Monday, 7 September 2009

My Name Is Jessica, And I Am A Vegetarian.


Yes. That's right.

I am That Guest. The one with the dietary requirements.

The one who needs the separate pan and the 'special' meal.

The one who messes all your timings up because I won't eat dead animal.

On a trip en famille, to my brother's new yuppie crash pad/quasi student hovel, in West Didsbury, I found myself, for the first time ever [the times in the hippy place opposite uni don't count] in a wholly vegetarian restaurant.

I have been vegetarian since I was 11 years old.

In the past 15 years, I have eaten meat once.

I inadvertently ate some bacon about a year ago and almost instantly threw up.
My vegetarianism is one life's sweetest ironies.

I loathe animals almost as much as I loathe people.

I don't loathe Bob The Cat or Poor Dead Tig though.

And one of the 'types' of people I loathe the most are those most predisposed to being a vegetarian: the hippy.

And Heather Mills-McCartney.

A period of my life still discussed [and laughed at] to this day, is the Ill Advised Vegan Month.

When I was about 15, I decided that I could be a vegan, yeah? That I would find it incredibly easy to cut all animal products from my diet. I don't have a clue as to why I ever wanted to try this. All I learnt was that soya milk is undrinkable and if you are setting an alarm to get up at 3am to eat cheese with no witnesses around, you probably like cheese a bit too much to give it up.

I used to be a way stricter vegetarian than I am now - no gelatine [a Haribo habit which would make Amy Winehouse look like a poster girl for sobriety put paid to that one], no fish [I am having my revenge on the monsters of the deep by eating them left, right and centre now] etc.

Am I even considered a vegetarian if I eat fish?

Anyway, I found myself in Greens in West Didsbury. This restaurant is run by television chef Simon Rimmer. He seems like a lovely man. He presents Something For The Weekend on a Sunday and won the first series of Great British Menu, the world's most needlessly convoluted cooking show, on BBC 2.

I was with CBM, Dickhead John and Little Bobby. My most immediate and beloved family. None of whom are vegetarian.

We all had Welsh rarebit to start. Or posh cheese on toast as my dad calls it. Then I had potato, cauliflower and green bean thai curry, Dickhead had Cheshire cheese sausages with mash and gravy, Bobby had white bean and coriander chilli and CBM had gnocchi and tomato pesto.

My mum ordered some chips. You can take the girl out of Warrington ...

We went to the restaurant as a reward to ourselves as we had just spent an hour trying to construct a chest of drawers for my brother's new cupboard/bedroom. Only we didn't have any tools. So we used a shoe as a hammer and duct taped all the drawers together. Ingenious.

The area was having a food festival, West Fest, and all the restaurants had music playing [including a string quartet, steel drum band, Thai dancers] and were giving out freebies. We had free wine at the wine merchants, fish and chips at the cafe, sangria and tapas at the Spanish place, ice cream and handmade pasta at the Italian, Singapore noodles at the Thai place etc etc. We got so much free food, it was ridiculous.

We went into a pub, The Metropolitan, for a drink. 4 pints cost £12.

Twelve fucking pounds. 13.70 Euros. 19.64 American Dollars. 1826 Japanese Yen.

This event attracted a certain type of person. The young hippy or the middle class parent [or yummy mummy], wheeling around little Tarquin Gaylord or Arabella Cheesecake, and swooning over organic hemp sandals or some other product designed for people with more money than sense.

This event all took place on a street with a pub at one end called Ye Olde Cock Inn. Snigger.


As I was walking along looking at all the free stuff with CBM, thinking about the type of middle class tosser who wilfully attended such events, I found myself saying 'Ooooooh, Mum! Look at that artisan cheese!'

Once again, cheese has been my downfall.

Am I a middle class tosser?

I was genuinely excited to see the cheese.

The man had one of those cheese corkscrews [as I like to call them], the ones you stick into a wheel of cheese and remove a slither from. Amaze.

Needless to say, I have spent the day consumed with self loathing.

My brother's housemates are quite the interesting mix. There is a journalist, 3 mechanical or chemical engineers [including baby bro], a doctor and a trainee psychologist.

My bro has a housemate whose last name is Frizell. He has the basement room.
Hence his new nickname: Fritzl.
Ouch.

Oh, and I ♥ cheese.

1 comment:

Val said...

Let me know when you want some Wisconsin cheese - I am all over sending that to you.

Ye Olde Cock Inn...um, too many thoughts running through my mind to publish...