Fonduel

For St. Valentine's Day, my wife and I went to a fondue restaurant. It was our first time going to one, so we weren't sure what to expect. At first, it was easy; our instructor asked, "Have you done fondue before?" and, after a pregnant pause, I answered, "No." From that point, things became more difficult. After we sat down, they brought out some melted cheese in a pot, and they gave us a basket of what they told us were three different kinds of bread, one of which was pumpernickel, two of which were not. The two of which were not pumpernickel were virtually indistinguishable from each other (and the instructor never pointed out which was which)--how could I choose which one to take, when I did not know which I was choosing?
There were no diagrams, no blown-up pictures so that I could make a positive i.d. in a police lineup. Apparently, I was spending too much time yesterday on work, and not enough researching bread.

After the cheese experience came the big challenge. Out came our instructor, with six sauces and beer batter for basting. I sat, poised, knowing that when he came to list the six sauces, there would be no second chances, no, "Can you please repeat that?" Even if I would never see my instructor again, I wanted to make him proud and not remember me as the guy who had failed the honey mustard recognition challenge. When he came to our table, in a dazzling show of expertise, he rattled off a list of six sauces, five of which were not horseradish, and four of which were neither teriyaki nor dill.

Then came the real shocker. I was ready for vegetables. I was ready for meat. But he brought out a plate--with both vegetables and raw meat on it! If I failed to remember how long he said to cook the chicken, the tenderloin, the vegetables, the vegetables with batter, the chicken with batter, all of which were to be held in sizzling oil for different periods of duration, I could die! Fondue was no longer a game: it was a responsibility, where the stakes were death. A "fon-duel," if you will.

At first, I thought the challenge was simply in not eating food that would kill me. But there are other perils. You have "competitors," some of whom will do anything to win, including "accidentally" splashing boiling oil on you while they are dunking their food. There is also the peril that you will never be able to eat at all, because the food, especially the onions, will keep falling off the special fork into the oil. (It reminded me of working fast food when you would clean the frier and discover a sad little French fry that had been cooking for five hours.) There is the peril that the only way to recover lost food will be to stand up, peering and poking around in the oil for five minutes, while other patrons watch you and laugh.

After you have endured this challenge, the blazing marshmallow speed challenge begins. The instructor brings out a pot with chocolate in it, a plate with fruit, and gives each of you a special fork that has a marshmallow attached to it. The instructor explains that he is about to set the interior of the pot on fire! Now, your goal is not to put out the fire: your goal is to quickly stab your marshmallow-laden fork into the fire so that it can be roasted before the fire is gone! If you fail, you do not get to eat the marshmallow! Or maybe you are allowed to, I don't know. I didn't eat the marshmellow, so as not to risk being disqualified. Anyway, you only get about ten seconds to accomplish this feat, and both my wife and I failed, but I did better overall, since she disqualified herself by eating the marshmallow.

With stomachs and egos battered, my wife and I retired from the fray. I am not proud of my defeat, but I vow one day I will again accept the fondue challenge, and on that day I will not fail! I will also accept a coupon!