Ross George 6th March 2024 The Taste of a Lie

Beige, beige, beige. I push a forkful round my mouth. It looks like porridge and tastes like
cold mashed cardboard with a side helping of pureed underpants. Jesus, Joe, you dine at
The Ivy, drink fine wines and wear designer clothes, and you give me this? I love you
dearly, you’re no snob despite your expensive tastes, but which prison kitchen did this crawl
out of?

“This is….interesting, Joe,” I raise one eyebrow with a half smile “where did you get the
recipe?” He grins broadly. “From my Cockney grandma, her standby when money was
short, she could make an old shoe taste good.” “Wow” I enthuse, looking down, wondering
how not to hurt his feelings and insult his ancestry. “Yeah, my Polish great aunt had a
variation on this; ever tried adding fennel seeds and mixing in some butter?” I suggest.
“Mmm” Joe shakes his head “wouldn’t be the same”.

I force another bland stodgy lump down my throat. The food sucks the moisture from my
tongue, and I drink a grateful mouthful of Chateau de Saint Emilion. My face flushes, not
from the wine but from lying to spare Joe’s feelings. I’m hoping this date will lead to more
than a meal. “It’s certainly….substantial” I offer, “have you tried any of her other recipes?“
Joe looks away, thoughtfully. “She made brawn, but I refused to eat that, it was gross,
lumps of pig’s head in jelly” he replies, pursing his lips. Lips that I want to kiss again.