Formal Hall in Peterhouse: Images

Smoked Haddock Kedgeree

There was a recipe for this dish in the British food magazine, Good Food. It is featured as a dish for "festive entertainment."
I decided to give it a shot, especially since smoked fish, in a curry infused rice sounded very good on paper. The recipe called for the use of saffron. In addition to a teaspoon of cayenne pepper and tablespoon of curry powder, I decided not to waste any saffron on this dish; it would have been overpowered. If the argument is that the saffron is to give it color...the curry and cayenne already gave enough color to the dish. Moreover, the original recipe recommended double cream for this dish. I just used 1% milk.

Here are the ingredients I used:
1.5 cups long grain rice
3 cups boiling water
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tbs curry powder
1 tsp cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp thyme
3 boiled eggs, yolks pushed through a screen, and whites chopped coarsely
2 tbs butter
3 tbs chopped parsley

for the fish, I used
1 smoked haddock fillet
1/2 cup milk
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp curry powder
5 cracks of pepper

Melt butter in a milk pan, and add spices and rice. Allow to sizzle for about 4 minutes, toasting the rice and the spices. Then add three cups of boiling water, salt and thyme. Cover, and allow to boil rapidly for 15 minutes, then reduce heat to lowest setting, and let sit for another 10 minutes, until all the water is absorbed.

Meanwhile, put pepper, salt and curry powder into the milk and bring to a gentle simmer. Poach the fillet of fish about 4 minutes each side. Removed the skin before flaking the fish.  Just flake it directly in the pan, keeping the poaching fluid.

Fold the flaked smoked fish, poaching liquid, chopped boiled eggs, and 2.5 tbs parsley into the rice. Garnish with remaining 1/2 tbs of parsley.

This dish is very bland. Make sure to serve along with a loaded salt shaker. With just a bit of salt, the flavour of this dish really pulls through. The recipe recommended serving with lemon...I actually found the acidity of the lemon to be too distracting to the kedgeree. I preferred it without lemon.

I find this dish to be interesting. But, to be honest, I'm not won over by it. I'm glad to have tried it, but cannot imagine making it again. I think I'll make fish cakes with my remaining fillet of smoked haddock.

Three Crabs Later, the Skin Came Off

This Friday was the first time I rowed hard. I was in a four-man boat, and I sat in position two -- the second from the front of the boat. The bad part about being in a four-man boat is that it means that all my mistakes are amplified for everyone in the boat to see and feel -- there simply are not enough rowers in a boat this size to dilute my mistakes. We rowed hard for two long hours.

Every stroke was nerve racking. I did not know how to get the blade of the oar to properly enter the water. Getting the rhythm and flow right was very difficult because everyone else in the crew was taller than me, and so I had to really slow down in order lengthen each of my strokes in order to keep time with everyone else.

Things only get more and more difficult as my body got more and more exhausted. It became hard for me to keep time as well because my my body was reluctant to do things as quickly as I wanted it to. I had greater control of my actions when I was not so tired. I pulled three crabs* in this outing.

At some point, in the delirium of fatigue, I noticed that my right hand felt wet. This typically isn't remarkable if you're rowing a boat -- you are maneuvering over the water after all. However, none of the water splashing ever gets onto your hand...and I knew that none of it got on my hand. This portends nothing but bad stuff...and I was reluctant to look at my hand.

I looked at my hand, and it was at this moment that the pain kicked in. My skin had blistered, popped, and shredded by the friction of the blade. Effectively, a patch of skin got eroded off of my right hand. Because I was rowing stroke side, this means that my right hand is the one that turns the blade, while my left hand is the power arm that pulls the blade towards my sternum. I was clearly too tense; gripping it too hard.

For the rest of the session, every stroke was excruciatingly painful. But, the one thing that this did do for me was allow me to focus on the pain, and not on my fatigue. This made the return trip much more bearable. Moreover, at some point, my endorphins kicked in, creating quite a profound moment of "runner's high"on the way back to the boat house. This was made the pain worthwhile. Fortunately, I have next week off, thus allowing my hand to heal before I kick it in full gear for the next training.

ouch.

