From Tabusintac to Tokyo | Page 7

typically have the time to go too crazy, as just getting a passing grade requires all of their efforts. To get a really good grade requires brains as well. Fortunately, I was prepared to work hard.
In addition to the Don, we had the Resident Fellow. His name was McFish, an enormous Scotsman Philosopher whose role was to provide a certain amount of extracurricular education and edification to the culture-starved denizens of Bridges. To give him his due, McFish worked away at this task with fortitude and humour.
McFish wasn't only big by birth. He was a man who enjoyed his meat and drink, either his or yours, should you decide to invite him over. Consequently, his frame had filled out over the years to the point where he was carrying a considerable amount of excess avoirdupois. The residence system also had a couple of Resident Fellows At Large. We had the Large Resident Fellow.
Previous to attending university, most of my experiences with food revolved around family. My father was also someone who enjoyed his food, but we weren't part of the class of people who experiment much when it comes to vittles. We certainly never had wine, and conversation was kept to a minimum unless you count the grunts of satisfaction emitted by my brother and I as we shoveled down helpings of meat and potatoes.
When I moved to residence, I ate in the dining hall. Institutional food wasn't all that great then, and there was frequent recourse to late night pizza runs to fill the yawning gulf in our bellies.
It was in the apartments of Locutus and McFish that I learned the delights of eating well and drinking to excess. Not all of our meals turned out as well as could be hoped.
It was McFish's habit, once he had got to know you well enough, to invite you to his place for dinner. This was an honour not granted to just any mortal. You had to pass certain criteria in order to be considered worthy to share his table. To this day, I have no idea how I made it into that rarefied company.
And so it was on a fine summer's evening, that Locutus, Bugs and I made our way to McFish's apartment in gleeful anticipation of a surfeit of food, booze and cigars. Bugs was a student like me and we were very good friends although he forsook engineering to become a physicist. You just never know about people.
This was not my first meal at the McFish table. I had partaken of some excellent repasts so what was to happen that evening was a shock.
To start with, glasses of Bass and Scotch to tune up the taste buds. Locutus smoked his obligatory four cigarettes and McFish toiled away in his kitchen. What's for dinner? Why Steak and Kidney Pudding!
Looking at the recipe for SKP on the web, I note that it calls for braising steak and ox kidney along with mushrooms and onion. The entire conglomeration looks like one of those old style bee hives and gives the impression of being hearty, tasty and, oh so comforting.
I am not, generally speaking a fan of organ meats, so I was somewhat suspicious of this offering to begin with. McFish, although known for the size of his portions, was not all that fussy about quality, being concerned primarily about price. So it was that the steak in the pudding could be described more accurately as gristle. The kidneys had never seen the inside of an ox having been harvested from chickens. McFish assured us that he had made two puddings so that there was more than enough to go around. He tucked in with gusto.
The wine accompanying the meal was an obscure Yugoslavian vintage that I'm convinced had originally been used as an emetic for livestock. It was this we were relying on to wash down the SKP.
Bugs swears that the kidneys had not been properly cooked before inclusion in the pudding. He said that every time he bit into one, he felt a hot blast of urine wash through his mouth. I can't vouch for that as there was no way that I was going to knowingly eat a kidney. Still, we managed to choke some a fair portion of the meal, accompanied by four bottles of the repulsive wine. I am convinced that McFish was cleaning out the fridge and wine cellar before heading off on one of his annual summer pilgrimages to wherever it is that expatriate Scotsmen go.
Shortly after dinner, Bugs begged leave to retire for the evening, leaving us three to drink and converse. I discovered him face down on the bed in his room. He told me that he had already vomited twice and was feeling like death. I don't think it was the food