“When you don’t find me here, I will be gone.”
That’s the way our favourite restaurateur speaks. Slightly cryptic, more than a little poetic. The havoc of his cancer is becoming increasingly evident. He’s long been hinting at returning toThailand; I expect he’d like to get his young Thai wife back to the country of her birth and set her up in a little business before he dies. He spins whimsical tales of us visiting him in a hotel he plans to build. We try our best to be enthusiastic about his plans, but tears spill into the dish he makes for me and me alone. It is not on the menu here, but – he tells me – it will appear on the menu at the new place. He will call it Cindy’s Jungle Dance.