Driving on the A10 past Littleport as the early evening light fades. Looking for a turning “past the level crossing, and before the roundabout” which then takes the main road North East alongside the Great Ouse towards Downham Market and Denver Sluice. I am wearing all black, as is the sixteen year old girl sitting next to me. I see a sign marked “Black Horse Drove”. That must be it. We take a left along Ten Mile Bank, a single track barely tarmacked road. To our right lies the slow-moving river, concealed by an imposing earthen embankment. To our left fields, the occasional shed, and a couple of semi-detached houses determinedly facing towards the embankment, when behind them you can see for miles across the flat fenland. There is a stiff wintery breeze, and flecks of sleet are intermittently swept aside by the wiper blades.
As the night continues to draw in we pass one left turning, then another, and arrive at the third: Black Horse Drove. We turn down. The road becomes yet narrower, tufts of grass poking through the centre here and there. A few more houses dotted on either side, then after a mile or so the white gates of a level crossing appear in my headlights. I pull up and clamber out. There is a sign advising me to check for trains before opening the gates. More ominously, a Samaritans flyer flapping on the gate advises me to give them a ring before doing anything stupid. I get the impression that the trains on this line are so infrequent that I would probably die of natural causes before being hit by one, were I that way inclined. I open the gates, and we cross without incident. I jump out and close them, and we continue a further half mile before seeing the lights of a substantial house in a thicket of trees just before the road peters out into a sodden field.
I would never have imagined 10 years ago that I would at this point in my life have been transported to the flatlands of Cambridgeshire, and be driving down a five mile cul-de-sac in the unilluminated back end of nowhere looking for a farmhouse I’d never been to before, to meet fourteen scantily dressed young women, with a sixteen year old girl I barely knew. But then again, no one expects the Fennish Imposition.
There is a parade of Vauxhall Corsas parked up outside the farmhouse – the favoured mode of transport of twenty-something women – so I know we have arrived at the right place. I knock on the door, and suddenly we are transported from the gloom of the fenland into a heaving cauldron of tightly clad female flesh, high pitched laughter, and air filled with aromas of gin, wine and perfume: we have arrived at our hen party.
As always Chef is ushered in with smiles and hellos, and shown into the kitchen. Every work surface is covered with empty bottles, glasses, phones recuperating on chargers, and handbags. The oven has seen better days. The sink is disgusting. The bin is already full of bottles and last night’s pizza boxes. However the dining table has been set and beautifully decorated with an unrecyclable mass of glitter stars, balloons, napkins featuring a photo of the groom, and the obligatory pink plastic penis straws.
“I hope you don’t mind”, says the chief hen, “But we are having a butler in the buff coming along later?”
“That’s fine by me,” I reply, “Just as well you didn’t order sausages.”
My waitress Curly, although of tender age, is getting used to this sort of thing, and I had warned her mother that this can happen, so I’m not worried about upsetting her, and we get on with lumping our cool boxes and equipment inside.
It turns out the “buff butler” is going to be late, because he didn’t heed the instructions to turn off between the level crossing and the roundabout, and ended up displaying in front of the queen at Sandringham or some such, so they decide to rejig the schedule and start their meal as soon as we can get it ready. We shuffle some handbags out of the way, antibac any surfaces we can actually see, and get on with sorting out the starters.
We hear the ring of the bell, and the momentary quiet as the second male to enter the house begins his act. A couple of minutes later however, a well-built youngish guy in tight leather shorts and a dicky bow rushes into the kitchen and asks if we have any ice. I get him ice. Five minutes later he’s back, wearing slightly less – do I have any matches? I find matches. In another five minutes he appears in just a thong – have I a set of shot glasses?
Now it’s not unreasonable to find the first two at a house, or in a chef’s kitbag, but come on. Dib, dib, dib. It carries on in this vein (do I have vodka? How about string?), and forty five minutes later he is gone. Off to another job. The hens tell me they feel somewhat let down. By exactly what I’m not sure, but I’m not going to offer to fill in for his inadequacies, in any area.
The meal goes well, plates are returned empty, and at around ten thirty we are tidied and washed up and say our goodbyes to those left standing. Curly is returned to her Mum safe and sound, and I’m home by eleven thirty. Another day at the office for a personal chef.
Notes
Hen parties will choose from a very limited range of dishes, and have a strict budget, so I have a menu just for them.
Too start it will be a platter, maybe tapas or Thai. The main will be either chicken or lamb. I prefer to cook them my Ballotine of Chicken with Cider, Leek and Mustard Sauce because I can make it look nicer. To finish it will be Lemon Tart, Chocolate Fondant, or Chocolate and Salted Caramel Tart. No canapés, no extras, just the last minute vegan they forgot to tell me about when they booked.