* The term "Crab" is rower's jargon. It refers the moment where your oar get stuck in the wrong orientation in the water due to improper squaring** of the blade.

** The term "Squaring" is rower's jargon. It refers to the movement of orienting the blade of the oar such that it is perpendicular to the water before slicing into through the water surface. Squaring the blade permits greater efficiency of the stroke, requiring less energy to push the same amount of space through the water..

What Say You, Leaves?

What portends the remnants of my tea? Please offer your interpretations. I think it predicts that I need to get more tea.

Hustings, in the Peterhouse MCR

I'm not going to lie -- I was nervous tonight when I took the stand for First Year Representative in the Peterhouse MCR*. Yes, one can say that I had butterflies, at the very least, in my stomach. But, actually, it was more like having Mothra, several of him, in my stomach if I were to be precise. But, I cam across composed, animated, and engaging, I think. It was a simple forum: 2 minutes to pose my position and to charm the members of the MCR present for the hustings, followed by questions from the audience. The audience mostly consisted of former Committee members, who are a friendly lot who care very much about the pulse of the Peterhouse community, and the functioning of the MCR.

Fortunately, I was in the audience of friends. In the US, hustings for positions in the MCR are the equivalent of running for a position in the Undergraduate Council for Students at Brown. It entails canvasing and bombarding student mailboxes with propaganda. At Peterhouse, canvasing is not allowed -- campaigns must be run informally through people-to-people conversations and emails, not mass marketing in the "American sense." No people shouting, with signs saying "vote for blah!"

I was very surprised that hustings at Peterhouse were congenial. My opponent was very sweet and constructive to my statements, and vice versa. I have attended hustings in the Ivy League setting where people literally bite each other's their heads of with their words. Tonight's atmosphere was much more relaxed, and refreshingly convivial.

My opponent's platform was based on having been at Cambridge for undergrad and grad school previously to her arrival at Peterhouse,. She has been a member of three colleges in Cambridge, thus having been a Fresher** for 3 times. Hence, her strength is that she knows what questions to ask. When it came my turn, I turned the tide on her by stating that my strength is the fact that I have NEVER been a Cambridge student before, and that all of my experience is based on my "outsider's perspective" as an Ivy Leaguer, who takes nothing for granted about Cambridge. Moreover, I made it clear to the audience that this year marks the fifth time that I've been a Fresher, having gone to so many universities previously; so, I know what it means to settle in a new setting.

For the most part, I am not sure who won this evening's hustings. However, I am confident that victory in the elections is mine, especially since I have attended so many more events in the MCR than she has, and know so many more people in Peterhouse as a result. I also played up my participation in the Board of Advisors in the education department of the American Museum of Natural History to my benefit, using that as another example of my leadership abilities and potential. I shall now take Pimm's No.1, on the rocks, with a splash of bitter lemon, with a twist, to wind-down. Then, I shall commence with creating my slides for my talk this weekend on healthcare access in northern Nigeria for the upcoming MCR Symposium this Saturday. Oh, yes, I will also be rowing tomorrow. Jolly good!

* MCR is the acronym for Middle Combination Room. This is the name of most graduate societies in the colleges of the University of Cambridge. Exceptions, such as Pembroke College, calls the equivalent of the MCR their "Graduate Parlor." The Committee of the MCR is the leadership of the society, largely responsible for planning and implementing social programs in college. Every graduate student in the colleges of Cambridge have membership to their respective college's MCR. The JCR stands for the Junior Combination Room, which is the undergraduate equivalent of the MCR. At least in Peterhouse, all members of the MCR are also members of the JCR. The Combination Room is reserved for the Fellows and Master of the college. Oxford also has MCRs and JCRs.

