Tuesday, March 10, 2009

To the trenches!

The problem with being a bit of a foodie/boozie, is that one often encounters other people of this type, most of which are beyond fucking tedious. These people are generally avoidable, but sometimes, when you make the mistake of attending something food and/or wine education based, you find yourself knee deep in the fucking lot of ‘em. There seems to be quite a few types of this lot, and I’m sure despite my protests, we fit somewhere in the mix of all this, or perhaps we have our very own category, something like, ‘pretentious yet unwashed sloth’.

Oh, this caviar is just divine!

One of our house can be heard annunciating this whilst delicately holding – caressing if you will – an elegant long stemmed champagne flute filled with the finest offerings Yering Station has to offer… whilst sitting on a beyond filthy couch permanently stained with many an upturned curry over the years, in a pair of track pants, quite possibly about to give her crotch, or perhaps breasts a good scratch.

Of course, I lie. She’d never have said “Oh this caviar is just divine!”, it would be something far more straightforward;

“Try the caviar! It’s choice!”

Or perhaps, as is the style of our house in general;

“CAVIAR! OM NOM NOM NOMMA OM NOM NOM NOM!”


But enough about us, lets talk about them. Them being those other types that offend us merely by their very existence. After all, we’re nothing if not antisocial and socially scathing.

There’s your nice middle class types of course, who sit about and try to look oh so terribly dignified, yet still think of lasagne as one of those exotic, foreign, migrant delicacies. They probably drive a nice, sensible car like a Camry, but one that displays their elegance of their older years and symbols of slowly yet surely accumulated wealth. So, a Camry in the highest price bracket I guess. The one that comes with an extra shiny stripe on the side and some kind of special coating on the headlights to prevent excess glare should you find yourself driving through a waterfall at night, in the high-glare season (April through August, apparently). It also no doubt has several extra letters tacked onto the end of the model number. Maybe a C, or perhaps an X or an S. Or perhaps all three, indicating that they are indeed Sexy Cunts with Xylophones.

I never really understood the vehicle naming system. I don’t understand why every car/motorbike/thing with a motor attached generally has a sensible name (obviously I’m excluding any ever made by Ford here. Ford Focus? On what? The bits falling off the sides perhaps?) which people would use to describe it, however they always seem to have a ‘real’ name, some kind of combination of letters and numbers that only an unusually unbalanced code enthusiast should be able to remember. Motorbikes are particularly guilty of this, probably thanks to bizarre brand of people who ride the damned things.

"OH! You have the ‘91 FGB##19273Z, do you?"

I get asked this by random people on the street (motorbike enthusiasts generally feel that their comments are welcome material to anyone within fifty feet of a motorbike, or indeed a poster of a motorbike). My confused response is something along the lines of “Er. It is a hornet 600. It’s yellow!”, in the sheer hope they don’t ask me some inane question about spark plugs. WHICH THEY OFTEN DO.

But back to the topic at hand, which is of course not vehicle loving freaks, but food and wine appreciating types. There’s your general art wanker types - and we know how I feel about those people – but they can be alright once you get past the ‘oh, I work in the filum industry’ sentence being dropped every ten minutes or so. They seem to know their chardonnay from their Riesling; their puttanesca from their saltati; or indeed their easymac from their 2 minute noodles, if you will. This is a good thing. For this, I can forgive them their over inflated view of themselves in conjunction with the rest of the world. Unless there’s a particularly obnoxious one wearing an ‘ironic’ collection of popped collars.

A group Fandango and I recently encountered was one I’d managed to mostly avoid up until that particular point, and we are probably best to refer to them from here on in as ‘The Hiltons’. This is of course based on a delicately balanced combination of their attire, their respective fathers’ wealth, and their sheer fucking stupidity. They don’t seem to know what ordinary objects like lamps, kerosene, and good fucking taste are. Don’t suppose they need to either, I’m quite sure they’re the sort of people who keep a slave or twenty stashed in some kind of terribly illegal yet beautifully furnished underground concrete cell buried beneath the family botanical garden, or perhaps their very own museum - Of course tastefully filled with artefacts acquired from those darkies all those years ago when it was the expected norm for rich wankers to march around deserts sporting stupid hats and improbable moustaches sometime after daddy granted them an entire army of peasants to carry everything from the mahogany desk to the complete contents of the Prime Ministers office on their backs. There were of course other important duties too; like maintaining a roving stock of freshly prepared gin and tonics/mint juleps (I’ll trust you to alter the drink mentally as required, based on perceived adventuring location. In your head. Or, if you prefer, in your lunchbreak.). But, you know, just in case.

