This was the day—time to show those culinary barbarians what true food actually is. Not something like spaghetti bolognese consisting of pasta mixed with canned sauce. No, this time they were going to get the real thing. Kicks looked round the kitchen, his eyes moving over the countertops in a skilled and critical manner. Although it didn't meet his standards, for a kitchen situated next to a barbecue area it wasn't too bad. He then began to lay out his ingredients on the stainless steel prep surface, placing each one with careful precision.

The first course would be a simple soup, but Kicks was aware that it was difficult to produce a simple soup with any real flavour. You can't conceal poor work by means of such a 'simple' soup. He recalled the instance when he had served his special minestrone at that showy restaurant in the city—how the chef had sneered at its obvious simplicity before going back into the kitchen afterwards and asking Kicks what "magic" he had used to get such a rich flavour. There was no magic, of course; it had simply been a matter of patience, of respecting the ingredients, and of realizing that simplicity is often the most complex art form of all.

Obviously he needed tomatoes, but not just any tomato would do. No, this needed to be ripe San Marzano tomatoes. Their rich, slightly sweet flavor with low acidity was absolutely essential for this dish. Only the best for his friends, even if they wouldn't know the difference. Olive oil, onions, garlic, cream, basil... Wait! Where is the basil?

"DWP! Come here. Now!"

From outside the kitchen there came a deep sigh. "What's the matter, Kicks?"

"Basil, DWP, I need basil. Go buy some. Quick, you cannot just hang around here."

DWP only made some indistinct noises before leaving. As soon as he was out of sight, Kicks reached down and took the bottle from under the counter. Having had one sip couldn't possibly harm anyone; in fact, it would be a good idea to have two, just in case the first one didn't taste all that good.

While Kicks was considering his third sip, the amber liquid warming his throat like liquid gold, footsteps came from the gravel path outside—so heavy and deliberate that they couldn't have been DWP coming back from his errand. He speeded up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the faint smell of herbs still sticking to his fingers as he put the bottle back under the counter. There wasn't enough left to share anyway, and in the case of something so fine sharing was simply overrated. A thick-set man walked in, his shoulders broad just as the Welsh flag on his dark green sweater—the red dragon fierce against white and green—cast a shadow that for a moment dimmed the kitchen's fluorescent lights.

"Kicks, I heard you are going to arrange the food for our yearly barbecue."

"No," grumbled Kicks, "Not just the food, like that trash you always eat. I will be giving you real food."

"Food is food," said GIB, "but I do have to check the ingredients."

Kicks looked at GIB with wide eyes. "Check... the... ingredients?"

GIB nodded.

“Man, you can't even tell the difference between tagliatella and spaghetti!”

"I'm not interested in tasting the Italian foods; all I want to do is check that you're not using sheep's meat."

"Mutton," corrected Kicks. "It's called mutton, Welshman."

"Does not matter, you can’t use the holy sheep for a barbecue!"

Kicks relented and let GIB look around. GIB then located the duck portions which had already been sliced. "What is this, Kicks? Is that sheep meat?"

"Mutton! It's called mutton!"

"Oh," said GIB, "I suppose that's all right; for a moment I thought you were going to make use of the holy sheep."

GIB left and Kicks had another sip from his bottle. He may need more if those odd ones kept coming in.

He continued checking his ingredients for the duck breasts. Duck, obviously, red wine, butter, thyme, lemon, honey. "I'd better taste that wine first."

A single glass, yes, that was good. The deep burgundy liquid rotated in the crystal glass and gave off aromas of dark berries and oak. DWP came back with a bunch of basil that was a bit wilted and placed it on the counter with a thud which made Kicks wince. The basil wasn't perfect—the edges were slightly yellowed and the leaves weren't as vivid as he liked them to be—but it would have to do. Kicks could begin at once. Well, first of all he had to get DWP out of the kitchen; he couldn't have people just loitering there, for their clumsy presence would contaminate his work area. As he was starting to push DWP out, Kruug appeared in the doorway, his body blocking the light and said, "Hey, Kicks, I'm here to help you."

"Help me? You?"

"Of course, you do remember that I won the grand prize at the local barbecue event the year before, don't you?"

Kicks nodded slowly as he let out a small, dismissive sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. "Yes, there were four drunk old geezers who could not even say what they ate. I think they called your sausages 'lovely burgers', didn't they?"

Kruug grinned and picked up some pans then said, "I'll start this."

"No... please... not those pans."

Kruug paid no attention to Kicks' protests, and grabbed some ingredients with the same rough enthusiasm he applied to everything in life. At least he had the decency to ask what needed to be prepared, though his question came out as a booming "What's first, chef?"

Kicks gave him basic instructions, pointing vaguely toward the prep station where the duck breasts awaited their fate. He then turned his back on the culinary disaster in progress and started on his soup, slicing the San Marzano tomatoes, their red juices staining the cutting board like blood. He was cutting the rustic Italian bread to grill it for croutons when the aroma of his wine glass caught his attention again. He was contemplating whether the wine needed another round of tasting, his fingers hovering over the bottle, as a loud shout came from behind him: "Whoaaa!"

Kicks spun around. There stood Kruug, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and pride, brandishing the blackened pan like some trophy. And from that very pan, flames burst forth—vivid orange tongues licking at the kitchen ceiling.

"Fire brigade!" screamed Kruug, "Call the fire brigade!"

Kicks grabbed the fire blanket and doused the fire. "That would be a ruined pan," he thought.

"Sabotage," said Kruug, waving a finger around, "Someone sabotaged this. I tell you, this never happens in my kitchen."

Kruug left to search for a saboteur, leaving Kicks alone to finally finish his Marzano tomato soup and his duck breast. Well, first another sip from his secret bottle, of course. The amber liquid burned its way down his throat like liquid fire, exactly what he needed after that spectacle. Ah, and some extra red wine to go with it. He poured himself a generous glass, watching the liquid swirl in the crystal as if performing a private dance just for him. And perhaps a bit of beer. You can't have a barbecue without beer. The cold bottle felt good in his hand, condensation dripping onto the stainless steel counter like tears. He could hear distant shouts from outside—Kruug probably interrogating some innocent bystander about the "sabotage." Kicks took a long draught of beer, the bitter hops a perfect counterpoint to the wine's fruitiness. Yes, this was more like it. Just him, his ingredients, and his liquid courage. The soup would be magnificent. The duck would be sublime. And nobody—not even an arsonist with delusions of culinary grandeur—could ruin this day.

A voice. A loud voice: "Kicks? Where is the food, Kicks?"

Why was someone shouting next to his ear? The voice grated against his nerves like metal scraping across a plate. Kicks stared, his vision slightly blurred from the combination of amber liquid, red wine, and beer he'd consumed. There, at the door, stood that Welshman again, GIB's silhouette framed by the harsh afternoon light. The red dragon on his dark green sweater seemed almost alive in the glare, its wings spread as if about to take flight.

"The food, Kicks?"

"Ehh... somewhere? I think I was preparing the soup..."

GIB sighed, "I guess we'll order burgers. Again."