FONDUES AND FONDU-NOT-DUES

So we almost burnt down Renee’s flat on Friday night, which would have made a lie of Chris Bull’s assertion that “fondue is fun”. Or not, depending on your enthusiasm for naked flame.

Enthusiasm possibly wasn’t quite the word to describe the general reaction when the fondue burner started to exceed its remit. But the galloping flames lapping at the outside of the cheese bowl had a mesmeric quality which made it difficult to feel complete animosity toward what had become an impressive piece of combustion. Even if the initiative was misplaced.

Someone ventured a rather conservative “I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to be doing that”, which was fair comment considering the fire alarm had just started sounding in the kitchen. The fire alarm precipitated a more general alarm among the houseguests and in particular Renee, who retreating to the sofa, where she stood like a cartoon 1950s housewife trying to evade a mouse.

“I think I should leave” she said, as the house began to fill with acrid, yet slightly intoxicating, black smoke. Chris, who still had a piece of cheesy bread impaled on the end of his fondue fork, agreed.

Emma helpfully suggested that the fire should be extinguished; A point she emphasised by kicking over a bottle of beer. Somewhat alarmed by this new turn of events Chris reacted by side-footing a glass of red into the coffee table. Torn between her fear of naked flame and her passion for unstained living quarters Renee paused just long enough to hand out paper towels before making a break for the door.

Someone hoisted up the lounge room window in an attempt to clear the thickening smoke. It was an effective technique but the cure came with a few unwelcome side effects, one of which was impressively enhanced pyrotechnics. The open window, combined with the now open door, also created a funnel effect, sucking smoke out of the flat and into the apartment stairwell, where it triggered the first floor fire alarm.

After a brief discussion it was decided that it was perhaps better for all concerned if the window was shut; a process that was successfully completed but only after another glass of rioja was volleyed into the sideboard.

While this was going on, a search was being made for a receptacle deep enough to entomb the fondue set and smother the flames. Unfortunately, the only pot in the house big enough for the job was sitting on the stovetop, half full of cheese.

Out in the hall, neighbours were starting to show some interest in proceedings, with lights coming on and doors creeping open. In response, Leigh was dispatched to deactivate the hallway fire alarm and provide a reassuring presence to fellow residents. “It’s nothing to worry about”, he was heard to say to the young mum in flat number three, “we’re having a bit of a fondue-related incident but it’s all under control.”

Which wasn’t a complete fib. The fire was still pretty much contained in the general vicinity of where it started but certain logistical problems had not yet been overcome. The principle issue being that Renee’s wok, which was the largest, non cheese-filled pot in the house, was not deep enough to smother the flames without the blazing fondue set being partially dismantled first.

Initial attempts to hoist the cheese rack clear of the burner almost came at the cost of Lauren’s eyebrows and the use of fondue forks as shifting implements was abandoned. Emma expressed concern that something called a ‘woven table runner’ was in peril.

Leigh scampered back into the room with a set of BBQ tongs and plucked the frame from over the burner. The wok was clamped down over the inferno and the fire smothered out.

“Fuck me,” I said, as the smoke cleared, “I think that might be why fondue parties went out of fashion.”

Just before leaving, Renee handed me a bottle of fuel spirits. “I think it’s best for all concerned if you keep this at your house”.

I am now very much looking forward to BBQ season.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson