Sans Viande Rouge — [Without Red Meat]

Sans Viande Rouge — [Without Red Meat]

When creating a new culinary term French is the preferred language and, so it was, when some form of abstinence was discussed for Lent. I was to give up meat, while the cute vegetarian activist, who I’d met at the university ballroom dancing society, was to give up smoking.

Forty days without meat, presented no impediment to me, but this politically savvy, houmous-loving undergraduate couldn’t face the lead-up to ‘finals’ without a joint. So, in the best tradition of union negotiations, if I wanted some action, a compromise had to be reached. It was agreed I’d only need to give up red meat and she need only give up cigarettes. Consequently I announced to my flatmates that, henceforth, my diet was, ‘Sans Viande Rouge’.

A student pre-occupation with daytime TV featuring celebrity chefs provided my first inspiration, a rustic potato dish. It left the oven steaming with Catalan authenticity, only for Bestmate to remark, as he tucked in, ‘does rustic translate to raw?’ I blame Floyd; great for widening my culinary horizons, but poor on minor details like temperature and timings.

In need of additional dishes to add to the repertoire I had my favourite classmate from Hong Kong teach me his delicious steamed white-fish with black bean and ginger recipe, but bulked at replicating his favourite dim sum of boiled chicken hearts served cold.

How I laughed when a red meat munching flatmate, who later took a postgraduate degree in Military Intelligence, struggled to open a tin of Spam. He managed, eventually, to deduce how the key worked, after much mirth on our part, especially when the lump of luncheon meat fell from the bottom of the tin onto the floor. ‘Don’t you realise the crap your eating,’ I proselytized.

A Malaysian friend produced a vegetarian dish in the spirit of San Viande Rouge and must have slaved for hours over its baking. I couldn’t tell you its name, but it was sculptural in presence, had the appearance of upholstery foam and seemed perfect as a tear’n’share accompaniment to our house party. Sadly it ended-up being mistaken for a giant ash tray.

But I was equally mocked for not following true vegetarian enlightenment. When the flatmates had a gathering for the local Bistro’s student night I ruled that lean pork schnitzel was indeed red meat, but dark duck liver pâté wasn’t. Who said students lived on baked beans alone.

But this romance would be short-lived. I begrudgingly accompanied her to a new restaurant called ‘Greens’ where an entrée was a heated debate about her being a lobbyist for the Vegetarian Society, based around the corner. I don’t know if she achieved her political ambitions but the owner of that restaurant regularly serves-up the nation’s Sunday TV brunch.

My brief encounter with that Lancashire lass didn’t survive the forty days, but her influence is still keenly felt. My flirtation with ‘Sans Viande Rouge’ lasted a further twenty years and each time I make houmous I thank her for the recipe.

[Kindly note that this is part of a wider collection titled ‘Just Crumbs’ — Please refer to the ‘foreword’ page for an explanation.]

As a precursor, I invite you to listen to … Lonesome Suzie — Blood, Sweat and Tears

Some people are only in your life briefly but leave an impression that lingers far longer. Although not the original version of the song this is the one to which I was introduced.