Odd O'blography

You Could Have Just Said

My wife and I went to an Oktoberfest fundraiser at our local parish church last fall. The menu was brats and sauerkraut, of course, and several local brewpubs donated their products for a taste testing. The food was good, the beer was better, and the subject of proper condiments came up in the conversation.

Some of the folks at our table insisted that mustard is the only acceptable hot dog condiment, while others said they preferred catsup and relish. And some of us confessed that they liked their dogs piled high with everything, even unto onions, cheese and chili. I expressed my view that hot dogs are a guilty pleasure and I’d enjoy them no matter how they’re served. But then Deb had to point out that I won’t eat spicy mustard, and thus renewed our long running discussion (argument) about Dijon mustard.

Deb thinks that plain yellow mustard is boring, but I can't abide the horseradish in the Dijon version. And it isn't just that I don't like the taste, I physically cannot swallow the horrible stuff. I learned this as a child, because my mother likes horseradish and used to put it on her roast beef. She persuaded me to try a bite and I literally gagged. So that was the last time I had to eat horseradish. I can force myself to swallow a dab of Dijon mustard if I have to, but I try to avoid even a hint of that awful, burning gastric disaster. Our mustard discussion (argument) did, however, remind me of a story that was perfect for a tableful of friends and acquaintances who were just trying to enjoy their meal.

In 1980, when I was a 22 year-old applications engineer working at Summit Engineering, I spent a full month in England. I was supporting a project at the H. W. Ward company to outfit a vintage turret lathe with one of our modern computer controls. It turned out to be a big job and there was also a bit of culture clash between my enthusiasm for technology and the traditional English way of doing things. My 'minder' at the Ward plant was a middle-aged mechanical engineer named John Payne. John wore a sweater vest and bow tie under his ever-present suit coat. He was very proper, perhaps even stuffy, but he tried to overlook my brash blue jeans attitude and he did his best to facilitate the project.

Our schedule was tight and pub lunches were expensive, so John offered me tea and roast beef sandwiches one day instead of going out to eat. I like roast beef and English pub food is mediocre at best, so I gladly accepted. What I didn't know was that John was a horseradish fiend. He slathered his sandwiches with a layer of that awful white goop as thick as the meat itself. And I didn’t see it coming because the Brits always insist on drinking tea.

I'm not nearly as fond of tea as I am of roast beef, so my attention was focused on adding enough milk and sugar to make the insipid ‘cuppa’ palatable to my sweet tooth. I didn't really look at the gift sandwich as I picked it up and took a big mouthful of pure horseradish.

To quote Col. Kurtz from the movie 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."




Author's note: ▼

Yes, this is an expanded version of a story I posted last fall.