I am in a mixed marriage: my wife is vegetarian, I’m not.
Actually, technically speaking, she’s a pescatarian as she eats fish. (I find the term pescatarian a bit of a stumbling block as it conjures up images of the closing scenes of old Scooby Doo cartoons. You know what I mean: the bit at the end of every episode where the culprit’s mask is yanked off and he declares ‘I woulda gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for you pescatarians!’)
Anyway, my wife and I are just back from holiday in the land of the free and the home of the brave (no, not Hemel – went there last year and it’s a much cheaper way of getting a tan – only takes 6 minutes in a booth to go the same colour as Shaggy’s hair), and it quickly became apparent that in a country where you can be anything you want to be, one thing it’s quite hard to be is a veggie.
Day 3 and my wife had already sussed the need to be clear about her food requirements when ordering. We’re sitting on the sunny terrace of an independent burger joint – a restaurant’ish one, not a drive thru – we are on holiday after all. It’s lunchtime. I’m happy and would eat anything on the menu.
Wife: I’m vegetarian.
Shaven-Headed, Body-Builder Owner/Waiter Who Looks Like He’s Going To Burst Out Of His T-Shirt: You can have any of the burgers with a vegetarian pattie instead.
Wife: I’ll have the Swiss Cheeseburger.
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: Great choice.
Me: (silently salivating at the thought of meat for the third day in a row)
Wind forwards ten minutes and my wife is enjoying her burger. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that she’s particularly enjoying her burger – more than I’ve seen her enjoy a veggie burger for a very long time. Wind forward two more minutes and she is no longer enjoying life in any way, shape or form.
Wife: That’s bacon. There’s bacon in my veggie burger (points to three unmistakable rashers).
Me: Can I have it?
Wife: (dark stare)
Me: (poor attempt at cheeky smile)
Wife: (even darker stare)
I dutifully take the offending burger back inside and speak to the barman-come- manager-come-waiter. He (unsurprisingly) apologises and, somewhat stating the obvious, says ‘that shouldn’t be in there’.
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: Sorry, man. I do everything here except cook. I’m truly sorry.
I walk back outside.
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS arrives a few minutes later looking rather sheepish (it was actually quite amusing to see a testosterone-filled, protein-packed body-builder look quite so coy, his brusque persona eroded by veggie-gate)
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: (to wife) Let me make amends. What can I do to make this up to you? Anything at all.
Wife looks pensive.
I’m intrigued as to how she’ll respond. What would I want if one of my defining beliefs was compromised so publically by a stranger? What if something I was so passionate about was undermined in such a way? I’d want something of note to compensate.
Wife: I’ll have some onion rings to take away, please.
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: (knowing he’s got off lightly) Absolutely. Absolutely. No problem at all. I’ll make it a large box and make sure they are really hot.
The next time I do something (allegedly) wrong – it shouldn’t take long, probably be when my wife reads this post – I’ll know that the price of redemption is not flowers, a Champneys voucher or a child-free meal out at Lussmans, but a box of onion rings. Everyone has their price; I have found hers.
Before we leave the restaurant, our daughter’s diaper (see what I did there – gone native) needed changing. I volunteered, despite my scepticism that such an establishment would have changing facilities. Actually, that’s why I volunteered, to be honest: safe in the knowledge that if there was a changing table anywhere it would certainly only be in the Ladies so, unfortunately, I’d be prevented from my fatherly duty.
Me: (after scouting around inside holding a smelly toddler): Do you have baby changing?
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: No way, dude; this is a dive bar.
Hmm. So a ‘bar’ that has high-chairs doesn’t offer the full spectrum of facilities? Anyway, I walked away happy; it’s a very long time since anyone’s called me ‘dude’.
Wind forward ten minutes and the nappy has been changed under a shady tree and the still half-full box of volcano-hot onion rings is in the (ahem) trash.
I tried to make light of the whole incident by telling my wife that I thought her choosing the Swiss Cheeseburger in the first place was one of her rasher decisions. She didn’t laugh.
She’s been a veggie since she was ten. Then again, I reckon most of us would review our meat consumption if at a tender age we were shown around a family abattoir in Ireland by a mischievous older cousin. His intention was to scare her; it worked.
