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Une Soirée

May 4, 2009

Some signs of a posh party:

  • Waiters float silently around the room with trays of delicately constructed finger food.
  • The band members all look like they’ve had a shower in the past week.
  • Free flow of alcohol consisting of imported beer, champagne and wine, with nary an alcopop in sight.
  • Sneakers are prohibited.

As a student, I am not used to poshness in any form. At the last party I attended, drinks were fished out of the bathtub, the sink was filled with puke, and someone was lying comatose under a table. Extravagance was chips with dip. This being my last year of university however, I thought it wise to begin my transition to the grown up world.

So we go to a posh party. So posh that pockets of French conversation can be overheard around the room. Waltzing stiltwalkers twirl on the dancefloor and at least two people are wearing their sweaters looped around their neck.

I feel a little out of my element but the evening is going surprisingly well. Someone complimented me on my shoes earlier and Badger has managed to refrain from pulling out his Saturday Night Fever dance moves. At one point, I find myself trapped in a discussion about French films but luckily, I have just watched a film that was (a) French and (b) good, so I am covered. Before the conversation can turn to more dangerous waters of French literature (does Le Petit Prince in English count?), a waiter arrives in the nick of time with an offering of cheese and crackers.

“Ooooh, gorgonzola!”

Our little conversation group crowds around the waiter. All apart from me, that is. I do not want to be the odd one out but I am not too sure about this gorgonzola. In my limited cheese experience, I have only eaten hard cheeses, safe stuff like cheddar, swiss, and Jarlsberg. But maybe soft cheeses are another step to growing up.

Besides, Badger is stuffing his face with as much cheese as he can so that his hands are free to grab more. With a stamp of approval like that, I am reassured. I pop a healthy chunk of gorgonzola into my mouth.

And immediately regret it.

Creamy urine. I can think of no other way to describe the obscenity befouling my tastebuds. I am eating creamy urine. I try valiantly to force it down but it’s no use. I gag violently and spit my mouthful out into my glass of champagne. The bubbles fizz merrily around the putrid mass as I begin to dry retch. Badger pats me on the back concernedly and offers me his beer. I chug half the bottle down thankfully, trying to wash the offending taste away.

The rest of the group, waiter included, stares at me with jaws agape. “Is she alright?” one lady asks Badger.

Unable to hold back, I give her (and the peanut gallery) a gorgonzola-tinted beer belch in response.

It is hard to say who is more mortified.

10 Comments leave one →
  1. Raihana permalink
    May 5, 2009 6:44 pm

    And yet gorgonzola in creamy pasta sauce tastes wonderful. Odd.

    • May 5, 2009 9:32 pm

      No, I have been scared off gorgonzola for life. Hiding it in pizza or pasta will not fool me.

  2. May 5, 2009 9:08 pm


  3. May 7, 2009 6:47 pm

    Hehe, actually they do have the same texture…

  4. May 10, 2009 12:08 am

    Muahaha. Not all cheeses taste the same so why not you try a few out next time and see how it goes 🙂

  5. May 13, 2009 2:42 pm

    Ya I’m no fan of it either – be warned that it also masquerades as ‘Roquefort’, ‘Danish blue’, or just simply ‘blue cheese’ o_O

  6. May 13, 2009 7:27 pm

    Yes I’ve been warned to watch out for those sneaky blue veins!

  7. Cheryl permalink
    July 7, 2009 12:33 am

    Hm…so you’ve tasted urine? Do tell…

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