abandoned when I reached a stall serving breakfast and pulled up a plastic stool at a table. The range of food on offer was unbelievable, but I went for my favourite,
pho gai
– poached chicken and soft rice noodles swimming in a steaming bowl of spicy broth dressed with bean sprouts, chilli, basil leaves and the usual squeeze of lime.
Pho gai
beats a bowl of cereal for breakfast hands down, and this one was unbelievably aromatic and tasty. I was contemplating a second helping when my past came up and bit me on the butt.
‘Alby fucking Murdoch, as I bloody live and breathe.’
Jezebel Quick was six foot six of dynamism, gorgeous good looks, dangerous curves and pulsating sexual energy packed into a five-foot-nothing frame. A shock of shoulder-length curly blonde hair framed her face, her blue eyes sparkled and those red lips were as inviting as ever. Her diaphanous blouse and light cotton trousers made sense in the tropics, but if they’d been any flimsier they’d have blown away in a mild breeze. Jez was an underwear-optional kind of woman, and for a moment I didn’t quite know where to look so I looked everywhere.
Jezebel opened her first restaurant at the age of twenty-one to long lines and rave reviews. We’d worked together a lot of years back when I’d shot the pictures for one of her early cookbooks,
Jezebel’s Quicksnacks
. I’d eventually wound up being one of those snacks and I still hadn’t recovered from the experience. It was a brief intense and very tempestuous affair and I’ll admit I was a bit relieved when she moved on to fresh fields.
The success of her restaurant ventures and cookbooks had eventually led to Jezebel getting her own TV food series. The show had an avid fan base of women looking for fast, foolproof recipes they could throw together to please their husbands, and husbands who watched every episode desperately hoping Ms Quick would prepare something featuring whipped cream. Jezebel made Nigella look like a homely peasant girl and her whisking technique really had to be seen to be believed. There’d even been one famous spatula-licking sequence that had to be edited out, given her programme’s early-evening timeslot. The producers decided it was definitely too hot for the tots.
‘Hello Jez,’ I said. ‘Still got that convent girl’s vocabulary, I see.’
‘Why don’t you go and shove your head up a dead bear’s bum, Alby, you prick,’ Jezebel said, and then she gave me a big wet kiss. ‘Mmmm,’ she said, licking her lips, ‘you can really taste the star-anise in that stock.’
Off-camera, Jezebel swore like a Queensland bullocky with an extremely colourful turn of phrase. In one famous incident on the set of a TV show, she’d been asked by Gordon Ramsay’s personal assistant if she could tone it down a bit as he was starting to get embarrassed. There was definitely the potential for a high-rating reality TV show about Jezebel’s life but you’d probably have to call it
Expletive De-fucking-leted
.
‘What brings you to Saigon, Jez? And didn’t I take out a court order that said you couldn’t come within 500 metres of me?’
‘In your bloody dreams, lover,’ she laughed. ‘We’re here shooting sequences for my new series and I’ve tied it in with some personal appearances and one of my Experience bloody Gourmet Asia tours.’
I figured Asia with Jezebel would be one hell of an experience, and way too much for me to cope with.
‘I’ve just taken this bunch of filthy-rich foodie wankers to Tokyo, Singapore and KL, and after this it’s Hanoi and then Hong Kong. To tell you the truth, Alby, I’m bloody sick to death of the bastards.’
Knowing how Jezebel operated, this meant there were no males in the group young enough, fit enough or good-looking enough to keep her entertained.
There was a sudden ruckus behind us and Jezebel glanced over her shoulder. ‘It’s that motherfucker Bourdain and his crew trying to screw up my interview with the cock and
pho gai
– poached chicken and soft rice noodles swimming in a steaming bowl of spicy broth dressed with bean sprouts, chilli, basil leaves and the usual squeeze of lime.
Pho gai
beats a bowl of cereal for breakfast hands down, and this one was unbelievably aromatic and tasty. I was contemplating a second helping when my past came up and bit me on the butt.
‘Alby fucking Murdoch, as I bloody live and breathe.’
Jezebel Quick was six foot six of dynamism, gorgeous good looks, dangerous curves and pulsating sexual energy packed into a five-foot-nothing frame. A shock of shoulder-length curly blonde hair framed her face, her blue eyes sparkled and those red lips were as inviting as ever. Her diaphanous blouse and light cotton trousers made sense in the tropics, but if they’d been any flimsier they’d have blown away in a mild breeze. Jez was an underwear-optional kind of woman, and for a moment I didn’t quite know where to look so I looked everywhere.
Jezebel opened her first restaurant at the age of twenty-one to long lines and rave reviews. We’d worked together a lot of years back when I’d shot the pictures for one of her early cookbooks,
Jezebel’s Quicksnacks
. I’d eventually wound up being one of those snacks and I still hadn’t recovered from the experience. It was a brief intense and very tempestuous affair and I’ll admit I was a bit relieved when she moved on to fresh fields.
The success of her restaurant ventures and cookbooks had eventually led to Jezebel getting her own TV food series. The show had an avid fan base of women looking for fast, foolproof recipes they could throw together to please their husbands, and husbands who watched every episode desperately hoping Ms Quick would prepare something featuring whipped cream. Jezebel made Nigella look like a homely peasant girl and her whisking technique really had to be seen to be believed. There’d even been one famous spatula-licking sequence that had to be edited out, given her programme’s early-evening timeslot. The producers decided it was definitely too hot for the tots.
‘Hello Jez,’ I said. ‘Still got that convent girl’s vocabulary, I see.’
‘Why don’t you go and shove your head up a dead bear’s bum, Alby, you prick,’ Jezebel said, and then she gave me a big wet kiss. ‘Mmmm,’ she said, licking her lips, ‘you can really taste the star-anise in that stock.’
Off-camera, Jezebel swore like a Queensland bullocky with an extremely colourful turn of phrase. In one famous incident on the set of a TV show, she’d been asked by Gordon Ramsay’s personal assistant if she could tone it down a bit as he was starting to get embarrassed. There was definitely the potential for a high-rating reality TV show about Jezebel’s life but you’d probably have to call it
Expletive De-fucking-leted
.
‘What brings you to Saigon, Jez? And didn’t I take out a court order that said you couldn’t come within 500 metres of me?’
‘In your bloody dreams, lover,’ she laughed. ‘We’re here shooting sequences for my new series and I’ve tied it in with some personal appearances and one of my Experience bloody Gourmet Asia tours.’
I figured Asia with Jezebel would be one hell of an experience, and way too much for me to cope with.
‘I’ve just taken this bunch of filthy-rich foodie wankers to Tokyo, Singapore and KL, and after this it’s Hanoi and then Hong Kong. To tell you the truth, Alby, I’m bloody sick to death of the bastards.’
Knowing how Jezebel operated, this meant there were no males in the group young enough, fit enough or good-looking enough to keep her entertained.
There was a sudden ruckus behind us and Jezebel glanced over her shoulder. ‘It’s that motherfucker Bourdain and his crew trying to screw up my interview with the cock and
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