While we were in the States we saw several of my wife’s relatives (being Irish, she has the classic large contingent of rellies Stateside). I was somewhat amused to discover that another (different) cousin we visited was also converted to vegetarianism by being shown round an (American) abattoir at a formative age. The very same life-changing experience, but thousands of miles apart. Well, as they say, blood is thicker than water. Now, I’m all for family traditions, but this is an absolutely offal one.
Said American cousin was the attractively named Johneen, a name I’d never come across before. I quite like it. It’s the feminine version of John; a bit like Noel/Noeleen, Joel/Joeleen or Philip and, err, Philippeen.
Which brings me – conveniently – back to St Albans.
Quorn – the meat-substitute – used to be owned by St Albans-based Premier Foods (their HQ is by the roundabout at the bottom of St Stephen’s Hill, just past the offices with the traffic-cone wearing Roman soldier statue outside). Premier Foods sold Quorn in 2011 and it’s this month been sold on to a Philippeen company (sorry, that should read Philippine company).
Quorn is sold in 23 countries; my guess is that America isn’t one of its larger markets.
Announcing the purchase, the new owner’s CEO, Henry Soesanto, genuinely said: “Quorn represents an important new leg in our offering” which, I think, was a rather unfortunate choice of words.
Mr Soesanto (that’s a surname you can’t say out loud without doing it to the tune of Sinitta’s 80s hit So Macho) would have been disappointed to hear of UK research findings revealed this week which state that 37% of vegetarians eat meat when drunk. Really? 37%?
Next time you’re in a pub with a veggie friend and they claim that they’re ‘just popping out for a fag’ you might want to check up that they are not actually popping outside for a hot faggot. (As we’re in the UK I can use that term; I’m confident that AL3 WTF’s readership in the States is non-existent. And if there is a random American reader, just think how confused they’ll be and what a hot-bed of non-discriminating promiscuity St Albans will appear!).
As far as I know, my wife has never eaten meat when drunk. However, it’s her birthday next week so I’m very happy to put this to the test.
If anyone knows of a good veggie restaurant in St A that I can take her to then please let me know. Failing that, I’m thinking Prime Steak & Grill on London Road and go heavy on the onion rings…
Anyway, my wife and I are just back from holiday in the land of the free and the home of the brave (no, not Hemel – went there last year and it’s a much cheaper way of getting a tan – only takes 6 minutes in a booth to go the same colour as Shaggy’s hair), and it quickly became apparent that in a country where you can be anything you want to be, one thing it’s quite hard to be is a veggie.
Day 3 and my wife had already sussed the need to be clear about her food requirements when ordering. We’re sitting on the sunny terrace of an independent burger joint – a restaurant’ish one, not a drive thru – we are on holiday after all. It’s lunchtime. I’m happy and would eat anything on the menu.
Wife: I’m vegetarian.
Shaven-Headed, Body-Builder Owner/Waiter Who Looks Like He’s Going To Burst Out Of His T-Shirt: You can have any of the burgers with a vegetarian pattie instead.
Wife: I’ll have the Swiss Cheeseburger.
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: Great choice.
Me: (silently salivating at the thought of meat for the third day in a row)
Wind forwards ten minutes and my wife is enjoying her burger. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that she’s particularly enjoying her burger – more than I’ve seen her enjoy a veggie burger for a very long time. Wind forward two more minutes and she is no longer enjoying life in any way, shape or form.
Wife: That’s bacon. There’s bacon in my veggie burger (points to three unmistakable rashers).
Me: Can I have it?
Wife: (dark stare)
Me: (poor attempt at cheeky smile)
Wife: (even darker stare)
I dutifully take the offending burger back inside and speak to the barman-come- manager-come-waiter. He (unsurprisingly) apologises and, somewhat stating the obvious, says ‘that shouldn’t be in there’.
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: Sorry, man. I do everything here except cook. I’m truly sorry.
I walk back outside.
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS arrives a few minutes later looking rather sheepish (it was actually quite amusing to see a testosterone-filled, protein-packed body-builder look quite so coy, his brusque persona eroded by veggie-gate)
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: (to wife) Let me make amends. What can I do to make this up to you? Anything at all.
