The Great Duck Theft
“How could you eat that? That meal itself is an act of pure unkindness. You should become a vegetarian, like me.”
This was the fourteenth time that Joan had told Martin that she was a vegetarian in the last three days. They had not seen each other since university. During that time, Martin had forgotten about her propensity to force her die-hard views on unsuspecting friends and members of the public. He did not care about her dietary choices, but she cared about his, and her own for that matter.
The first thing she thought about each morning was vegetarianism before she continued to think about it throughout the entire day until she slept. She presumably dreamed of carrots and beans as well. All Martin wanted to do was eat his succulent duck breast without Joan harping on animal cruelty. He had his reasons for eating meat and it was not her business. Joan was his friend, but she was pushing the boundaries of his normally extreme patience.
“Seriously, explain to me how you justify eating that?” Joan continued, relentlessly. “Would you barbeque me, if you had the chance!?”
Martin would not barbeque her under any circumstances. Very few people would consider barbequing their friends. However, he did consider the fact that if she were to be barbequed, she would at least then be quiet and let him enjoy his food in peace. This breast of duck was about the best thing in his life right now. He was away from his annoying nag of a wife and seemingly perpetually noisy kids. A bit of silence and meat from the chest of a quacking semi-aquatic bird; that was his entire life ambition right now. But Joan was ruining it with her particularly tedious brand of self-righteous plant-based rage. The extent of her fury was ruining a perfectly serviceable evening, and this left Martin unable to locate his temper. He had snapped in a big way.
“Will you stop it? You’re mad as a box of frogs. Coincidentally, frogs are delicious! Every single person in France eats frog legs and 60 million people can’t all be wrong, can they? You’re as mad as a box of delicious dinner frogs. Now leave me alone to enjoy my canard, s’il vous plait?” Martin sat back, smugly enjoying his piece of French wordplay.
The look on Joan’s face was similar to that of a person who had just been told that their pet hamster was, in fact, a character actor who had taken their method to the extreme. Shocked.
“Oh, and another thing, you’re a complete fruitcake. By the way, fruitcakes are not tasty. Why? Because there’s no meat in therm. There is a rationale behind my meat-eating! I only eat animals that are tastier than they are cute. Goats are not cute, but they are tasty, so I will eat them. Cats are very cute but, presumably, not tasty so they are not for me. Ducks are incredibly cute, but you know what? They’re also the tastiest things on planet earth. Now, will you leave me alone? Leave me alone to enjoy this adorable but also delectable duck?” Martin’s indignation was in full flow now. His dietary decisions were not her business to begin with but seeing as she had poked her snout into his choices, he gave her a piece of his mind.
Joan’s jaw was practically on the floor at this stage, to the point where she could almost feel the grubby pub carpet grazing her chin. Her eyes bulged and her face whitened. No one had ever questioned her like this before. After all, who questioned the unquestionable moral superiority of a vegetarian? She now felt as if she had been barbequed after what can only be described as an absolute burn from Martin. She felt tender, tenderer than the tenderest of duck fillets. She also felt hungry. The hunger intensified as she briefly reflected on years of eating almost exclusively leaves and rice. Salad is not cute, nor is it tasty. That is a reasonable neutral trade-off with moral substance. However, in that moment, Joan ceased to want morals or neutrality. She wanted duck.
With one swipe of an iron-deficient paw, she clawed the duck breast from Martin’s plate. Now it was Martin’s turn to have his jaw touch the carpet. Much like a grizzly bear devouring a baby salmon, she rammed the food into her mouth. The remainder of Martin’s dinner was gone, as was the last of his hope of an enjoyable evening away from his quite frankly awful family. He sat, stone-faced and looked at his rather solemn empty plate. His eyes then wandered up to Joan, who was cackling frantically as she finished the last of her meaty morsel. Before he knew it, Martin’s plate was off the table and pressed against Joan’s face, as she licked it clean.
What was he supposed to do? Can you call the armed police just because someone got angry about your dinner and then ate it all as part of some sort of manic episode? No, the police have better things to be doing than responding to friends having a tiff about some food. It did not matter much now anyway, because Joan had left the table and was now running outside. She looked like a deranged ape who had just escaped from a zoo. Ecstatic, unhinged and ravenous. Before Martin could make it outside, she galloped away, with a look in her eyes which only implied one thing, that she wanted a beef burger.
As she disappeared around the corner at the end of the road, Martin attempted to gather some understanding of the events of the previous three minutes or so. How can your rabbit food eating mate become an unhinged carnivore in less time than it takes a six-year-old to tie their shoelace? A long evening ahead beckoned, checking every steakhouse and fast food restaurant in town to find his friend. Then, only then, could he finally go back to the restaurant, order a fresh plate of delightful duck and relish some peace and quiet as he ate it.
Perhaps he would select his friends more carefully from now on.
Written and Published by Govinda Chaddha
