🍽️ Reservation

Mr. Beaumont, a critically acclaimed food critic, was on a tour of Kenyan hotel restaurants. His first stop was Lake Nakuru Lodge as he was an avid climber and had kicked off his itinerary with a hike up the nearby Mount Longonot. Beaumont was tasked with determining the hotel that deserved the Gastronomique 20 Award – equivalent to a Michelin Star – and what place the rest fell on his preferential index. The stakes were high: Tickling Beaumont’s discerning palate meant being written into the annals of Gastronomique greatness, a title that was hard to erase and basically assured a steady supply of patrons throughout the hotel’s lifetime. A failure to impress the meticulous critic was equally indelible for the worst reasons. Food is vital to hotel operations, so a low ranking on Beaumont’s listicle assured the establishment’s decline. Hinga needed a shot to dull his nerves.

On the day of Beaumont’s stop-over, Hinga was deceptively calm. He bopped and bobbed to the classical music in his head as he whipped up the salad dressings: vinaigrette, creamy French dressing, and cocktail sauce. This was light work compared to the Waldorf carrot and pineapple salad, Mexican salad, butternut soup, and rosemary garlic chicken delegated to his able hands. Still, he was grateful Belinda was the head honcho shouldering the major responsibilities. He was also drunk.

The ingredients for a creamy French dressing are mayonnaise, ketchup, oil, apple cider vinegar, sugar, onion, paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, salt, and pepper. Hinga placed them in a blender and let the machine work its magic. Voila, a rich concoction he was sure would blow Beaumont’s socks off ensued. He prepared the other two and set them in separate angled plastic bowls. Finally, he could get to the most exciting part: the chicken.

Beaumont’s punctuality was one of his prided attributes. He liked getting a feel for the place before settling to inspect their food. Many a restaurant had been known to prepare elaborate cuisines only for him to exit prematurely because this or that seating arrangement was too crowded or spacious or the kitchen looked dilapidated and unsanitary. Fortunately, LNL didn’t suffer this fate. Hinga, indiscernibly tipsy but capable, volunteered to welcome the epicure to the kitchen – his battleground, as he had liked to call it. There was an orderly chaos to Hinga’s appearance and station, and Beaumont identified with it. Tones of garlic and rosemary wafting from the oven showered the premises with an aroma reminiscent of Thanksgiving.

Hinga presented Beaumont with his starters: the salads with their dressings and condiments. Beaumont immediately took particular liking to the Mexican salad, especially when he paired it with the uniquely full-bodied French dressing. He had several servings as he asked Hinga to reveal how he trapped lightning in a bottle. Hinga was as giddy as a schoolboy who’d gotten his first kiss. He deserved a drink. Retreating to his locker to locate his brandy bottle, he noticed it was nearly empty. Odd. Hadn’t he only taken a few swigs before he started cooking? Or were they more than a few? He neither knew nor cared, so he emptied the bottle as he cleaned the kitchen.

The chicken breasts were finally ready, just in time for Belinda’s crumbed fish goujon with dill tartar, mukimo, Spanish paella rice, and carrot chapati. The chef pair presented the main dish to Beaumont, who was markedly giddy and exuberant. If the salads had impressed him so, surely, they were worthy contenders for the Award. Hinga wobbled to his quarters like a pregnant duck in flight and slept like a baby.