Wife looks pensive.
I’m intrigued as to how she’ll respond. What would I want if one of my defining beliefs was compromised so publically by a stranger? What if something I was so passionate about was undermined in such a way? I’d want something of note to compensate.
Wife: I’ll have some onion rings to take away, please.
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: (knowing he’s got off lightly) Absolutely. Absolutely. No problem at all. I’ll make it a large box and make sure they are really hot.
The next time I do something (allegedly) wrong – it shouldn’t take long, probably be when my wife reads this post – I’ll know that the price of redemption is not flowers, a Champneys voucher or a child-free meal out at Lussmans, but a box of onion rings. Everyone has their price; I have found hers.
Before we leave the restaurant, our daughter’s diaper (see what I did there – gone native) needed changing. I volunteered, despite my scepticism that such an establishment would have changing facilities. Actually, that’s why I volunteered, to be honest: safe in the knowledge that if there was a changing table anywhere it would certainly only be in the Ladies so, unfortunately, I’d be prevented from my fatherly duty.
Me: (after scouting around inside holding a smelly toddler): Do you have baby changing?
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: No way, dude; this is a dive bar.
Hmm. So a ‘bar’ that has high-chairs doesn’t offer the full spectrum of facilities? Anyway, I walked away happy; it’s a very long time since anyone’s called me ‘dude’.
Wind forward ten minutes and the nappy has been changed under a shady tree and the still half-full box of volcano-hot onion rings is in the (ahem) trash.
I tried to make light of the whole incident by telling my wife that I thought her choosing the Swiss Cheeseburger in the first place was one of her rasher decisions. She didn’t laugh.
She’s been a veggie since she was ten. Then again, I reckon most of us would review our meat consumption if at a tender age we were shown around a family abattoir in Ireland by a mischievous older cousin. His intention was to scare her; it worked.
While we were in the States we saw several of my wife’s relatives (being Irish, she has the classic large contingent of rellies Stateside). I was somewhat amused to discover that another (different) cousin we visited was also converted to vegetarianism by being shown round an (American) abattoir at a formative age. The very same life-changing experience, but thousands of miles apart. Well, as they say, blood is thicker than water. Now, I’m all for family traditions, but this is an absolutely offal one.
Said American cousin was the attractively named Johneen, a name I’d never come across before. I quite like it. It’s the feminine version of John; a bit like Noel/Noeleen, Joel/Joeleen or Philip and, err, Philippeen.
Which brings me – conveniently – back to St Albans.
Quorn – the meat-substitute – used to be owned by St Albans-based Premier Foods (their HQ is by the roundabout at the bottom of St Stephen’s Hill, just past the offices with the traffic-cone wearing Roman soldier statue outside). Premier Foods sold Quorn in 2011 and it’s this month been sold on to a Philippeen company (sorry, that should read Philippine company).
Quorn is sold in 23 countries; my guess is that America isn’t one of its larger markets.
Announcing the purchase, the new owner’s CEO, Henry Soesanto, genuinely said: “Quorn represents an important new leg in our offering” which, I think, was a rather unfortunate choice of words.
Mr Soesanto (that’s a surname you can’t say out loud without doing it to the tune of Sinitta’s 80s hit So Macho) would have been disappointed to hear of UK research findings revealed this week which state that 37% of vegetarians eat meat when drunk. Really? 37%?
Next time you’re in a pub with a veggie friend and they claim that they’re ‘just popping out for a fag’ you might want to check up that they are not actually popping outside for a hot faggot. (As we’re in the UK I can use that term; I’m confident that AL3 WTF’s readership in the States is non-existent. And if there is a random American reader, just think how confused they’ll be and what a hot-bed of non-discriminating promiscuity St Albans will appear!).
As far as I know, my wife has never eaten meat when drunk. However, it’s her birthday next week so I’m very happy to put this to the test.
If anyone knows of a good veggie restaurant in St A that I can take her to then please let me know. Failing that, I’m thinking Prime Steak & Grill on London Road and go heavy on the onion rings…