I've been thinking a lot about beetroot recently. I'm not sure why. Maybe simply because summer is around the corner and my antipodean sensibilities consider it worth placing in my consciousness. I realized the other day that I hadn't eaten beet in a very, very long time. Years, perhaps. But where do you buy beetroot in Taiwan?
Then today, when exiting Taipower Station, my girlfriend said, 'I'm really hungry! I'm so hungry I could eat a KGB burger!'
Then it dawned on me: the trans-Tasman love affair with beetroot on burgers.
So we went to KGB and sat down and I quickly found a burger with beetroot on the menu. Yeah baby!
When I placed my order I was actually nervous that the pretty young waitress would say, 'I'm sorry, but we've just run out of beetroot!' But she didn't. She just repeated my order back to me to make sure she had heard correctly. Beet, at that moment, became a certainty.
While waiting for our food I explained to my girlfriend the history of beetroot. I felt it was important that she understand what I was about to eat. Really, really important. I talked about the sea beet which grows wild in the Balkans. I described the genetic relationship between beetroots and radishes. I spoke briefly on beetroot's historical pedigree: that the therapeutic properties of beet are related in the Talmud, that a red beet was described by none other than Aristotle, and I even quoted John Gerard, who said that beetroot juice “conveighed up into the nostril doth gently draw forth flegme, and purgeth the head”.
I explained that my grandpa grew beets and I used to eat them.
So we were primed. I told my girlfriend that I would share my beets with her.
Then I was served this.
Now, I'm not going to say anything bad about Sir Edmund Hillary or mention sheep per capita ratios (10:1)
or remind anyone that Phar Lap's heart
is on display in the National Museum of Australia, but I will say that I have seen bigger slices of beetroot before.
I'll assume my vanishingly small slice of beet
has nothing to do with Trevor Chappell.