** A Fresher is a first-year student in the Cantabrigian vernacular.

King of Procastination

I got nothing done today. Woke up at 11am, went to my office to print a paper, then had lunch. Lunch was leftovers -- Thai yellow curry, with mushrooms, chilies, pork, and potatoes, on broad shrimp-roe noodles. I had to go to the Concourse of Addenbrooke's hospital to borrow a fork, since I left mine at home.

I thought I was going to row today. I showed up at the Boat Club...no one. Stayed around for 20 minutes, then left, thinking that there was a last-minute change in the schedule that I did not know of because I did not check my email today.

On my way home, I got caught by the Peterhouse gardener and Porter-on-duty riding my bike through the Garden/Deer Park...I got a firm reprimand, "you should know better!" Well, actually, I didn't. I never knew about the rule, as I've seen other bike in the park anyway. Anyway, I had to walk my bike all the way around the college, and then bike into St. Peter's Terrace from the Trumpington Street side of things. no biggie.

When I got to my email, it turns out that rowing is scheduled for tomorrow. Yay, I have, once again, for the third time, screwed up my schedule thinking that things happened on one day, when they happen on another. I proceeded to get a snack. First, I had 5 beets with the garlic herb mayo I made last night, Then I had 2 mini belgian waffles, one with lemon curd on top, the other with multi-berry jam, accompanied with a glass of nice 2% milk. I'm ready for a nap.

Tonight, I feast at Pembroke College's Formal Hall. That should be fun.

As for getting work accomplished...I'll save that for later.

Fries on Steroids

So, I was hungry.
I decked out the frozen curly fries, popped them in the oven. While I was waiting, I whipped up some fresh mayo -- put mustard, paprika, garlic, parsley, scallions, salt, pepper, 2 yolks, 2 hits of lemon juice, and a bit of zest.
I topped the fries with the mayo, garnishing with radishes.
Then, I proceeded to inhale the stuff -- it was so good.

Since I didn't have a whisk, I had to use a fork. But, it worked out.

Curious Juxtapositions

In the death match between these, who would win?

Christ v. Jesus
Christ's Church v. Corpus Christi
All Souls v. Trinity
St. Hilda v. St. Catherine
St. Edmund v. St. John

Thank goodness for the amazing assortment of names in the Oxbridge college systems.

Greek Yogurt with English Lemon Curd, topped with Granola:

An unlikely mix of ingredients, creating a truly sapid bowl of goodness.

I just had a grilling session with both of my doctoral supervisors together today. I have to admit, as well as it went, I was a bit stressed out by it. Being in the hot seat for one straight hour is not fun, though incredibly enriching. There's a lot of work to be done till I boil down my project to something more than just another idea.

Nevertheless, to celebrate the completion of the day, I decided to raid my pantry for a treat. I picked up a tub of Greek yogurt (I got the iconic Fage brand Total yogurt), a jar of store-brand (ASDA) Lemon Curd, and a box of store-brand (Tesco) granola (the box calls them "oat clusters") that contains plenty of freeze-dried strawberry slices in it.

The yogurt is simply magic to the tongue and mind -- thick, creamy, rich, just tart enough, grounding one immediately in a state of gustatory wellness. To start, I treated myself to a  spoon of it, with honey drizzled on top -- the perfect way to prime my appetite. Then, I decided to try something new -- I mixed 1 tablespoon of lemon curd into 2/3 cups of yogurt, and then sprinkled granola on top. This turned out to be one of the best things I've ever had. Mary Poppins was onto something with her measuring tape: put this bowl up to it, and it will also say "practically perfect in every way."

The sweet and sour nature of the lemon curd only enhanced the brightness of the Greek Yogurt. The thickness of it is simply heavenly, with a density similar to Labna, but with a little more air incorporated into it.  The crunchiness of the granola, and the sour strawberries further enhanced the well balanced citrusy yogurt. I'm eating it right now as I'm writing...can't get enough of it. Need a pick-me-up? Go grab a bowl of this fine stuff and tell me what you think. After all, the proof is in the pudding. Bon Appetit!

