The Best Seats
I stood behind Mum watching her meaty forearms as she wiped down the stove after frying fish. Her mood was tense and distracted so I waited for a few seconds and when she paused to grab a towel I blurted:
“Can I go watch the Arsenal Leicester game with Mister Roberts tonight? He’s got a free ticket and he’ll take me with him and come back?”
You always had to say you were coming back in our house. Even though it was a formality, it was just part of Growing up Guyanese.
“If you finish your homework, and set the table, you can go come back.” Mum replied with her back to me, while I silently jumped for joy.
Setting the table was a daily chore I excelled at. There were seven of us: Mum, Dad, and five kids, so the rules were simple. After putting out the cutlery, spoons for Mum and Dad and knives and forks for us kids, there was a water glass each. But two vital staples anchored our table: a condiment gunpowder barrel with a spoon, a perfect vessel for Mum’s fiery homemade pepper sauce, and a Bell’s whisky bottle. The whisky bottle, refilled with chilled water, lived in the fridge for Dad—he loved ice cold water with his dinner. He even had a special Smirnoff Vodka bottle, also filled with water that he took to bed every night.
Mum’s stew fish was always memorable. She used golden-brown fillets of Coley—a firm white fish that she preferred over cod because it was the economical choice. The supplier, "her boy" at Ridley Road Market, sold it in abundance. Mum would pat the fillets dry, cut them into portions, and season them generously from her homemade spice mix—kept in an old Robertson’s jam jar—then coat them lightly with seasoned flour. They sizzled and hissed as they hit the hot Spry Crisp and Dry oil, sending waves of toasted cumin and turmeric through the house. I hovered nearby, stealing glances at the crisping golden fillets—"You want a piece?” She asked, before expertly snapping a filet in half and handing me a hot delicious nugget.
While the fish rested, I laid out the cutlery while she boiled a pot of plain basmati rice. As it simmered, she prepared the stew base: fresh tomatoes, onions, garlic, Scotch Bonnet peppers, coriander, chicken stock and tomato paste. The moment the peppers hit the heat, the air turned pungent and a wave of ticklish smoke hit the back of our throats, making us both cough and laugh: “Open the window boy!” She yelled.
Once the sauce bubbled she nestled the crispy fish back onto the stew, letting it warm through before serving it over her famous hot white rice. My first bite was pure heaven—heat from the scotch bonnets danced with an orange tomato sauce specked with bright emerald coriander and gold roasted garlic that infused firm flakes of deliciously crispy Coley—this was the only fish dish I truly loved, apart from classic English fish and chips from the local Chinese of course!
After dinner, time went backwards as I waited for 7pm. The one time I’d been to an Arsenal game was with my older brother, Ron, to see them play a team that sounded like a German express train—Lokomotive Leipzig. We watched from the schoolboy’s enclosure; a vast cement coffin dug four feet below ground. It was packed with ragamuffin teens wearing tattered Arsenal scarves, dads holding young offspring on their shoulders, and older lads posing as schoolboys to save a few pennies. It was a great location that hugged the touchline from the edge of the penalty box to the Northbank, but even if I stood on tiptoe, I could only catch an occasional glimpse of the ball.
In the first half, the ball ran out of play and landed in my part of the trench. There was a fierce scuffle to grab it. Finally, a wiry kid with cropped hair and a silver studded earring secured the ball. He held it over the edge of the enclosure and, as a Leipzig player leant down to accept it, he spat right in his face. The kid offered an evil grin as the Leipzig player mumbled in disbelief and took the throw-in after a shake of his head. I stole a sideways glance at the kid, saw a face of pure hatred, and sensed something evil lurking in that dark pit. The only thing that distracted me was the stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum that Ron produced at half-time.
But now I had the opportunity to watch the game from a top seat in the main stand away from the penny stinkards.
I had this opportunity because I’d become friends with Ching, the excitable Chow Chow that dashed about the front garden of our neighbor, Mister Roberts, who lived four doors away. One day he found me petting the unique looking dog and asked if I’d like to take her for a daily walk.
I’d raced home to find Mum scuttling around her kitchen like a hungry crab. Thick pincers plucked jars of mysterious dark liquids and bright spices from her crammed larder. She tossed a hunk of sinuous pork was tossed into the smoking karahi. Whoosh! The meat wriggled and squealed, incinerated, it belched forth a plume of acrid smoke. I coughed as she held up a bag of pig fat. And asked the question I’d been dying to ask.
“Mum...Mister Roberts asked if I would be able to take, er, walk his dog, Ching. Can I?”
“Who? Why he want you fo take he dog?”
“No, he doesn’t want to give me the dog, I’d take it for a walk around the block and come back.”
“Since when you like dog?”
