegar standing near the stove to bend. No more spring rolls for them. They finished whatever was left of the lumpia I had made before the kitchen blaze.
I don’t remember the time Mike and Lyanne left for home. I remember that I passed out when I reached the bedroom and could not stand up when I woke up the next day. My world was spinning. I felt like throwing up, but it was not easy. My stomach was empty because I hadn’t had anything since breakfast. Somehow I managed to get up for the bathroom and then the kitchen. I was totally dehydrated. I needed something very, very cold to drink. I thought the splitting headache had worsened, and my defibrillator stopped working when I saw my kitchen. It was like Iraq in ruins.
Lyanne and Mike were right — no more lumpia for them. They can be dangerous to your health. They can also make you homeless.
And caipirinhas? Ask Walter. Hick!