We've been invited back to the Golden
Fleece, where, following last night's discussion, Jerome is making us the promised reindeer fondue Bourguignonne. This is a big boat – probably a
converted tug. The kitchen hosts a full wood-burning oven, and a
spice rack of four shelves, running two metres wide.
Steve and I are joined by Dion and Chad from the Hanse Hansen – an even bigger boat. I'd first met the American, Chad, in the early hours of this morning, at which time he was the epitome of the drunk American. I'm surprised to find he's a quite the Jekyll-and-Hyde. He's alright, actually. He too has abandoned the concept of the conventional life -the one that his parents would much prefer for him. Instead runs a heli-skiing operation out of Santiago, Chile and is here in town arranging a boat for a surfing expedition in Antarctica.
After a perfectly battered, salted and peppered local squid starter, I'm given a plate, and passed a bowl, full with about two, if not three kilos of raw, dark red cubed flesh. The fondue in the centre of the table is simply a pan of hot oil on a kerosene camping fire. And so, the five of us set about skewering and deep frying our way through the back end of a reindeer, with hot fat spitting far and wide. It's tasty stuff. Given the target of emptying the bowl, I work hard and fast, but after I've cleared the third helping of cubes from my blood drenched plate, I am dangerously near a hundred percent of my capacity.
We each round off the last few percent with a couple of pints of Guinness in town.
Returning to the boat, we go to explore the signs of a party on the opposite side of the dock, but we arrive to find only its cold, silent aftermath. The barbecue is still covered in meat. It's the worst feeling possible - there's still food, but I don't want to eat it.
Steve and I are joined by Dion and Chad from the Hanse Hansen – an even bigger boat. I'd first met the American, Chad, in the early hours of this morning, at which time he was the epitome of the drunk American. I'm surprised to find he's a quite the Jekyll-and-Hyde. He's alright, actually. He too has abandoned the concept of the conventional life -the one that his parents would much prefer for him. Instead runs a heli-skiing operation out of Santiago, Chile and is here in town arranging a boat for a surfing expedition in Antarctica.
After a perfectly battered, salted and peppered local squid starter, I'm given a plate, and passed a bowl, full with about two, if not three kilos of raw, dark red cubed flesh. The fondue in the centre of the table is simply a pan of hot oil on a kerosene camping fire. And so, the five of us set about skewering and deep frying our way through the back end of a reindeer, with hot fat spitting far and wide. It's tasty stuff. Given the target of emptying the bowl, I work hard and fast, but after I've cleared the third helping of cubes from my blood drenched plate, I am dangerously near a hundred percent of my capacity.
We each round off the last few percent with a couple of pints of Guinness in town.
Returning to the boat, we go to explore the signs of a party on the opposite side of the dock, but we arrive to find only its cold, silent aftermath. The barbecue is still covered in meat. It's the worst feeling possible - there's still food, but I don't want to eat it.
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