It was at a certain central
London landmark that my non-meat-eating mother ordered
asparagus soup. Just in case some
clown should have decided that today's flavour was
asparagus and blood, she asked the man behind the counter if the asparagus soup was
vegetarian.
"Uh, yes."
So she ordered some, and ate it. She didn't seem to be enjoying it, but the reason only became
clear when, at the bottom of the
opaque substance, some pink chunks were found. Doubly disturbing was the fact that, although pink, said chunks had recognisably once formed part of a
chicken, or a chicken's close relative. Understandably, we complained, and got free puddings.
In a
cafe attached to the main
theatre in
Reims,
France, my equally non-meat-eating father ordered an
onion pie. The main ingredient (apart from the expected eggs and pastry) proved to be
bacon.