Читать книгу The Hungry Cyclist: Pedalling The Americas In Search Of The Perfect Meal - Tom Davies Kevill - Страница 8

‘Yeah, you! I don’t see no other brothers riding a bike, get over here!’ came another growl. Glancing over my shoulder through the leaves and branches, I was able to make out a gang of menacing Hispanics hidden in a clearing between the trees.

‘Me? Really? Yes,’ I muttered nervously, before dismounting my bicycle and pushing it awkwardly down the forest track towards this daunting group of bare-chested men.

In baggy trousers and with bulging muscles covered in the kind of tattoos that seemed to be inspired by particularly gruesome nightmares, this group of eight hoodlums stood before me, their silver chains, diamond-stud earrings, long knives and skewers glistening in the afternoon sunshine. My heart pounded and cold beads of sweat dribbled down my back.

I’m going to get gang-banged, I thought, and I haven’t even made it out of New Jersey.

‘So you gonna tell me about da Hungry Cyclist?’ said the largest and most fearsome of the giants through his thick goatee beard, which more than compensated for the lack of hair on his shaven head.

‘Yeah, well…Um, I’m going to ride my bicycle from New York City to Rio de Janeiro, in search of the perfect meal.’

And it had all seemed like such a good idea back at home. A grand tour, an escape, a well-overdue adventure. But standing here now, on day one of my ‘trip of a lifetime’, in front of this line-up of professional wrestlers, hit men and gangsters, I began to wonder what the hell I was doing.

‘Well, if yo’ one of those TV chef people,’ the leader scowled, ‘you ain’t leaving till you tasted my mama’s Puerto Rican rice.’

‘No, no, no…’ Before I could explain that I was anything but one of those TV chef people, and that in fact I was little more than an overexcited, underprepared, ex-advertising executive who liked food and riding his bike, the leading giant had uncrossed his thigh-sized arms, draped one of them over my shoulders and was leading me towards a little old lady sitting peacefully at a wooden picnic table, chopping away at a small pile of lipstick-red chillies.

The hulk of a man squatted before his mother and after exchanging a few quiet words, in what I assumed was Spanish, planted a tender kiss on her forehead and I was ordered to take a seat. A paper picnic plate was placed in front of me, I was armed with a plastic knife and fork (no good at all if I was going to have to fight my way out of this unnerving situation) and a piece of tinfoil covering a large dish was removed, revealing a mountain of spicy-looking rice that released a cloud of sweet-smelling steam into the afternoon.

‘Ahh…Puerto Rican rice, my favourite.’ Whatever that is, I pondered, while one of the men shovelled a large portion on to my plate with the grace of a bulldozer. I loaded my fork and nervously, under the watchful eyes of all present, passed it to my mouth. Everything fell silent. I could no longer hear the menacing thud of hip-hop music or the wind playing in the leaves of the trees overhead. I was only aware of the jury standing before me, waiting for my culinary verdict. These were the kind of dudes who shot you just for looking at them funny. Imagine what they were going to do to an inexperienced Englishman stupid enough to ‘diss’ their beloved mother’s cooking.

Please like this, Tom, and if you don’t, make sure you look like you do, I told myself firmly.

But there was no need.

‘This is good!’ I mumbled through my first mouthful. And it was good, really good. Soft rice full of flavour, cooked in a rich chicken stock, mingled with fresh cilantro, hearty pigeon peas, chunks of salty pork and all impeccably spiced with those finely chopped chillies.

‘Damn right it is! And now you gotta try my cousin Emilio’s ribs.’

One thing the films do get right. Gangsters sure know how to eat. I soon found myself perched on the side of the small wooden picnic table, sandwiched between two enormous, sweaty men efficiently shovelling food into their mouths. In front of me, plates heaped with Puerto Rican rice; Emilio’s perfectly marinated, sticky pork ribs; grilled New York strip steaks, rosy pink in the middle and oozing juices; long skewers of tightly packed grilled prawns, doused in fresh lime juice; a stack of fat, spicy sausages, bursting out of their skins; creamy potato salads and crunchy home-made slaw.

Now this is what I left home for.

I speared another sausage with my flimsy plastic fork.

This is culinary adventure.

As it turned out, my new friends were not ruthless gangsters. They were hard-working people with respectable jobs in construction and haulage. They were all family, all from Puerto Rico and had come to America to make enough money to return home and start their own businesses. Every Sunday in the summer they got together here in the woods to eat, talk, laugh, and it was an honour to join them.

I explained that my plans were to cycle to Rio de Janeiro, sampling the most delicious and authentic food I could find along the way. They were insistent that the perfect meal I was looking for would be found only in Puerto Rico, and their kind words and good wishes filled me with a new zest and optimism for the journey ahead. For the rest of the afternoon the sun broke through the trees in smoky shafts of light and the sweet smells of barbecue filled the forest. I was forced to take part in a post-lunch game of baseball, in which I performed uselessly, and as the charcoal embers gave off the last of their heat it was time to say farewell. A family-sized silver-wrapped parcel of leftovers was presented to me for eating later that evening, along with a crackly pillowcase of potato chips and a vast bottle of bright yellow fizzy liquid. Each of the men embraced me with a bone-crushing bear hug before going through a confusing collection of handshakes, knuckle taps and high-fives. Full of food and optimism, I waved goodbye, mounted my bicycle and made my way back on to the forest trail.

‘Yo, brother! You ever write a book about this trip of yours, you better put my mom’s rice recipe in there,’ came a call from behind me.

‘No problem,’ I hollered back in my best New Jersey accent.

‘And one more thing, if you’re goin ta’ Brazil, you goin’ da wrong way. Rio de Janeiro gotta be south a here.’

This was not the last time I would be told I was going the wrong way. Leaving New York, my plan was to cycle north for the Niagara Falls and the Great Lakes before turning west across the country towards the Rocky mountains, on what I decided was the scenic route to Rio, via Toronto and Vancouver.

‘I’m cycling to Brazil,’ I shouted into the empty forest, buoyed with Puerto Rican rice, cheap American beer and naive self-assurance. Enjoying a long New England afternoon I made good time towards Nyack and the ominously named Bear mountain. The wide, slow-moving water of the Hudson river shimmered benevolently in the late afternoon sunshine. The dark green forested banks were dotted with whitewashed, clinker-built colonial houses, once homes to the wealthy merchants who managed the flow of New World commodities, fur, maple syrup, coal and buffalo, into New York. They stood as a reminder of the river’s important role as an artery into the great city I had left behind earlier in the day. In the morning I had battled my way through the busy traffic, kamikaze cab drivers and beeping horns of Manhattan, but out here, cycling along the banks of this historic river, I could have been a thousand miles away from the energy and power of New York City. At last, I was on my way.

It didn’t take long for my confidence to be undermined. The flat roads of the morning ride, which had stretched out before me making comfortable cycling, began to curve round the steep sides of the growing hills that now flanked the valley. The gradients increased and to keep my overloaded, 60-kilo bicycle moving forward became a hard and painful struggle. After leaving the shade of the forest trail, the heat of the afternoon sapped my energy.

I had only planned to spend five nights sleeping on a friend’s couch in the Big Apple, but thanks to Natwest Bank’s complete lack of customer service, and the epicurean charms of the city that never sleeps, I did not leave for five weeks. Any fitness I had gained labouring around Richmond Park had vanished after a lengthy intake of hamburgers, knishes, bagels and street pizzas, combined with late nights and riotous living. Now I was paying for it, hunched over my handlebars, dripping with sweat, making miserably slow work of the short journey to my first night’s goal, Nyack State Park, where I hoped I might be able to pitch camp.