Rowing on the Cam

I rowed for the first time yesterday in the Peterhouse Novice Boat. It was very chilly; I could hardly feel my hands by the end of it. Nevertheless, it was a fantastic experience. The autumn sunlight and the bright reds and golds of the trees provided the perfect ambiance for the event. But, it was hard work.

I caught a crab at some point -- meaning my oar got "caught" in the water, or, I did not square my blade into the water, causing it to whip-back into me, nearly knocking the wind out of me. Had the boat not been stopped at this point, I would have been knocked off the boat. Close call.

That was the only mishap of the day. So, going back to how rowing is amazing... It is a fantastic experience to be doing something in synchrony with the seven other people in the boat. I really did get the sense that I was working in a team, because if I did not stroke at the right time, I would ruin the balance and pace of the boat. The rush of wind as the boat cuts through the water, and the push that is experienced with each stroke is invigorating.

My abs were very very sore by the end of the day. Most other were complaining about their backs, so I wasn't sure what I had done incorrectly. But, sure enough, that evening, my back started getting sore. But, it's a good kind of soreness -- one that reminds me that I am alive and well.

I always looked at the sport of rowing askance because it was something reserved, as far as I knew in the Ivy League, reserved for the super tall and fit people. There's no such thing, nor an active effort back home to make rowing a possible recreational sport. If it was, it was clearly so poorly advertised that I still do not know about it till this day.

I love Cambridge. It's really opening up my eyes to new things, though rowing is arguably an old sport. I will stay committed to the Novice Squad of the Peterhouse Boat Club for the rest of the year. In fact, there's a t-shirt design competition for the Novice Squad...and the prize is a bottle of Peterhouse Port. I want it. Will keep you posted on how this goes.

Come spring, I'm definitely going to do croquet. Jolly good!

King's College. Cambridge

I covertly took pictures in the Chapel of King's College. These pictures do not do ANY justice to the real thing, but does give you a clue about the enormity and beauty of this magnificent piece of architectural achievement.  As you can see, it is very dark inside.

Densely ornamented ceiling.

angels flanking the magnificent organ.

From the outside, King's College Chapel

A series of these golden dragons weave in and out the gates of the Chapel

Details from the Chapel's ancient main door, which is kept closed usually.

At Christ’s, A Fantastic Formal Hall

When I first walked into Christ’s College, I found it oddly familiar. Much like the architecture of Peterhouse’s Old Court, Christ’s also has a similar color palette of cream and sand toned buildings marked with centuries of weathering. The main difference is that Christ’s lawn in Court is ovular, while Peterhouse’s is rectangular. However, continue to walk through the rest of the campus, one is met with a series of very Modern – poured-concrete-modern – buildings that seem out of place. They were obviously commissioned in the 1960’s, creating an eyesore to the otherwise august aesthetic of Christ’s College.

Christ’s MCR reminds me of a loft in SoHo in New York – there are exposed ventilation ducts along the walls and ceiling that provide an urban/industrial flare; the ceiling is very high, and there is a balcony level accessed by a very minimalist set of stairs and metal banister; there is a huge avant-garde painting on the wall; the rest of the walls are white washed. Christ’s MCR hosted the evening, and we started with sherry. Though not holy, they have their own brand of Christ’s Sherry, which I found intriguing.

Christ’s MCR members were very welcoming, engaging us in lively conversation throughout the evening. Christ’s Hall, which is bright, lofty, and beautifully lined with dark wood panels ornamented with a highly intricate sculpted scroll relief, is magnificent. The atmosphere is very relaxed, where most members of the college did not wear their gowns to Formal Hall – very refreshing, creating a friendly ambiance for a comfortable evening.

