Attack of the killer mustard

Last night we had bifanas for supper, which is a quick and easy sandwich made with very thin sautéed pork steaks on a white roll called a papo seco.

Bifana

A bifana can be dressed up in various ways, but at its heart it’s just a simple sandwich with nothing on the bread except mayonnaise and mustard. Which is how we were eating it that night.

Bifanas must be eaten quickly, especially on cold nights like we’ve been having, or the thin steak cools down and the magic is gone. So my wife got impatient with me when she’d finished cooking the steaks and I was still mucking about on a project. I dashed in long enough to put some mayo on my bread, but the squeeze bottle of mustard was at the end of its life and I couldn’t eke out more than a few drops. By then I had to dash off again to get the project to a stopping point, so my wife kindly stepped in to squeeze out the last of the mustard.

Suddenly there was a shriek from the kitchen, followed by, “I think I have mustard in my hair!” I returned to find my wife bending over, pointing to the top of her head. “Do I have mustard in my hair?”

I started to laugh. “You do! How on earth—” And then I looked around the kitchen, and lost the ability to speak due to excessive laughter. There were mustard splats on the side of the refrigerator, which is across the kitchen from where my wife was standing. There were splats on top of the garbage bin, and on the wall behind the bin. There were splats on the kitchen table and, amazingly, on the seat of a chair which was tucked under the table. There were splats all over the floor, and on the cupboards above the counter. I would never have guessed there was that much mustard left in the squeeze bottle.

She had been shaking the bottle downward, to get the remaining mustard into the squeeze cap, and the cap had come off mid-shake. Judging by the splatter pattern, she had been shaking quite vigorously.

It took us ten minutes to clean up all of the mustard — eight for the actual cleaning, and two for me to stop laughing. Our bifanas were stone cold.

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About Fletcher DeLancey

Socialist heathen and Mac-using author of the Chronicles of Alsea, who enjoys pondering science, politics, well-honed satire (though sarcastic humor can work, too) and all things geeky.
This entry was posted in food, humor, life, Portugal. Bookmark the permalink.

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