But having to listen to the old buffoon with a semblance of interest will be good for her manners. Meanwhile, the Samper etiquette has itself been under strain as the costermonger tells me exactly how the Shangri-Loo ‘Dream’ model differs from the carbon neutral ‘EcoTwirl’ model, not to mention the ‘Arabian Nights’, whose ‘gossamer fingers’ feature pursues hygiene entirely too far for any dinner table.
Over the last five minutes I have noticed the general conversation flagging somewhat, doubtless on account of my informant’s graphic descriptions of advanced sanitation techniques. People are eating more slowly and with increasingly thoughtful expressions. I am just trying to think of a way to shut the costermonger up when the Baronet decisively puts down his knife and fork and is clearly about to hold forth. All the better :he has the immunity of old age and can be as rude as he likes. Abruptly his huge gnarled hands clutch the edge of the table as though to push himself to his feet. As he rises, he begins ‘I …’, but his sentence is cut off by a sudden hawser of blue-brown vomit that stretches wide his mouth and hurtles across the table, hitting a Wedgwood bowl of roast potatoes at least four feet away. He collapses back on his chair and heaves again, this time swamping a pot of mint jelly. And as if this were the trigger that releases everybody else’s inhibitions, the others promptly follow suit. Stomach contents empurpled with Max’s superb ’97 Bolgheri Sassicaia and launched at projectile speed knock over wine glasses and even salt cellars. Several diners retain enough control to attempt to stem their torrents with hasty wads of napkin, but such is the force that subsidiary jets spurt out at the sides, in one case upwards into the diner’s own hair, in another into a neighbour’s neck. In a matter of seconds a perfect dinner table is splattered with liver-coloured lumps and froth, the reeking air full of the sound of retching. Not since the grosser feasts of Ancient Rome can there have been such a scene of mass gastric ejaculation. Gleaming strands now bow down the innocent spring flowers that comprise Jennifer’s charming centrepiece, drool joining the snowdrops’ heads to the drenched tablecloth. I notice the gorilla is particularly under the weather. Presumably the costume’s designers overlooked the possibility that its wearer might be overcome by violent regurgitation. No doubt the mouth wouldn’t open widely enough and the inner contours of the moulded plastic must be redirecting a good portion of the flow internally. This would explain the lumps of sick pouring from both eyeholes and the luckless clarinettist’s frantic but blind attempts with his paws to find the Velcro straps that will release his head.
My first instinct was naturally for the safety of my Zaccarelli suit, and I sprang up and backed away from the table even before my costermonger neighbour exploded into the gravy boat and beyond. I reflect that it’s all very well making a privatefortune out of bringing dernier-cri luxury to the nation’s lavatories if you’re then reduced to publicly blowing chunks into a bowl of perfectly braised leeks. It is a tribute to my self-confidence as a cook that even now it doesn’t immediately occur to me to suspect my own handiwork behind all this. Nonetheless, I do seem to be the only person unaffected, although the sight and sound and smell are making it likely that if I stay I, too, will shortly succumb. Leaving behind a chorus of groaning and splashing I dash for the kitchen with some vague idea of fetching paper towels and pitchers of cold water. Off to one side I glimpse Spud in the scullery munching stolidly on a doorstep of bread and cheese.
‘How’s it going, then?’ he calls, banging crumbs off his newspaper.
‘Equivocally.’ Carefully I remove my lovely jacket and hang it out of harm’s way. Over the roar of tap water I add: ‘I think we may have problems.
Over the last five minutes I have noticed the general conversation flagging somewhat, doubtless on account of my informant’s graphic descriptions of advanced sanitation techniques. People are eating more slowly and with increasingly thoughtful expressions. I am just trying to think of a way to shut the costermonger up when the Baronet decisively puts down his knife and fork and is clearly about to hold forth. All the better :he has the immunity of old age and can be as rude as he likes. Abruptly his huge gnarled hands clutch the edge of the table as though to push himself to his feet. As he rises, he begins ‘I …’, but his sentence is cut off by a sudden hawser of blue-brown vomit that stretches wide his mouth and hurtles across the table, hitting a Wedgwood bowl of roast potatoes at least four feet away. He collapses back on his chair and heaves again, this time swamping a pot of mint jelly. And as if this were the trigger that releases everybody else’s inhibitions, the others promptly follow suit. Stomach contents empurpled with Max’s superb ’97 Bolgheri Sassicaia and launched at projectile speed knock over wine glasses and even salt cellars. Several diners retain enough control to attempt to stem their torrents with hasty wads of napkin, but such is the force that subsidiary jets spurt out at the sides, in one case upwards into the diner’s own hair, in another into a neighbour’s neck. In a matter of seconds a perfect dinner table is splattered with liver-coloured lumps and froth, the reeking air full of the sound of retching. Not since the grosser feasts of Ancient Rome can there have been such a scene of mass gastric ejaculation. Gleaming strands now bow down the innocent spring flowers that comprise Jennifer’s charming centrepiece, drool joining the snowdrops’ heads to the drenched tablecloth. I notice the gorilla is particularly under the weather. Presumably the costume’s designers overlooked the possibility that its wearer might be overcome by violent regurgitation. No doubt the mouth wouldn’t open widely enough and the inner contours of the moulded plastic must be redirecting a good portion of the flow internally. This would explain the lumps of sick pouring from both eyeholes and the luckless clarinettist’s frantic but blind attempts with his paws to find the Velcro straps that will release his head.
My first instinct was naturally for the safety of my Zaccarelli suit, and I sprang up and backed away from the table even before my costermonger neighbour exploded into the gravy boat and beyond. I reflect that it’s all very well making a privatefortune out of bringing dernier-cri luxury to the nation’s lavatories if you’re then reduced to publicly blowing chunks into a bowl of perfectly braised leeks. It is a tribute to my self-confidence as a cook that even now it doesn’t immediately occur to me to suspect my own handiwork behind all this. Nonetheless, I do seem to be the only person unaffected, although the sight and sound and smell are making it likely that if I stay I, too, will shortly succumb. Leaving behind a chorus of groaning and splashing I dash for the kitchen with some vague idea of fetching paper towels and pitchers of cold water. Off to one side I glimpse Spud in the scullery munching stolidly on a doorstep of bread and cheese.
‘How’s it going, then?’ he calls, banging crumbs off his newspaper.
‘Equivocally.’ Carefully I remove my lovely jacket and hang it out of harm’s way. Over the roar of tap water I add: ‘I think we may have problems.
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