Borough Market
I’d read on a few websites how one trader, Noel Fitzjohn, based in the Green Market, stocked some of the hottest chillies around, including nagas, which to this point I’d only tried in sauce form. After an initial wander, Kath and I went from stall to stall asking if any of the other traders knew him. Lots of people claimed complete ignorance, and we heard a couple of unsubstantiated rumours that he’d moved to the Jubilee Market. But they didn’t pan out. Then it started raining. I asked Kath if we could do one more sweep of the Green Market and, knowing what it meant to me, she acquiesced.
We tore around, neither of us too hopeful, and then, hidden in a corner we’d stood in twice before, I spotted ‘Fitz Pâtés and Terrines’ plastered in large obvious writing across the front of a stall.
A massive grin broke across my face. “That must be him!,” I said to Kath.
As quickly as they’d were raised, my spirits dropped when careful examination of Noel’s offerings revealed only a selection of Gallic produce, such as foie gras and various pâtés, alongside mustards and vinegars. Disregarding all the extravagantly fancy foods with merely a cursory glance I asked Noel if he had any super hot chillies, like the internet had promised me.
“No,” he said, “I don’t have a license to sell chillies at the market any more, only over the internet.” He handed me his card.
“What happened?” I asked.
Noel shrugged. “I just don’t have the licence any more,” he said. My interest was piqued, and I suspected there was a story behind this, but given his reticence I chose not to ask him about it further.
“So I can get them off you, but I have to go through your website?” I asked for clarification.
He looked about briefly before leaning over to me. “Look,” Noel said in hushed, earnest tones, “if you want, you can just drop me a line letting me know what you’re interested in and I’ll bring what I can to the market next week. My email address is on the card.”
Amused and surprised by the sudden illicit avenue the conversation had moseyed into, I smiled at him, “It’s a deal.”
I can just picture the police swooping down on the stall on Saturday. We’re arrested and the goods confiscated. The police have to sample the product by rubbing the chillies on their gums. Then, seconds later, they’re rolling around on the floor in pain and agony. Sensing that this is the ideal opportunity, Noel Fitzjohn and I make good our escape. But where to? For some reason we choose Weymouth, where we begin to plan an elaborate chilli pepper farm, supplying the richest, most hottest produce.
Working in partnership we become infamous amongst chilli fanatics. Our story becomes legend and it’s passed down from capsaicin addict to capsaicin addict, becoming more and more elaborate on each retelling.
They, of course, refer to it as the Dorset Saga.