Our steward is East Indian. His English is impeccable, but none-the-less a second language. He appears willing to do anything for us, at anytime. I think that if I dropped by Blackberry overboard he would not simply TRY to fetch it, he WOULD fetch it.
We decide to have a civilized lunch with our friends in our cabin: Bombay Curry from the kitchen…special order. And Bloody Mary’s
(we are on vacation, after all.).
We cite the ingredients: tomato juice, Tabasco, celery salt, lemon juice—oh, and Worcestershire.
This last word brings a look of constrenation to Stanley’s face (that can’t possibly be his real name, I think).
I repeat: Worcestershire.
Stanley nods and disappears.
We retire to the veranda to observe the ocean, calm as a rug, as it changes from deep blue to teal with the transition of depth beneath the keel as we glide from the Atlantic trench onto the Atlantic shelf.
We return to our stateroom and our supplies have been delivered: vodka, tomato juice, Tabasco, celery salt, lemons and—-a glass of scotch on ice?
Moments later, with drinks in hand, we welcome Stanley back as he brings our curry.
There must be some mistake, I say. We didn’t order the scotch. And where’s the Worcestershire?
To which Stanley replies, “Mum asked for a Whiskey chaser.”
It’s all in the pronunciation.