Here’s a short compendium of shit I found amusing, irritating or perplexing over the past week or so.
Newbies, Fucking Newbies
Goddammit, there’s a lot of new military arrivals, primarily Americans, wandering around the DFACs. Sure, I was a KAF newbie once too. So what? I don’t live in the past. I just don’t like them. Cambridge was chock full of wide-eyed, shuffling zombies this morning. If you don’t know what you’re doing, ask someone for help or stand to the side. Standing in front of the trays and cutlery, staring dumbfoundedly and chatting to your equally mystified compadre while the line backs up through the door is somewhere near the “oh my fuck, what is wrong you, you fucking asshole?” end of the “how much does this annoy me spectrum”. Hell, one of them was literally muttering “I have no idea where I’m going” as he shuffled past L.
And what the hell is so hard about tray liners? There were at least a dozen newbies wandering around with no tray liners. I assume one guy didn’t get a tray liner and everyone else just followed suit. Obviously, they’ve never seen the guys in the back swabbing the trays off with a ratty old cloth they’ve slopped out of a bucket of scuzzy water. These guys had better not try this linerless nonsense at Monti where the trays are perennially wet and the liner is the only thing between your cutlery and said scuzzy water. J developed a very strict policy which I have now adopted: Any food that comes into contact with the tray itself, rather than the liner, is to be immediately considered inedible.
Speaking of Trays
A Rose By Any Other Name Is Stupid
I’m happy to report that the power of the press has once again come through for the little guy/gal. Remember L’s indignation at the new Cambridge “Chippy” for labeling the “chips” as “fries”? Well, we went back for more of what has proven to be one of my favourite KAF meals, the Cambridge Fish and Chips and, lo and behold, the chips were labeled chips. I’m allowing L to believe her complaint to the manager was the trigger that righted this egregious wrong rather than my incredible journalistic influence…what the heck, it makes her happy.
It’s not all sunshine and rainbows yet, I’m afraid. Things have names for a reason. It’s so we know what the fuck they are. I’m looking at you, again, Cambridge. You know why they call Gingerbread Cake “Gingerbread Cake”? Because it has fucking ginger in it! You can’t just slap down a slab o’ white cake and think “Hey, it’s near Christmas and this is cake…it must be Gingerbread Cake!” Look at that stuff! It’s the wrong goddamn colour. It has no flavour at all…and certainly no ginger in it. Jesus, man!
Oh, as an aside. I may have found the missing ginger the next night. In my fucking rice pudding! First off, there’s no way ginger belongs in rice pudding. Secondly, there’s no way such a massive chunk of ginger belongs in anything. Yeah, I took a picture of something I had to spit out into my napkin. Big whoop. Wanna fight about it? I don’t care if M thinks “that’s fucking gross, who does that?” This is journalism!
Now, on to the “Chocolate Cake”. Chocolate cake is cake which is chocolate in the cake part. Chocolate icing on a white cake does not a chocolate cake make. Why not advertise it as the Almond Cake with Chocolate Icing that it certainly was? I like almond cake. I liked all of this particular almond cake except for the bitter aftertaste of disappointment and despair caused by the improper labelage. It’s my fucking 50th birthday…is a properly labeled cake too much to ask?
Soups are similar to cakes in that they are generally named for their ingredients. Can you guess what two ingredients most people would consider essential to a successful Chicken Noodle Soup? If you guessed “salt” and “flour” then there’s a job waiting for you in the Cambridge kitchen. Sure, L said she may have tasted some chicken stock hidden beneath the Dead Sea saltiness but nary a noodle could be found. Come on Cambridge! You’ve got to use your noodle when you’re making soup!
Among the incessant ramblings of my co-workers at dinner and in the car were the following:
L: “This cake has no taste. I don’t know how they do it. It’s some of the best I’ve had here.”
JB:”Well, you’re British so you’re expected to be white and pasty”.
L:“I’m not pasty! I’m like Snow White. Pale and classic, for fuck’s sake”.
M: “If you’re gonna live in Texas, you’ll need cowboy boots”
L:”I have cowboy boots and a cowboy hat”.
Me:”You do realize that with your accent you cannot wear a cowboy hat unironically, right?”
L:“I’ll fit right in with all me proper Texan togs”
Me, K and M: gales of laughter amid utterances of words like “lorry”, “dustbin” and “knickers” in shitty British accents.
A 50th birthday in KAF kinda sucks unless your wife is awesome like mine…cause I’ll have a keg cooler when I get home.
“He was a wise man who invented beer” – Plato