I wouldn’t usually eat scobie food, but hey, if it raises the old dear’s blood pressure . . .
SO THERE’S me and Ro the other night, sitting in, watching the memorial concert for Mícheál McLeithreas, when the kid tells me that he’s suddenly hungry. Now bear in mind, roysh, what with me being flush at the moment, he could have anything he wants. Could bring him to Ed’s. Could bring him to GBK. Could bring him to Daniels for a lobster that’d put the shits up a nuclear submarine crew. But no, all he’s interested in is hitting Rosie’s, the chipper in Foxrock village, for what’s known as the Heart Stopper – a spice burger, battered sausage, battered burger and large portion of chips, the whole thing fried, naturally, in a bottomless well of grease.
Of course, you’d do anything to keep your kids happy.
We're pulling up outside the place and I'm telling him about the chips I had in Rolys the other night, which were cut into perfect rectangles, sprinkled with rosemary and rock salt, then stacked like focking Jenga, but it's honestly like trying to explain the new Lamborghini Reventon to a tribe of, I don't know, Amazonians. As in, he's watching my lips move, but the fact is we come from two totally different civilizations and we'll probably never trulyunderstand each other?
I’m thinking about all this in my mind as we’re crossing the road and it’s at that point that I notice the huge crowd of people gathered outside Rosie’s, walking up and down the pavement, carrying basically placards.
“Electricians,” Ronan goes – because his eyesight’s not the Rory Best. I’m there, “Worse than that, Ro. It’s the Foxrock Fannies.”
Now, I don't know how many of you have been following the, I suppose, sagasurrounding the spice burger in recent weeks. Basically, the only company in Ireland that actually makes them decided to cease production because of falling sales – one of the upsides of the whole Celtic Tiger experience, if you ask me. This is me being deep, roysh, but I suppose as a society gets richer, chipper food storts to become a thing of the past, along with, I don't know, TB and sending children up chimneys.
No one celebrated the end of the spice burger as wildly as the old dear and her mates, who saw it as a decisive victory in their ongoing battle to have Foxrock's only chip shop shut down. You may have seen their photograph on the cover of the Southside People, under the headline, "Spice Girls!" and the old dear quoted as saying that it was themost vindicated she felt since the old Eastern Health Board abandonedplans to put a methadone clinic on Westminster Road.
The next thing there’s, like, a campaign on the internet to Save the Spice Burger – some clever clogs pointing out that, what with the country being suddenly poor again, we should be stockpiling the focking things like swine flu vaccinations. Anyway, the news of the reprieve was carried on the front page of this newspaper, prompting the following letter to the editor:
“Madam, I note that the stay of execution for the so-called spice burger was featured as a quirky page-one news item in today’s newspaper, with none of the gravity merited by an issue of such concern. This alleged food item, may I point out, is more than just a culinary aberration. It has drawn huge numbers of socially disadvantaged people to what was once a tranquil corner of South Dublin. Not that you’d know, what with your bloody moat and drawbridge. Yours etc, Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly.”
She was still spitting nails on Tuesday night, when me and Ro rolled up and storted shoving picketers out of our way. "Ross!" she screamed, the full drama queen act. "You're not seriouslyconsidering going in there?"
I stopped and just shrugged. "What do youcare? You're not even going to be living here in a few weeks." She was like, "Just because I'm moving to America, doesn't mean a little piece of me isn't going to remain in Foxrock."
“Well,” I went, quick as a flash, “I hope it isn’t your mouth,” then I laughed in her face and in we morched.
Literally seconds later, Ro’s dinner is ready and he’s walking out of there with a big brown bag and the grease literally dripping through it onto the floor. “Ronan, don’t eat that,” the old dear went. “I’ll ring social services,” which she wouldn’t. Believe me, I’d have a few stories to tell them about her if they ever came calling. The next thing, roysh, we’re back in the cor, the bag is open and Ronan’s going at it like a dog with a chew-toy.
I was there, "I'm sorry about that. About her." He was like, "Ah, you're moostard, Rosser," and then he was, like, silent for a few minutes, until eventually he turned and looked at me, his face all shiny from the saturated fat, and went, "Do you how marijuana came to be illegal, Rosser?" which really shocks me, as it would the father of anytwelve-year-old?
“It was America’s way of trying to force unemployed Hispanics out of the country during the Great Depression,” he went. It has to be said, roysh, that summer course he’s doing for gifted children is really paying for itself. “If you criminalise people’s customs, it makes it easier to oppress them.”
The way he said it made me feel suddenly ashamed of my old dear. “Give me out that spice burger,” I heard myself suddenly go. He looked at me like he needed to hear me say it again. “Seriously,” I went. “I want to try it.” He reached into the bag and, like, handed it to me. I stared at it for a few seconds, all furry, like an old cinema corpet. Then I looked at Ro’s face, full of amazement, even a bit of awe for his old man, prepared to actually do this thing. I bit into it. It just, like, crumbled into my mouth, then three seconds later came the taste of hot, spicy meat, like nothing I’ve ever tasted before – every gland in my head suddenly snapped to attention. It was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had in my mouth – and you know me, I’ve been around some corners in my time.
I handed it back to Ro, who went, “That, my friend, is a spice boorger,” and then he smiled at me as I stared through the windscreen, a big idiot grin on my face.
rossocarrollkelly.ie
