HEY everybody, Ariana here! After endless press junkets and media appearances for Wicked I want to talk about my true passion – ramming down the full English at my favourite café in Torquay until I am uncomfortably stuffed.
Keith Whittaker might be a bald divorcee with an EDL tattoo, but my goodness, he knows his way around a grill. He puts his own blood, sweat and tears into his food. Literally. I’ve watched him swearing at the mushrooms.
It’s true gastronomy, and I’ve eaten at Noma. When I’m in the UK I visit at least six times, which annoys my manager because Torquay is miles away from London. I always order the ‘Belly Buster Fry-Up’ – a true challenge for someone like me who has to remain exactly six stone to stop Zendaya stealing my roles.
It comes on a platter – 12 bangers, 12 rashers, a mountain of beans, eight fried eggs, eight slices of fried bread, toast, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms and six satisfying pucks of black pudding. Hang that in the Louvre. It’s my calorie intake for an entire month. I’m literally salivating right now. When he brings it out, Keith plays Ride of the Valkyries on his CD player.
But how do you eat it all in under 30 minutes to get it free? Well, instead of ‘holding space’ emotionally for the lyrics of Defying Gravity I’ve been holding space for black pudding and bacon fried bread sarnies. Because the key is to combine items. That’s how I’ve managed to get my time down to 27 minutes – building in time for a little lay down and a tactical shit.
After the sarnies are gone, I tackle the sausages. My vocal range is the stuff of legend, so I have full larynx control. I swallow those without chewing like Scooby Doo in the cartoons. By now a group of scaffolders have usually gathered, charmingly calling me ‘darling’ and egging me on.
Speaking of eggs, I mush these up with the beans and spoon them down as fast as my beautiful little mouth will allow, slurping a pot of weak tea with six sugars as I go. If I get a clear run at things I can try to break the 25-minute barrier – but in ‘the Kaff’ you never know what’ll happen next. A welder might pinch your arse so you need to hit him with one of the plastic chairs. Or Mad Janine the local nutter might try a dine and dash. These can all disturb my flow.
I save the tomatoes and mushrooms until last because, let’s face it, those are the worst bits. And voila! I’ve just saved myself £11.99 by finishing it in a time of 28:57. Not my best, but not to be sniffed at. I step into my waiting limo hoping I’ve not spilled any runny yolk on my huge, powderpuff Giambattista Valli haute couture gown and head off to the BRITs.
God I love Keith’s Kaff. The atmosphere, the camaraderie, the free refills of Bovril. Their hygiene rating may be a two after the salmonella business but it’s a 10 from me!