We started with a cheese course – a small wheel of brie warmed in its own wooden box, with sliced baguette, and an assortment of cucumber, carrot, and bell peppers cut into sticks. The main course was a fillet of beef, in a dark mushroom sauce. The meat was a bit over cooked – stringy, and dry despite the sauce. However, the mashed sweet potatoes and the warmed pickled purple cabbage made up for it – they were both perfectly salted, just buttery enough, each with a delightful texture. Dessert was cheesecake, and a transparent effort for it to be of the New York variety. While it was a valiant effort, it was, in short, not as good as Cheesecake back home. The texture of the cake was too soft, though the cheese flavour was not lost to egginess or sweetness. There could have been a stronger vanilla presence, and a hint of lemon zest to brighten up the flavour. The crust was the most well executed component of Christ’s cheesecake; it was graham cracker based, with a good balance of softness, crumbliness and a nice bite to it that isn't quite crunchy, but highly textural. It also had the right amount of sweetness, and not too much butter. But all in all, it was satisfying to eat, and certainly satiating. The meal was concluded with coffee, port, and chocolates.

After dinner, we – the Peterhouse MCR – were  invited to Christ’s MCR to enjoy a selection of beers and ciders from their in-house bar. I had a pear cider, which was pale and golden, nicely cool to the palate, slightly effervescent, barely sweet, and redolent of ripe pears. With something as tasty as this in hand, the convivial atmosphere naturally drew out most everyone’s conversationalist abilities. While I do not remember exactly the content of the conversation, topics of discussion ranged from the sculptor garden in Christ’s, featuring Darwin, and strategic alliances between the House of Lords and the House of Commons. Christ’s comes to Peterhouse next week, where they will dine join us at our Formal Hall. I am looking forward to the exchange.

Not Smeared From Wall to Wall, No Less Disgusting

1 November, 2009

I woke up expecting only the usual: I’d go pee, brush my teeth, wash my face, dry my face, fix breakfast, eat breakfast etc. Little did I know that when I stepped into the bathroom I was walking into a train wreck. I did not notice the extent of the damage at first, but when the clues added up, it was overwhelming: I was in the midst of a bona fide shit storm.

As I stood before the toilet, passing water, I noticed a brown stain marring the bowl. Ah, yet another unnecessary gesture from my flatmate. But it is Sunday morning. No need to escalate things. After all, it is not on the seat; it’s in the bowl. One thing was very strange about the stain: it was at the front end of the bowl, not towards the back where one would expect according to the principles of anatomy and physics. I did not want to think about it too much, so I just took it cum grano salis and went about my business in stride. No big deal. But, I am not cleaning it.

Admittedly, the stain disgusted me. But, denial only made things worst in the next stage of progression. As I was reaching to pump soup from the dispenser sitting on top of the sink, I could not help but to notice brown stuff smeared on it. There was a voice inside my head that said “this cannot be happening.” As I studied the stuff, I wanted to believe that it was just mud. I turned on the sink, and was met with a terrible slipperiness that no one deserves to experience. I looked at my hand, and low and behold, the same brown stuff was smeared onto my hand. It was at this moment that my olfactory senses kicked into gear, making it perfectly clear that what I have in hand is 100% genuine shit.

I panicked: I just touched my flatmate’s feces. With heart rate elevated, I stood immobilized with disgust for about thirty seconds. What am I supposed to do?! This may be a two person flat, but I never anticipated things to get this intimate. This is simply unacceptable. But even more importantly, I need to get this “mud” off of me!

I used my soiled hand to turn off the tap, and with the other hand, turned on the tub’s faucet. I carefully managed to get soap from the dispenser without touching the crap on it and proceeded to wash my hands in the tub. I wanted to stay away from the sink. I ran to my room, shut the door, and proceeded to use ample quantities of hand sanitizer.

All I wanted was a normal beginning of the day – not one as excitatory as the one that had just come to pass. If my flatmate would clean-up the mess before he realized what I had just seen and experienced, I would not mention any of it at all to him. This did not happen. He proceeded to use the bathroom as if nothing was wrong.

Even if what I had touched earlier were my own feces, I would not allow the stuff to just sit there. It must be removed and sanitized. The moron has no idea that he has just cooked up the ripest conditions to spread an oral fecal disease of some sort. This changes everything.

