I bumped into Vincent today. Bespectacled, podgy, pasty white and not even slightly attractive, Vincent is from Belgium. He lives here in Lodz with his Polish girlfriend since meeting her in England a few years ago and he has a small business importing Belgian beer. We used to be pals but he fell out with me after inviting Lola and myself to dinner.
He had long boasted about his culinary competence and ordered us over one Sunday morning with instructions not to eat breakfast as we would be treated to a handsome lunch and a banquet of a dinner.
We arrived at midday already famished. It wasn't long before he started to fanny around in the kitchen with much clamour and detailed narration in his Poirot accent of precisely what he was preparing. An hour later he emerged with what he described as a 'symbolic' lunch as we should save ourselves for the evening feast. The lunch consisted of three small prawns on half a slice of toast. Having downed our meal in 3.5 seconds we had to endure Vincent 'ooohing', and 'aaahing' as he enjoyed the fruits of his labour, chewing for 10 minutes on each prawn. His girlfriend is built like a broomstick and hardly pecked at her fine fare.
I'd brought the dogs and it was suggested that we go for a long afternoon walk to really build up an appetite for our evening binge. This was not necessary as I was ready to start scoffing the sideboard. Once outside, I dived into a corner shop and bought some ice-cream hoping this would stave off our hunger.
When we got back I opened the wine we had brought (oddly their flat was devoid of alcohol) and sat back again while Vincent returned to the kitchen, popping his head out now and then to enlighten us on what exactly he was preparing and the skill he was employing to create this magnificent meal. Lola and myself lay almost comatosed with hunger on the sofa while the girlfriend waxed lyrical about Vincent's cooking and what a marvel he was.
By seven o'clock we were barely conscious when Vincent finally emerged triumphant with a vast plate in each hand which he carefully placed in front of us. The style of the food was the same as their flat... minimalistic. I was looking at four pieces of ravioli. Lola and I looked up at each other in disabelief. Two mouthfuls was all it took, I then turned to Vincent who was making appreciative "MMMMMM!" noises with each munch and asked if there was more... "MORE?" he bellowed as if auditioning for an amateur stage production of Oliver Twist. Of course there was no more.
They then wanted us to settle back and watch a film but we exited pronto and headed for the nearest McDonalds where we engulfed enough grub for 8 people.
A week later I met them in the pub and Vincent asked expectantly if we'd enjoyed his table. "Very tasty," I said, "but we were still very hungry when we left and went to McDonalds." This sent him into shock and he was inconsolable for the rest of the evening. He has never forgiven me for this confession and his stick insect of a girlfriend said that I had hurt him terribly. I was not angry that he had starved us for a whole day so why was he so upset when I'd simply been honest with him!
So that was that. We never heard from them again until I bumped into him today. It's a mystery why he remains so plump when he eats so little... it must be the beer.
Word of the week: uczta meaning feast.