“I like dog. I mean dogs! And he might pay me.”
She held the bag higher with an urgent shake.
“Huh? Take this pork skin, go trow it in de bin by the pub and come back!”
“If I do, can I walk his dog? It’s not fair, all I do is slave away at home. I can’t go anywhere, I’m like a prisoner!”
“Boy, stop you whining! Go, okay, just go and give me some rass peace in this house.”
I grabbed the bag of pork skin before she could change her mind, dropped it in the bin outside The Plimsoll Arms and raced back up the street to collect Ching, Mister Robert’s Chow Chow, for our first walk.
I felt important. Somebody wanted me.
Ching the bear lion
I saw this as a great opportunity—a real English job that promised escape and reward, but once I reached the gate, the barrel-shaped, bear-lion barked and leapt around so much that all my optimism faded along with my bravery. I plucked up the courage to slip inside the gate, hoping to reach the doorbell without her noticing, but Ching launched herself at me in an excited frenzy. Sharp claws gouged my chest and, as I opened my mouth to protest, her thick golden fur smothered me in a disgusting hug full of dog whiff and black leathery tongue. I gagged and was about to flee when Mister Roberts opened the front door.
“Get down! Ching! Get down!” Ching retreated a few steps and tried to wag her tiny pigtail.
“You must speak to her in a firm voice or she’ll be all over you. Now just hold onto the leash tight, take her round the block once and she’ll be all right. Make sure you hold on tight, mind.”
Ching was a parolee on the day of her release. I couldn’t restrain her and open the gate without Mr. Roberts’ help. He watched with a smirk as we skidded down the street.
Ching sniffed at everything that lay in her path. If I wasn’t being dragged at a 45-degree angle, I was leaning 90 degrees trying to pull her away from moist crevasses, industrious ants, or alluring trees. Ching was also a poop connoisseur, she halted at every mound and sniffed its back, front and sides before pissing all over it. Disgusting!
On our return, I accepted Mister Roberts's offer of tea and biscuits. The aroma of roast beef hung in the air as he poured from the chintz teapot.
“Thought about what you’re gonna do when you grow up yet?”
I shrugged.
“What do you do?”
“Me, I work in Fleet Street, you know where that is?”
I thought about the word fleet.
“Er, by the seaside?”
“Haha! No but bloody good guess, you’re using the words associated with the name to come up with a deduction. That’s smart. No, Fleet Street is in Farringdon. It’s where all the newspapers get made,” he said, holding up a copy of the Daily Mirror.
“You an Arsenal fan then?” I nodded. An involuntary lie. “I get top seats to all the home games as a perk of the job, so we can go one day if you want?” I nodded.
“Ere give us that,” he said, taking my empty cup. “Come on, you better get off back home.”
He opened the front door and tapped me on the shoulder. As I turned, he held out two shiny ten-pence pieces.
“Well, go on. Take em then!” I grabbed them and ran off, dismissing any doubts about returning.
Two weeks later I returned Ching to Mr. Roberts after a swift walk and accepted another twenty-pence. I was about to leave when the phone rang. He held up a finger and darted inside. Seconds later he returned.
“Do you want to come to the Arsenal game tonight? My colleague can’t make it so I’ve got a spare ticket. It’s Leicester City. Third row, upper tier, right on the halfway line?”
He held up two crisp tickets and waved them before my eyes.
Now Mum had given me her blessing. An hour after enjoying the delicious fish stew, I was immersed in the September scent of match day–smoky wood, damp leaves, Double Diamond lager, pungent hand-rolled tobacco, caramelized onions and chargrilled meat. I pushed through the rigid turnstiles at Highbury struggling to keep up with Mr. Roberts. Flags held aloft, chants of Ars-en-al, spilt tea, discarded Wrigley’s gum wraps, tall anonymous backs, stone steps leading up, up and turning, a glimpse of floodlights and greenery, fans locked together, swaying in rhythm–then we emerged onto the third tier.
The scent of freshly cut grass with a hint of antiseptic floated on a cool breeze. Mr. Roberts approached the pitch along the aisle and stopped three rows from the front. We shuffled along and sat right on the halfway line. The grass was rolled flat, a bright green carpet with immaculate white lines, nets with the tiniest squares and emerald corner flags that fluttered a welcome.
I sat grinning while Mister Roberts read the program, the clock of the clock-end to my left, north-bank to my right. Now the songs made sense, a chorus of mutual admiration and camaraderie. The teams trotted out and the fans stood and applauded, but I clapped from my seat. I saw Pat Jennings adjusting his gloves from less than fifty feet away. Graham Rix and Frank Stapleton appeared, players I’d only seen on Match of the Day.
