By Guest Blogger, Jim Craven
Just as the large white limousine pulled up in front of 22 Wesley Terrace, in West Bradford, Fred Wilson, a 65 year old retired weaver opened the front door of his little two up and two down terrace house and stepped onto the pavement. He watched as the driver opened the rear door of the car and a somewhat portly gentleman eased himself out.
The gentleman concerned was dressed in white tie and tails. But then he should have been, as he had left St. George’s Hall immediately after his concert, to keep an appointment that had been arranged some months ago. A great gourmand was he and having been made aware that there was a regional delicacy that he had hitherto not tried, he instructed his agents to find him a place where he could taste the best Yorkshire Puddings ever made.
After much research by his aides it was universally agreed that Minnie Wilson, wife of the aforementioned Fred made the best Yorkshire puddings ever tasted and the appropriate arrangements had been made for the gentleman to partake of a late dinner at the home of Minnie and Fred.
Pavarotti walked towards Fred and smiled as he said ‘You must be Signor Wilson. I am very pleased to meet you and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for inviting me to your home’. ‘Nice to meet you Mr. Pavarotti’ said Fred. “Come inside and meet the Missus’.
Fred led the way through the tiny front room into an equally tiny kitchen. ‘Minnie’ he said. ‘Here’s that Mr. Pavarotti fella that sings’. Minnie, somewhat diminutive in height and rather rotund turned round and smiled at her guest. She put out her hand and Pavarotti took it in his and kissed it gently. ‘Grazzi Signora, how nice to meet you thank you for inviting me into your home’. He handed her an elegant little bag which contained two bottles of excellent wine. One white and the other red, both from his native Italy. ‘Perhaps you would accept this little gift to accompany our meal tonight.
Fred looked at the wine and turning to Pavarotti said ‘nay lad it’s very kind of thee, there’s nowt like a glass of good wine, but tha can only drink a drop of Tetley’s bitter with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Pavarotti inclined his head ‘I bow to your superior knowledge, but perhaps you will keep the wine for another occasion’.
Pavarotti and Fred sat down at the little table in the kitchen and Fred poured two large glasses of Tetley’s bitter. Pavarotti took a sip and tried hard not to grimace. It was not to his liking. Fortunately for him, at that very moment Minnie placed a plate in front of him on which rested a very large Yorkshire pudding. It was golden brown, stood two inches high on the plate and was covered in a light but delightfully aromatic gravy. Pavarotti looked up at her and said ‘Signora, what is this? ‘Yorkshire pudding she replied’ with a look of disbelief on her face ‘what does tha think it is?’
‘Signora, I thought that in England, a pudding was something which followed the main course in a meal’. ‘Not in this county lad” she said. ‘Tha’s in Yorkshire now and tha eats thi Yorkshire pudding first’.
Pavarotti took a mouthful of his Yorkshire pudding and then another one. He smiled at his hosts who were watching somewhat anxiously and said ‘bella’ and proceeded to eat the remainder with great relish. Minnie gave him another pudding which was dispatched with the same appreciation as the first one. He then took a furtive sip of his pint of Tetley’s bitter, which tasted somewhat better than it did on his first encounter.
Minnie removed the plates and then placed fresh ones on the table, all heaped with thick slices of roast beef, which was crisp on the outside and slightly underdone in the middle. There were some fluffy roast potatoes, carrots and brussel sprouts. A jug of gravy was set in the middle of the table. Fred handed Pavarotti a jar of horseradish sauce. Pavarotti took a sniff at it and smiled as he said ‘I don’t care what this tastes like, but it is surely a remedy for blocked sinuses’. He nevertheless placed a heap on the side of his plate, having first watched Fred do the same. He demolished his food rather quickly and took frequent sips from his glass of beer. He took little persuading to accept a further plate full of food and his glass of beer which now tasted like the nectar of the gods was almost empty.
Minnie finally produced a home made apple pie which was served with lashings of ice cream. Her guest patted his stomach and said ‘I wonder if I have room for this’ and of course he had.
The table was cleared. Pavarotti stood up and removed his napkin from inside his collar. He placed his hands on Minnie’s shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Signora’ he said ‘that was the nicest meal I have eaten for a long time.
They moved into the front parlour after the dishes had been washed. Pavarotti had volunteered to help, but he was not permitted to do so. ‘Women’s work’ said Fred.
Fred poured Pavarotti a glass of an inexpensive and rather revolting port. ‘So tha’s a singer’ he said as he handed a glass to him. ‘How about singing for thi supper then? Pavarotti smiled and said ‘of course Signor” I would be delighted.
‘How about ‘The sun has got his hat on’ then said Fred. ‘Sorry’ said his guest, ‘I am not familiar with that’. ‘Well, does tha know ‘Brother Bertie Went Away’ or ‘If you were the only girl in the world?’
‘Sorry Signor’ said Pavarotti, ‘neither of those are in my repertoire. I could however sing you the aria ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’. Fred thought for a moment and then said ‘Naw, If you are going to sing something from L’Elisir D’amore, I would rather hear ‘Quanto e bella, quanto e cara’. Pavarotti gave him a piercing look and said ‘Signor, you have been making the micky of me?’. ‘Just a little bit’ he replied. My wife and I may live in humble surroundings, but we do appreciate good singing and we love your voice.
Pavarotti stood in front of the fireplace, filled his lungs with air and proceeded to sing Fred’s favourite aria. He followed on with pieces from Verdi, Rossini, Handel and Mozart and concluded with the beautiful Donaudy song ‘Vaghissima Sembianza’. When he had finished, he bowed to his hosts who applauded him, as did many of their neighbours who, having heard the source of the delightful singing, crowded round the front door and window of 22 Wesley Terrace, West Bradford.
Pavarotti said ‘I must leave, I am due in New York tomorrow. Thank you for your company, thank you for your hospitality and thank you for the Yorkshire puddings. Perhaps you will come to New York as my guests next month when I am performing at the Metropolitan Opera. I will arrange for your tickets to be sent to you in the next few days.
Hank Note: Jim Craven is a Yorkshireman transplanted to New Zealand, where I met him. I thought you'd enjoy this charming little tale of his.
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