While I had always suspected that he is not keen on cleanliness – not that I am the champion of neatness, but I do have my sensibilities for hygiene – I am now going to make sure that he does not use my stuff ever in the kitchen.

I am so thoroughly disgusted. Time to write a note to the flatmate.

___

Post note:

Upon returning to the flat, I was met with an extremely apologetic flatmate. To his chagrin, he told me that he was so drunk that he missed the toilet all together. He assured me that he had decontaminated the bathroom and admitted that what had happened is disgusting and that he is sorry for what he had done. I was relieved that there is finally resolve to this problem. I promised him that I will not hold this against him, and that I will willfully forget that it ever happened.

I survived this...luckily smells don't emanate from computer monitors, yet. 

Reinventing Leftovers with Reggae Reggae Sauce:

The Makings of Seared “Jerked” Pork Chops, with Spicy Roasted Vegetable Pilaf
1 November, 2009, Cambridge, UK



I had a bunch of roasted root vegetables that I was getting tired of eating, day after day. They are relics of an, otherwise, wonderful side that accompanied a roasted chicken I had about a fortnight ago. They include roasted potatoes, rutabaga (what is called “swede” in the British vernacular), parsnips, and carrots. I’ve stretched my imagination on how to “extend” the life of them, having made home fries, vegetarian hash, omelets, and frittatas. As I ran out of ideas on how to reinvent the damned things, it became clear that they were at the end of the plank.

Right before I pushed them into the freezer, I decided to see the extent to which Reggae Reggae Sauce* can, to use their slogan, “put some music in [my] food.” Here’s how the experiment went, and it took 15 minutes of prep time, marinating/thawing overnight, and about 35-40 minutes to cook, of which most of it consists of waiting, and no participation.

I marinated two frozen pork chops with the sauce – just poured enough to coat each one on both sides, and left it in the fridge overnight to defrost and marinate.

At hand, just lying around the fridge, I had ½ a yellow bell pepper, a scotch bonnet pepper, and ½ an onion; I diced these finely. I also defrosted the remaining cup and a half of roasted vegetables in the microwave. Poured 1 ½ cups of long grain rice, got 3 cups of water heated in a water boiler.

Scraping the marinade off of the pork chops, and patting them dry, reserving the marinade on the side, I heated about 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a milk pan, on high, and seared the pork chops for about 4 minutes per side. I set these aside on a plate to continue cooking on top of the rice later on. With the remaining oil in the pan, I put my chopped onions and peppers into the pan, and browned these, then added the rice to coat and slightly toast the rice for about 5 minutes, then fortifying it with about 1 tablespoon of chicken base that I had made earlier (reduced 5 cups of chicken stock, that I made from the roast chicken, down to ½ a cup). While toasting the rice, I had poured boiling into the vessel containing the leftover marinade, and poured it directly onto the rice. Then I added the roasted vegetables. Stirred everything together; got everything to a rapid boil, and then covered the pan and reduced it to a medium boil. I continued to cook this for about 20 minutes. Placing the seared pork chops on top of the cooking rice, I reduced the heat to the lowest setting, and cooked everything for about another 8 minutes before turning off the heat.

Removing the meat from the rice, I let them rest for about 5 minutes. While waiting, I fluffed the rice and let it cool down to a safe-temperature to eat. I then thinly sliced the pork chops, which were quite juicy, and then dressed them with 1 ½ tsp of chili oil, and about 1 tablespoon of Reggae Reggae Sauce. I spooned some of the pilaf onto a plate and top with some of the meat, and topped it off with some hot sauce. This was tasty, and I ended up eating more of it than I should.

*Reggae Reggae Sauce is a Jamaican jerk sauce. It is dark brown, malty in its flavor, slightly sweet, and mildly acidic, with a viscosity of loose ketchup, but with a bit more texture. The flavor is complex, almost like Worcestershire sauce, but with a sweetness similar, but less pronounced as Bulldog brand tonkatsu sauce from Japan, or HP brand British Brown Sauce, only with a stronger bouquet from the herbs and spices of Jerk seasoning.

