At the dinner in question we started well. One member of the mess contributed five dozen of bottled beer. Another a case of whisky. A demi-john or two of the rough ration table wine rendered somewhat alcoholic by the vagaries of wine in the Tropics was also available; but the effort of the evening was when a sporting Count produced a bottle of Curaçao. We sat down.
Directly in front of me, in the usual position, I found some plates, a knife, fork and spoon. But on three sides I was surrounded by eggs. There were, I think, three dozen of them. On looking round I observed that each diner was similarly provided. Then soup arrived, very strong, good and liberally flavoured with garlic. It was made from buffalo killed by the Post’s native hunters. Meanwhile I noticed my neighbours handing out their eggs to the boys and giving instructions regarding them. I was at a loss. Hitherto I had regarded my eggs as being boiled and ready to eat, all the time mildly wondering how I was to eat so many. Then I caught the word omelette pass my neighbour’s lips as he handed a dozen or two to the boy. I tumbled to it. They were raw and you simply handed them out as you fancied, to be turned into fried, poached, boiled eggs or omelettes. What a capital idea! I set aside a dozen for an omelette, a half dozen to be fried, and a half dozen to be poached. I thought that if I got through that lot I should have enough.
The next dish appeared and was placed before the senior officer at the head of the table. It looked to me like a small mountain of mashed beetroot. Into its sugar-loaf apex the officer dug a large wooden salad spoon, turning in one rotary motion its perfect sugar-loaf shape into that of an extinct volcano. With deft and practised hand he then broke egg after egg, raw, into the yawning crater. His spare dozen or so were quickly swallowed up and more were supplied. As well as I could judge, the contents of the eggs were in no case examined. To anyone acquainted with the average African egg this means a lot.
On to the sulphur-splotched and quivering mass pepper and salt were liberally poured; then vinegar and a vigorous stirring prepared it for presentation to the one bewildered and suffering guest. I took a moderate helping of the red crater slopes, avoiding the albuminous morass, wondering how you handled it anyhow and what would happen if you broke the containing walls. I watched the dish go the rounds with great interest, hoping someone would be too bold with the large spoon, prematurely burst the crater and be engulfed in the ensuing flood. But, alas! with marvellous dexterity man after man hoicked out a plateful of the nauseating stuff without accident. They were used to it.
Now I tried a taste of the minced beetroot lying before me. It wasn’t beetroot at all. It was raw buffalo flesh. I did not like it awfully. Why, I do not know. I have always admired, theoretically, men who eat raw meat. When I saw the Abyssinians eating their meat raw I did not admire them particularly, and now when I saw the Belgians eating it raw I did not seem to admire them either. And yet when I read of Sandow and the crack boxers eating raw meat I admired them. Perhaps it is the sight of men eating raw meat which stops the admiration, or, perhaps, the men who can safely eat raw meat must be admirable to begin with. Anyhow, this lot revolted me, to the complete extinction of my usually robust appetite. It only recovered when cake was served up with syrup and you poured wine over it, an excellent sweet.
Drinking had meanwhile been going steadily on. I would say that by the time the cake came on each man had absorbed two litres of 18 per cent. wine. I was diligently pressed to drink, but managed to avoid more than my share. I excused myself by saying that I was not used to it, and had rather a light and unreliable head anyhow. As this was really a fact, I was rather astonished to notice that already some of the diners were beginning to show unmistakable signs of deep drinking. I subsequently discovered that while there was liquor in the station the drinking of it went on more or less night and day.
Towards the end of the meal some bottles of fine wine were produced and ran their course. After dinner beer was produced and diligently dealt with as a preliminary to the drinking of the case of whisky. This latter was regarded as serious drinking, requiring careful preparation. I have noticed the same curious attitude towards whisky in Frenchmen also. They affect to regard it as a frightfully potent and insidious drink. One will often see an absinthe-sodden toper take a ludicrously small tot of whisky, drowning it with a quart of water on the score of its great strength.
They began to taunt me with not drinking level. Stupid remarks were made about Englishmen and their inability to drink. I helped myself to a moderately large peg of whisky—which was good—and drank.