A true story
Along with Schreiber furniture, orange and brown wallpaper, and carpets and curtains to match, the 70’s saw the arrival of the fondue set on British soil, and they sold like the latest mobile phone does today. Quite why my age group were buying them, I have no idea, but it seemed the ideal gift of choice for the young lady of the day. My, how things have changed; give ‘em half a pound of mince now and they wouldn’t know what to do with it!
In 1977 I was going out with the love of my life, and one weekend a friend of Lyn’s invited us to a night of food and drink at her house, fondue style. At the age of 20 I struggled to see why or how this namby pamby, arty farty way of eating had become so popular in England. I mean it was no good if you were Hank Marvin (starving). From what I’d heard about this style of cooking, it could take you anything up to three days to cook a ten ounce steak as it was cut into half inch cubes first!
There was no doubt about it – we should have been supplied with a larger pot! And don’t get me started on why anyone in their right mind would want to cook cheese in the same manner! The only answer I could come up with at the time was that it might have made a reasonable substitute for napalm.
I also wondered why no one had advised me to take a first aid box with me on the night. Well, quite simply the information wasn’t available. We didn’t have the luxury of a website or a support group back then, and up until that point, as far as I knew, no one in the British Isles had ever been scalded while eating a Sunday roast or sausage and mash!
So I guess it was purely down to the embarrassment factor that the injury rates of fondue cuisine hadn’t leaked out which proved to be costly, as we were all fondue virgins. Looking back now I think at the bare minimum there would’ve been a member of the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade present.
The condition you were most likely to incur was later defined by a Dr Schnooltzberg at the Scandinavian Institute for gob burns, and it was his 20,000 page thesis that described the problem as, FM burns or Fondue Mouth.
In later years the British Medical Council updated his work for the NHS, and in the London area at least, the condition was known as, FTHM syndrome or, ‘Fuck That’s Hot Mother.’ This ailment was caused by one of five things in Britain alone, rampant starvation, being pissed and/or a combination of hot oil, hot food and an even hotter fondue fork.
There was a mix of people attending that night, some my girlfriend and I knew from the pub, and a few were work mates of our hostess, Sally. Have you ever been to a social gathering where, no matter what someone does, they’re going to make a prat of themselves?
Well as it turned out it was going to be me. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away… remember that when it’s your turn won’t you. Overall, I put it down to the law of sod, and if I’d had half a clue as to what I was in for that night, I wouldn’t have left my house. Not even the bookies would’ve given you odds on the embarrassment factor I was to suffer later on in the evening.
The table was set. A miniature vat of smoking oil took centre stage, and around it were plates of raw meat and four bowls of salad. Beyond that were trays stacked high with French bread, so much in fact that if you listened hard enough you could actually make out a feint accent!
There were ooohs and aaahs as small chunks of dead animals sizzled in the fondue bowl, and for a brief period the room smelt like a knackers’ yard! The very first thing I learnt from that night was that I wished I’d had a square meal before arriving, I was bloody starving by the time the alcohol had taken effect.
The main ingredient of the evening was an abundance of laughing, and that was largely caused by watching the attempts of the guests as they tried to eat the volcanically heated food and speak at the same time. There was much burning of mouths, lips and cheeks and some of the blame fell squarely on the microscopic copper fondue forks. Other injuries came to light the day after when the A & E department at Whipps Cross Hospital did a brisk trade in throat and tongue injuries.
My problems began when Sally began to recount a funny story about a journey to her work place. She was a real giggler at the best of times and had the whole table in fits before she started her description of this event. She was about to board a bus.
In front of her was a bloke with a bag over his right shoulder and an umbrella in his left hand with the point facing upwards. In front of him on the foot plate of the old route-master was an elderly woman who was quizzing the conductor about her destination and holding up the queue in the process.
It sounded like a typical wet Monday morning, the heavens had opened and it was coming down in stair rods. The passengers’ delay was lengthened because the pensioner at the head of the queue couldn’t hear what the conductor saying. At this crucial stage matey boy with the brolly began to rummage about his person for his fare and, let’s face it, it’s never where you left it is it? And even if it was, you’d still check all of your other pockets first, or is it just me that does that?
As he went from pocket to pouch and back again, his umbrella took on a different guise as it flailed about in the air. What used to look like a protector against the rain and wind looked more like weapon now. As the guy still hadn’t found his change, and the queue moved forward by a massive three inches, his search became more frantic.
At this point, the old dear had made contact with the living world again and was now receiving audible messages about her journey and where to get off. This positive piece of news flashed to the ranks of the first six sodden passengers behind Sally. Unfortunately the full information on where to depart was still seeping into the pensioner’s memory bank and, instead of moving inside the warm dry bus, she started farting about with her bus pass and handbag and remained stock still.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. The sopping wet sextet surged forward pushing Sally into the guy looking for his fare. As they made contact, his bag slipped off of his shoulder where the strap came to rest in the crease of his right arm. His natural reaction was to counter the shift in balance but he didn’t have enough room to undertake this manoeuvre and the degree of weight displacement forced the point of his umbrella straight up the pensioner’s jacksey!
On hearing this, my immediate regret was forcing that extra mouthful of salad in my biscuit chute. I had plenty of time to chew the greenery but, as it turned out, nowhere near enough time to swallow it. Laughing out loud wasn’t an option as I was wedged between guests I hardly knew, and almost every one of them was wearing light coloured clothing.
You name it and it was all within spitting distance. White shirts, white dresses, and white tops, and let’s not forget about the tablecloth, that was spread out like a target area before me; a parachute regiment couldn’t miss it! Beyond the table was a wall that looked as if it had been papered recently. Not with the garish patterned orange and browns of the day, oh no, it must have been the only house in the street that’d picked a plain light lemon, just to be bloody different…
Part two next week.
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