News that high school children were served raw chicken for lunch took me right back to 1990 and the worst meal of my life.
Earlier this month students at Kaitaia High School had to chuck out their sandwiches and then chuck out their guts in a makeshift triage. They’d been served raw chicken patties.
Reading about it immediately transported me back to 1990.
I was working as a bartender in Lanson’s, the pretentious upstairs bar that overlooked Auckland’s waterfront. The bar was trying to make the most of what really was a swept-up cattle-shed, with the divy Akarana Tavern below and a dreary dine-n-dance pub above. At least the views were nice.
It was Easter Friday and the last punter drifted out just after 11pm. Easter is death for hospo, which is kind of appropriate, I suppose. I threw my apron in the wash, downed the complimentary Rheineck and dashed over the road to grab a chicken’n’chips from the roadside stall. No hanging about for me.
That’s because my girlfriend Sarah was waiting in her blue Subaru – ready to take us to the Shore to celebrate our engagement. She’d proposed a day earlier. I’d accepted a second later. Our friend Sam from Campbell’s Bay had the champers on ice.
I started feeling queasy at 11:15. Started cramping at 11:30. And was vomiting by midnight. While I groaned on the couch, Sam and Sarah polished off the bubbles and as far as I can recall expressed concern.
Initially, the vomiting was voluminous and fluid. ‘Better out than in’, I reasoned and warmed to the task.
But raw chicken really is quite potent. Despite my best efforts to disgorge a lifetime of protein and diced carrots, the retching was relentless. All night my guts occupied a dismal cycle: tightening into a knot worthy of a Boy Scout badge then energetically unfolding themselves into the loo. Even though there was nothing left to throw up there was simply no stopping the urge to vomit.
The next morning, Sarah bundled me into the Subaru and took me to the local GP. I can’t recall if we had to wait long but I do remember the beige Japanese prints on the wall as the doctor slid a needle into my bum. It hurt.
The vomiting stopped shortly after but I was spent, and returned to my friend’s to lie wan-looking on the coach. Sarah ate buttery hot cross buns and cast me sympathetic looks.
Later, she told me she’d looked away as I bared my bottom on the doctor’s couch. She’d already seen the worst of me, cradling the edge of the toilet seat like some drunken sea dog. “The best I’ll save for later,” she said.
I vowed to never eat roadside chicken again.
And reader, I married her.
Do you have a dreadful meal story to share? Send it in and we’ll publish the best.
