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The Pita Semetary

The history to the whole sad tale

Some time ago, (quite a lot of it actually, just hanging around, minding it's own business if you wanted some exposition), there was, just outside of SquatHole, a wedding.

Two famous characters of the past - famous for being famous, so famous, in fact that their names are lost in the sandpit of time - wed.

They got hitched. And the ceremony went off without one. A hitch that is. No-one came thundering or clanging into the church hall to claim they knew of some just impediment, or came thundering or clanging into the church hall to lay waste to the congregation. No.

None of this.

The priest led the couple through the ceremony with grace, and good humour. The groom kissed the bride, and the bride's mother wept silently, and the groom's mother eyed the dramatic old sow with the usual enmity, and rings were exchanged along with some vows that the couple really meant at that moment in time.

In short, they got married. They were man and wife.

A large feast was to be held in their honour, at the bride's father's house - in a small hamlet outside of SquatHole.

He was quite the country squire, and rather well off (and the groom's father silently praised his son for his good foresight in wedding into such a family). Said squire had a cook, whose name, Ed Scoffier has gone down in indelible ink into the annals of history, where those whom he cooked for had not. Ed was an amazing cook. What he could produce with aspic and birds stuffed one inside another was to be frank, legend.

Now, said cook had been preparing for months in advance, to ensure that the finest ingredients and recipes were to be produced, and as a matter of fact, this menu has been reproduced faithfully here for yr. delectation today:

The famous menu

Hors d'oeuvres

Bacon vol au vent, Oyster canape, Devilled eggs, Dumplings, Cucumber tea sandwiches,


Almond soup, Jerusalem Artichoke soup, Soup a la Cantatrice, Marrow soup, Chicken consomme, and Calf's Head soup,


Fried anchovies, Cod's head and shoulders, Stewed carp, Potted crayfish, Fried eels, Gudgeons, Yarmouth Bloaters, Lobster curry, Whole salmon served with prawns, and Pickled oysters,


Spitted calf, A lamb cooked underground, Roast suckling pig, Veal head in aspic, Guinea fowl in bechamel, Goose with bread sauce, Boiled mutton with caper sauce, Boiled turkey with celery sauce, Beef steaks with oyster sauce, Game pie and Cumberland sauce, Chipolata sausages, and a Jugged hare,


Asparagus pudding, Boiled beans, Stewed carrots, Cauliflower cheese, Horseradish cream, and Baked mushrooms,


Indian corn-flour bread, Soda bread, Hot rolls, and Crumpets,


Baked apples, Almond cheese-cake, Pear fritters, Clear jelly, Blanc-mange, Banana and peach fritters, Rice pudding, Baked alaska, Boiled custards, Chocolate souffle, Vanilla mousse, Gooseberry fool, Coconut biscuits, and Macaroons,

And the culmination of the feast

The most incredibly rich and iced bride cake

The Wedding Breakfast

So, Ed had toiled and slaved, sweated and bled, lost his wife and children in his single-minded quest to produce the most incredible feast ever known to man (or beast). He'd even put up with his mother in law screaming outside of his window in those brief few hours when he managed to get away from the kitchen to try and lay down his head. He had, in truth, suffered more than most for this most impeccable meal.

And, on entering the grand hall the servants who were due to serve and the butlers who were due to buttle and the bar staff who were due to... Anyway, they were rendered speechless by the superlatively supreme spread which lay before them. Their mouths watered at the prospect of having odd scraps here and there, and a slap-up meal when all the guests lay about comatose or tupping like rabbits and all the chairs were put away neatly.

Marshalled expertly by Ed, the waiting staff stood poised, ready to swoop on the guests as they arrived. And, as they began to filter in, from the church, they were offered the first of the hors d'ouevre and the newly tapped casks of ale.

Like a well oiled page 7 Fella the culinary attack squad ensured each and every arrival was treated to a snacklet here or a top-up there whilst they waited for the wedding party to arrive and the main event, the feast, to begin.

A problem arises

Now, in order to explain what happened at the feast one must understand some of the sadly human relationships that existed between the two families.

Now, the fathers in all of this, and the children are, as usual, blameless, and I'm sure I'll garner 50% agreement with this assertion.

The sad history between the two families comes from the matriarchs. Related by blood these two cousins were ground under by jealousy of one another. The more beautiful one married a pauper and the more plain a rich man. The more studious one hated the one with the wit and the sense of humour and the blonde the brunette. Quite which one was which is a moot point, all that is to be said is that the two of them couldn't abide one another, and found it hard to be in close proximity.

Unfortunately, this all spilled over on the journey between the ceremony and the feast in a spat of name calling and hair pulling and dress ripping. The husbands couldn't begin to assuage the fevered temperaments so resigned to a match of spitting and clawing were they.

And on, into the great hall came the battle, first one epithet, then a riposte, a clawed face followed by a handbag upside the chin. The husbands and the wedding couple futilely attempting to intervene and guide their kin to opposite sides of the hall - but to no avail - the battle poured on, closer and closer to the boiled cabbage, the tureens of boiled veal's head, the fritters and gudgeons, until one lifted the other and collapsed, with their extra weight on to the wondrous wedding cake.

The silence that engulfed the room was total, and utter.

Until. .. there came from the kitchen a slight whine, a keen almost, one that rose in pitch until it became deafening. From said kitchen emerged the chef, the cook, a maniacal glint in his eye, and that sound! That sound of pure anguish emanating from his throat, driving the guests into the corner.

Well, Ed began to systematically destroy that which he had created...

He hammered at the Hors d'oeuvres

He smashed at the Soups

He flung the Fish dishes away

He mangled the Meat

He voided the Vegetables

He broke the Breads

He smashed the Sweets

And the remnants of the most incredibly rich and iced bride cake so crashed upon by battling mothers? Well that, he began to eat. Eat and eat and eat and eat. Partygoers and family members began to edge away from the insane chef, gorging himself on his most treasured creation, fearing his primordial wails and snarls.

Days later, the horrible sounds from the great hall finally stopped, and the Bride's father dared to put his head round the door. The sight of the chef, naked and covered in marzipan, icing sugar, rich fruit cake and his own viscera would stay ingrained in his mind for the rest of his thankfully short life.

Ed was dead. His gore intermingled with the remnants of the wasted feast.

The family of the bride soon lost the great hall, due to defaulting on a number of loans and a misguided attempt by the bride's father to open an outside catering business, his ensuing heart-attack and untimely demise and the whole family being left in the poor house.

The great hall itself was never re-occupied, whilst the tales of what happened to Ed Scoffier were passed from one generation of youthful wag to another and it fell into disuse, decay and destruction.

Over the centuries the stones ground down to commingle with the tears of the chef, his creation and his innards and the patch of ground where once there was happiness, lay only the tears of the trout and the pain of the panini created that day and wasted in the most upsetting of tales, a ruined wedding feast.

And so it lay, a cursed spot. Left alone by everyone with any sense.

Until Midget Tor NaGoth went and buried a snack there, given to him by the ever-so-kindly Uncle Bernard.

Days later, the Sammich came back. And the rest is terrifying R18.

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pita_semetary.txt · Last modified: 2017/05/28 03:35 (external edit)