Pat Rice jogged onto the turf and I jumped up, wanting to call out and show him I was there. His autograph was the first famous person I’d ever gotten. We often saw him in his mum’s greengrocers on Gillespie Road, sipping cups of tea in the afternoon. I plucked up the courage to ask for his signature on the way back home from school one day when Neil told me he was the Arsenal captain. I snagged his autograph about six times after because I’d lose or give them away and he’d teased me by saying: I must be your favorite player. Despite our history, I couldn’t find my voice to call out to him. Instead, I sat back and enjoyed the spectacle, anxious that something this enthralling would have to come to an end.
When Arsenal scored, Mister Roberts jumped up, clapped and yelled along with thousands of home fans. I found myself on my feet, swept away by the wave of celebration. I almost yelled, nearly raised a fist, but I couldn’t act without feeling self-conscious. Fans smiled and commented on the goal, nodding in agreement. Boys hugged girlfriends. The clock-end taunted Leicester fans on the other side of a police cordon by holding up a finger and chanting:
“One nil, to the Arsenal, one nil to the Arsenal…” It was a live show with twenty-two heroes, or villains, depending on your team.
At half-time, Mister Roberts disappeared while I flicked through the program, glancing at the fans, trying to understand match-day decorum. Some were lost in thought, others hugged thermos flasks, ate crusty bacon rolls, rolled tobacco or listened to a wireless pressed against one ear. Mister Roberts appeared with a polystyrene cup of sweet tea. I was shivering under the midnight blue sky. The tea was a liquid blanket that stopped the shaking and warmed my insides.
At minute 85, with Arsenal 2-1 up, whistles from the crowd urged the referee to blow for full-time. Pat Rice slid into a terrific tackle just in front of us. I’d played one game on grass and no one had the confidence to try a slide tackle. I couldn’t fathom how one could run, slide, tackle and get up right away after winning the ball.
Mr. Roberts tapped me on the shoulder.
“Let’s go. We’ll beat the crowds,” he whispered, “You enjoy it?”
“It was great!” I said, beaming.
He patted me on the shoulder as we headed through the exit and walked briskly down Avenell Road. Night transformed the stadium exterior into a festival atmosphere with lamp-lit souvenir stands, food vendors and peanuts being sold in every niche. The crunch of shells underfoot and our quick clacking steps created a random rhythm backed by the occasional “Oooh” and “Ahh” from the fans still in the stadium.
“Well, okay son.” Mr. Roberts said as we reached his gate.
“Okay. Thanks for this, it was...great,” I said, realizing the evening was over.
“You had a good time then?” I nodded, casting my eyes to the ground.
“Don't worry, we’ll do it again.”
For those of you curious to try Mum’s Guyanese Fish Stew – here’s my version.
My version of Mum’s Guyanese Fish Stew
Serves 4 | Total Time: 45 minutes
🌿 Green Seasoning
(Make ahead—stores 2 weeks in fridge!)
1 bunch fresh cilantro (stems included!)
4 scallions
6 garlic cloves
1 small yellow onion
2 tbsp fresh thyme leaves
2 tbsp lime juice
3 tbsp water
Method:
Blend all ingredients until smooth. Makes ~1 cup.
🐟 Main Ingredients
For the Fish:
1.5 lbs firm fish fillets (snapper, coley, haddock work best)
¼ cup green seasoning
1 tbsp lime juice
2 tbsp flour
2 tsp Rajah Fish Seasoning
2 tbsp oil (for frying)
For the Stew:
3 tbsp vegetable oil
1 large onion, sliced
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 tbsp tomato paste
2 diced medium fresh tomatoes
1 tbsp coconut cream
3 sprigs fresh thyme
1 cup chicken or vegetable broth
1 whole Scotch bonnet pepper (do NOT chop!)
Salt and pepper to taste
Garnish:
Fresh cilantro or parsley
Method
1. Marinate the Fish
In a bowl, combine fish, green seasoning, fish seasoning and lime juice. Toss gently.
Marinate 30 minutes (or overnight for deeper flavor).
2. Cook the Fish
Lightly dredge fish in flour seasoned with salt and pepper. Pan-fry in oil over medium-high heat until golden (3-4 minutes per side). Set aside in warm oven.
3. Build the Stew
Heat oil in a deep pot. Sauté onion and garlic until soft (5 mins).
Add tomato paste, and diced tomatoes. Cook for 8 minutes until thickened.
Stir in coconut, thyme, water/broth, and whole Scotch bonnet pepper.
4. Simmer & Finish
1. Cover and simmer on low for 10 minutes.
2. Discard Scotch bonnet pepper and thyme stems.
3. Gently nestle fish into the sauce.
4. Taste for salt. Garnish with fresh herbs.
