I suppose you are all familiar with that Swiss cheese dish called raclette? The funny thing about raclette is that it is one of those foods like sprouts or peanut butter. Either you love it, or you hate it.
And boy, do I hate raclette!
For me, it’s probably the worst food in the world, or at least a very close second to ambergris. Now there’s two ways to have raclette: one was handed down to us in a direct line from the Cro-Magnon-people, and the other is woosier than wearing Speedos.
Option one: you take half a ball of cheese, you slice it in half with a sword, and cook it on a flat stone in front of a open fire (brought to you since 30.000 BC).
Option two: you go buy prefabricated slices of seventeen different kinds of perfumed raclette-cheese and everyone at the dinner table gets to cook them themself, in weird looking little pans.
But what is it about heating up the cheese that is supposed to make it better? I’m perfectly happy with having a slice of cheese on toast. But when it comes to scooping up boiling yellow stuff from what looks like a pan a three-year-old would cook plastic vegetables in, I’m out.
Anyway, I'm telling you this because a few days ago I was having dinner at a friend’s house, a good friend whom I hadn’t seen in a very long time. And immediately when I went in, I saw the bad news. There it was on the dinner table in shiny chrome: a raclette stove, which looked to me like a restaurant kitchen for Leprichauns after Xzibit just came by to pimp it.
Anyhow, I knew what was coming and already started making excuses: “Errm, I’m actually not that hungry, you known?”. But of course, to no avail. I was sat down at the table and started the slow, labourious task of eating pan after pan after fucking little pan of this horrible melted cheese. Because having raclette is like getting crucified: it takes hours. And when finally it has become socially acceptable to stop, people do that retarded polite thing, where they say (tough man voice): “Come on, don’t tell me you’re full, Fred! Come on, mate. I don’t recognize you!”.
And I want to yell: “Don’t recognize me? I don’t blame you! I’ve had twenty seven of those little pans! I probably look like throwing up! Tomorrow I’ll be crapping out Gruyère scented candles! Hell, I wouldn’t be surpised to find horny mice trying to French kiss me tonight!”
(sigh) But you know how it is. I’m a polite person, so I pulled a stiff upper lip (it was literally stiff with cheese) and reluctantly shoved another one of those Barbie-doll pans under the heater. And then, oh then, at that exact moment the guy’s wife came with a digital camera, and she pointed it at the two of us and yelled…
…right. And then I lost it.
Guess that’s one less Christmas card this year.
And boy, do I hate raclette!
For me, it’s probably the worst food in the world, or at least a very close second to ambergris. Now there’s two ways to have raclette: one was handed down to us in a direct line from the Cro-Magnon-people, and the other is woosier than wearing Speedos.
Option one: you take half a ball of cheese, you slice it in half with a sword, and cook it on a flat stone in front of a open fire (brought to you since 30.000 BC).
Option two: you go buy prefabricated slices of seventeen different kinds of perfumed raclette-cheese and everyone at the dinner table gets to cook them themself, in weird looking little pans.
But what is it about heating up the cheese that is supposed to make it better? I’m perfectly happy with having a slice of cheese on toast. But when it comes to scooping up boiling yellow stuff from what looks like a pan a three-year-old would cook plastic vegetables in, I’m out.
Anyway, I'm telling you this because a few days ago I was having dinner at a friend’s house, a good friend whom I hadn’t seen in a very long time. And immediately when I went in, I saw the bad news. There it was on the dinner table in shiny chrome: a raclette stove, which looked to me like a restaurant kitchen for Leprichauns after Xzibit just came by to pimp it.
Anyhow, I knew what was coming and already started making excuses: “Errm, I’m actually not that hungry, you known?”. But of course, to no avail. I was sat down at the table and started the slow, labourious task of eating pan after pan after fucking little pan of this horrible melted cheese. Because having raclette is like getting crucified: it takes hours. And when finally it has become socially acceptable to stop, people do that retarded polite thing, where they say (tough man voice): “Come on, don’t tell me you’re full, Fred! Come on, mate. I don’t recognize you!”.
And I want to yell: “Don’t recognize me? I don’t blame you! I’ve had twenty seven of those little pans! I probably look like throwing up! Tomorrow I’ll be crapping out Gruyère scented candles! Hell, I wouldn’t be surpised to find horny mice trying to French kiss me tonight!”
(sigh) But you know how it is. I’m a polite person, so I pulled a stiff upper lip (it was literally stiff with cheese) and reluctantly shoved another one of those Barbie-doll pans under the heater. And then, oh then, at that exact moment the guy’s wife came with a digital camera, and she pointed it at the two of us and yelled…
…right. And then I lost it.
Guess that’s one less Christmas card this year.
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