It must have been around 1992… gosh… that’s almost 17 years ago and my older son Julian was not even one yet, and my younger Jeremy was, well, no… he wasn’t, yet.
I had already been working in the wine industry for a few years, proudly enjoying every minute of being involved in a world of discovery in what can be termed as the early days of the revival of Malta’s wines. I worked for Marsovin then, and as a voracious 28-year-old, my unhealthy appetite made sure that I would find time to grab a bite or three from a bar close by which we sarcastically nicknamed the “Marsa Hilton”.
It was a cool, wintry day and I stood at the counter, waiting for my ftira biż-żejt u bl-imbarazz to be carefully crafted by Andrea, the chef patron himself. Beside me crawled a guy of scant physique, who would fit inside my bulky frame at least three times comfortably with room for his Escort Mark 1, yet who made his presence very clearly felt. He hoarsely ordered his usual. Now my rumblings were getting rather noticeable to the naked ear as Andrea gave me an apologetic eye gesture to inform me that he would have to reluctantly draw his attention away from my ftira momentarily and see to his trusty old regular’s usual order. I shyly nodded my approval, motivated by seniority and fear, hoping that his “usual” was not a chateaubriand. I tell you, chateaubriand it certainly was not!
Andrea grabbed a one litre glass off the yellow dingy shelf behind him, poured half of it with red table wine and before I could say “cheers!”, chef uncapped a bottle of cola and filled in the remaining half of the glass. Red wine and cola? I mean, I had obviously seen wine being mixed with lemonade before, but cola? As my recent life flashed before my eyes, ironically reminding me of all the care and attention my job of marketing the wine did entail, only for a client to mix it with cola, nothing could have prepared me for the trauma conjured up by the final ingredient of his “usual”.
Andrea yanked off a palm-sized, unbranded, clear plastic bag full of unshelled roasted peanuts and tossed them to his client. Said client ripped the bag open and with seasoned, deft, magician-like snappy movements broke open the wrinkly pods, and dropped specimens of arachis hypogea into his glass of Vincola. Initially I thought this was a tiny accident yet this innocent notion was wiped away as soon as the client relentlessly cracked all the remaining peanut pods open, letting the peanuts, still clad in that thin reddish inner skin drop in his glass and float. Yes, peanuts float in a blend of wine and cola. As Andrea went back to work on my ftira, client mockingly gave his litre tumbler a twirl, reminiscent of the twirl we wine lovers give to our prized nectar, and he downed the entire concoction in one, single tilt, chomping through the peanuts and mashing them into an unsightly cocktail, gulping them down into his eager stomach.
Many years have passed since then, and life has revealed many a shocking truth to me, yet the memory of this harrowing moment will never ever be erased from my memory. Not even dementia will save me, as I am told long-term memory will be preserved. So what is the moral of this story? There is no moral. This is just a story which I lived through, and I thank you for reading it. My therapist assures me that talking about it will help. I live in hope.