The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

Feb 4, 2011

Ozzy Burger

In Tim Heald's rather pedestrian novel of academic snobbery, long-smouldering revenge, and obscure Tasmanian wines, Death and the Visiting Fellow, a chesty, long-legged and lissome beauty discusses burgers with the visiting Fellow.
Instead of the bijou, upmarket, expensive, one-off emporia of the salubrious oases to either side of the highway, these were chain convenience stores - drive-through off-licences, snack bars offering meat pies, pasties and deep-fried chicken drumsticks. 
All this was at one at the same time quintessentially Tasmanian and peculiar to Hobart, yet also familiar.  Perhaps even depressingly so. Doctor Cornwall felt he had not come to the far end of the earth in order to be confronted with canned Guinness and mass-produced Pizza Margerita. If he had wanted a Big Mac he would have stayed on campus at the University of Wessex. 
'I guess you have McDonald's in England,' said Ms Burney. 
'I'm afraid so.' 
'I know what you mean.' She wrinkled her nose. 'Where I come from in the north of the state you still get old-fashioned steak sandwiches. You know, with the lot. Old-fashioned white bread, and thick, brown gravy, half a pound of sirloin, fried egg, tomatoes, onion, cucumber, mayonnaise, pineapple, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, beetroot.' 
'Goodness,' said Tudor, aware that he was sounding prissy. 'All that in a single sandwich.' 
She looked at him with amusement and scorn. 'You poms!' she said. 'You don't know what a sandwich is. Slicely thinned cucumber and the crusts cut off. Call that a sandwich? Get out of here!'


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