Odd O'blography

You Could Have Just Said

My wife and I went to an Oktoberfest fundraiser at our local parish last night. The menu was brats and sauerkraut, of course, and several local brewpubs donated their product for taste testing. The food was good, the beer was better, and the subject of preferred condiments came up.

Deb and I renewed our long running discussion (argument) about Dijon mustard. She thinks plain yellow mustard is boring, but I can't abide horse radish. And it isn't just that I don't like it, I physically cannot swallow the horrible stuff. And our discussion (argument) reminded me of a story that was perfect for a tableful of friends and acquaintances who were trying to enjoy their food.

Way back in 1980, I got involved with a project to integrate the Bandit CNC with an H. W. Ward lathe. A Computer Numerical Control allows a relatively unskilled operator to cut metal parts on a machine tool with almost perfect accuracy. It was a financial boon for industry, but traditionalists lamented the passing of the skilled machinist. H. W. Ward is a British company and I spent almost a full month in England as the project was winding up. My 'minder' was a fifty-something mechanical engineer named John Payne. He had his doubts about all of the new 'computer stuff' but was friendly toward me and supportive of my efforts.

Our schedule was tight and pub lunches were expensive, so John offered me tea and roast beef sandwiches one day in lieu of going out. I like roast beef and the pub food was mediocre at best, so I gladly accepted. What I didn't know was that John was a horse radish fiend. He slathered on a layer of the awful white goop as thick as the meat itself. I'm not much of a tea drinker and I was focused on adding enough milk and sugar to make it palatable to my sweet tooth. I didn't really look at the sandwich as I picked it up and took a big mouthful of pure horse radish.

To quote Col. Kurtz from Apocalypse Now,  "The horror, the horror . . ."

My reaction was immediate and uncontrollable. The bite of sandwich bounced, literally, and I barely managed to reach the waste basket as everything came up.

John, with perfect British reserve, didn't even flinch.

"If you don't care for roast beef, you could have just said."