This particular type seem to eventually grow into the category known as the ‘entitled bitch’, the type of woman who can be seen with a permanent sneer on her sixty year old dial, and who is just generally dissatisfied with everything and every fucking person around her. I do not like these people, and as such completely disregard any funny notions they might have about tasting, learning, or indeed, breathing.

The final group that spring to mind as I sit here at my desk, all enraged at the stupidity of a particular someone encountered recently, is of course, the complete and utter nutjob. Someone who is probably single and in their thirties, and have turned all the failures in their life, the tragedies of not owning a house and having a loving partner and 3 children at the age of 25, into sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm about food and or wine. Usually food. They are compulsive note takers, and in their eagerness to learn EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING actually miss out on a lot of good advice imparted to them. Like that little memo about valium.

These people are insatiable, and tend to ruin everything good around them by being just so obsessive about something fairly insignificant. Was the flour milled in Italy? WAS THE FLOUR MILLED IN ITALY?! I NEED TO KNOW! Are the cries heard, falling piteously to the uncaring ears of those intending to source nothing other than a pack of blue bag white wings to complete their future baking tasks. Yet they need to know, and until they do, nothing will seep through their collective ears or eyes into their very brain. It’s a terrible disability, one which is generally deserving of a sound proof booth and quite possibly some kind of straight jacket. These are the kind of people who stock those insanely pedantic internet forums about the most trivial of topics. Like the sourcing of Peruvian sprinkles hand made by grain-fed peasants in a broom closet painted purple. The internet has probably been a very good development in the keeping them away from us department.

It just goes to show that in the hospitality industry, everybody loses. I just feel incredibly sorry for the poor staff, who try as they might have to deal with a rapid succession of total wankers just to pay their rent. I mean, the rest of have to do that too, but at least we have the internet. These guys have bogan shitheads with too much money insisting on tasting their port before their chardonnay, then have the audacity to complain about the chardonnay afterwards. Every time I see this happen, I see the pain and anguish in the face of the poor server, doing everything in their power not to bottle the bastards right there and then. I suspect they later sneak out a side door and let the air out of their tyres, cackling maniacally.

I think it’s only fair that come the revolution, we force them to hand over the endless cases of wine they don’t deserve, as well as all the top notch chefs they keep chained in the aforementioned concrete cell. Sure, we’ll have to let the chefs run free, but maybe they’ll make us a lovely feast as a reward for releasing them. We should appropriate their large expanses of lawn too, and dig them all up and make a fantastic veggie garden, stocking the most fantastic of heritage and heirloom fruit, vegetables and herbs. No more of this safeways single species ‘mushrooms’, ‘onions’, ‘tomatoes’ – we will have all the mushrooms! All the time! Varieties all vastly different in taste, texture and colour! We will also establish large and elaborate barbeques where we will cook the fish farmed in their endless lakes! And the tofu that we will grow on the… er, tofu plains! Yes, the glorious tofu plains! We’ll store the sheep in the ceilings and walls where they will double as insulation, and the horses on the rooves where they will loom more gloriously than any gargoyle ever hoped to achieve. Actually, we’ll put cows up there – I’m not sure I’m particularly inclined to eat horse.

Actually, fuck the revolution, they should hand it all over right now. All we need is a large trap, some fine cheese, and a number of prestige four wheel drives. Oh! And a butler named Jeeves!

To Toorak!

2 comments:

Fandango "Tofudebeest" Jones said...

Cows? On your Roof? ... Ma'am, have you been eating all of the mushrooms, all of the time?

Rat said...

Store the sheep in the walls where they'll double as insulation, BRILLIANT!