It seems my saucy remarks a couple weeks back stirred emotions, memories and taste buds, with the disappearance from the supermarket shelves of the world’s favourite brown sauce, namely HP sauce. In our ‘ouse, withdrawal symptoms had set in, the last bottle of the brown stuff carefully poured onto my plate with a sense of foreboding.
Sauce and Sympathy
E-mails flooded in, all six of them, expressing sympathy for the imminent loss of a close friend. What can you say when a love affair is over?
Me and HP had travelled the world together, a reminder of the old country, not that I ever had intentions of returning there.
But it was reassuring, a friend at all times. Now it was gone, and I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. Life as I knew it would never be the same.
No Alternative
Derek and Pauline Antrobus, from Munster, e-mailed me to recall those old Rhodesia days, when you certainly couldn’t get a bottle of HP anywhere.
But, there was a local brand of brown sauce, cunningly named NP.
The label was not dissimilar, with a picture of Victoria Falls in place of Big Ben and the House of Parliament. The taste was fairly similar.
Come to think about it, it was pretty good. My mind raced, ‘was it still available in Zims?’
I’ll contact someone, anyone, in Zimbabwe, and ask them to send a bottle.
The CO brought me down to earth, “For goodness’ sake, knock it off. It’s just a bottle of sauce, live with it, or without it, whatever!”
As I’ve said before, she doesn’t understand. I pretended I didn’t hear her, wistfully staring at my half-full, half-empty last bottle of HP.
Good For Egg and Chips
I received a second e-mail, from Bob Black, of Ramsgate, introducing himself as a Red, a Liverpool football fan.
He continued, “In the spirit of Liverpool kindness to our fellow men, I have discovered a bottle of brown sauce which you might want to try. You can find it on the shelves at a certain supermarket in Margate. I tried it on my egg and chips. It’s not bad at all. Give it a bash.”
I thanked Bob, dropped what I was doing and scurried to the supermarket. Now, what was it called? I couldn’t remember. PVA? No. RIP? No, that’s not it. HIV? No, wrong again. RSVP? Hmm, not quite. I was getting warmer. At last, the electric light bulb switched on. Got it!
And there it was, on the shelves, saying “Try me, Buy me, I’m all yours!” I put on my sunglasses, covered my face, wore my hoodie, paid for the goods, and scurried back to my car, and got the bejabers out of there.
I arrived home, triumphantly waving my bottle of the hard stuff to the CO. “Look what I’ve got, pet.” She looked at me in that special Dublin manner.
“You mean to tell me that you drove all that way for a bottle of sauce?” “It wasn’t tomato sauce, pet. It’s a brown sauce,” I replied defensively. It cut no ice.
Women’s Day Treat
The holiday weekend was with us. Seeing that it was Women’s Day, I gave the CO a few hours off from the kitchen. “Come on, pet, let’s go out for breakfast.”
I was slightly taken aback when she accepted my magnanimous offer of a treat out, knowing that she loves to spoil me to no end. Truth folks.
We ended up at Marina Beach, and ordered breakfast. Business was brisk. A full house for full breakfasts. Whilst waiting for our order, I noticed something that looked very familiar.
There, before my very eyes I saw it. I looked again. Was it a trick? A mirage? Tears welled up in my eyes.
Bottles of HP sauce, right here in Marina Beach. Life was beautiful again.
I took in the sights. Everyone in great spirits, none more so than the good people at the next table.
Their beverage order was brought to the table. I looked twice at their wee tipple, lovingly referred to as R and R (Rest and Recreation) or tipotino and raspberry. Talk about a little bit of what you fancy does you good.
Escape To Happiness
Nico and Arinda van Staden, Anita Kitching and Jessie Roux from Pretoria (Brits to be exact), were visiting our lovely coast to escape the bitter cold of the highveld. A wise choice.
I studiously looked at the tipotino and raspberry. In all my years as a professional, (at what, you may ask?) I wondered how anybody could tackle such a large drink.
Seconds later, we were offered a glass of tipotino. We gave it a sip, “Hmm, not bad. not bad at all.”
Whether we could drink 10 gallons of the stuff for breakfast, we were not so sure.
I took in the scene. Lovely weather, lovely people, spontaneous acts of kindness and friendliness, the tipotino kicking in, HP sauce on the table. Who could ask for anything more? Only in South Africa.
See you, Rob.
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