An Unfriendly Swap: Formal Hall Gone Awry at Downing College

31 October, 2009

On the eve of All Hallow’s Eve, Peterhouse’s MCR went to Downing College’s Formal Hall. Though it was Halloween themed, NO ONE from Downing was wearing their academic gown. This is an amusing observation from my perspective as a Petrean: if not other Petreans, then the Porter, would chide a Petrean who dares show up to Formal Hall without his/her gowns.

This aside, the hall at Downing was very pleasant, reminiscent of the Rotunda of the American Museum of Natural History, both in terms of its color scheme – warm beige marble columns, scalloped and rectangular wave-like trim across the top of the Hall, with gilded highlights throughout. The hall speaks of grandness, but in the language of the gilded age, which would be appropriate for the relative youthfulness of the college, which was founded in 1800; Cambridge was founded c. 1209, Peterhouse in 1284.

I got lost within Downing’s gianormous campus. As a result, I was late and the first course was already being served by the time I entered Formal Hall. There was a fair representation of witches, devils, crazies (in straight jackets or Hannibal Lector-esque attire) and a fair number of people in US Air Force pilot outfits (apparently, it’s “awesome” to dress up like Americans, says one of the Brits wearing these outfits) in Hall. Petreans were definitely the best-dressed group – we had a few witches, and our MCR president had an orange cone for his hat. But for the most part, including myself, it looked as if Petreans decided to be Wall Streeters for this Formal Hall – we mostly wore suits and button-down shirts.

Dinner was strange. The first course was a mildly spicy tomato soup with an herbed scone. The latter was more interesting, both in terms of flavour and texture, than the former. The main course was a steak, topped with fried whitebait; the fish were better than the steak, which was medium-well, but too tough to be enjoyable. The sauce for the main course was a green, reminiscent of Slimer’s ectoplasm form the Ghost Busters. When the sauce was brought to our table, we had to ask the server what it was, and whether the right sauce was provided for our meal: no one would expect a turbid green sauce for their steaks, at least not outside of Downing. The server, himself, did not know what it was. He had to run to the kitchen to find out what it is – a garlic-parsley gravy, which tasted neither of garlic or parsley; more like a mildly wet, and insipid gravy that not only did not have any character outside of its ectoplasmic green-ness, but did not add anything, not even a noticeable difference in the moisture in my steak. Desert was the best course, though certainly not as good as what I would expect: pumpkin pie; though we had pumpkin tarts, a la mode, this evening. Turns out, pumpkin pie is the traditional Halloween dish. Downing’s was too eggy: I wanted a lighter, smoother, more pumpkiny tart.

Then came the after-the-dinner port, which was tightly rationed by a member of the Downing MCR. Petreans have no inhibitions about finishing port. At Downing, getting a second serving warrants a verbal reprimand. When I asked for another glass, a member of the Downing MCR unjokingly said “You know, I really shouldn’t be doing this.” I gave a cheeky smile, which communicated enough to get me the second glass anyway. With these sensibilities, one can only begin to imagine why, amongst other reasons, the Downing High Table was conspicuously empty, though Hall was packed to the gills.

                                topped with green ectoplasm sauce....

All things considered, the point of Formal Hall is not entirely about eating well. If one makes the mistake of thinking that it is purely a gustatory function, one misses the fact that Formal Hall is about enjoying oneself amongst fellow Cantabrigians and guests. Moreover, I also have the goal to go to every Cambridge college’s Formal Hall before I graduate. Hence, going to Downing was not disappointing. However, the point of this being a Formal Hall Swap was lost: the Downing MCR largely kept to themselves, and did not even bother to talk to or sit with the Peterhouse MCR. Apparently, their understanding is that an MCR swap is merely a change of setting for their guests from the other colleges – not an opportunity to chat with other Cantabrigians. Fortunately, there are 29 other Formal Halls to go to. So, stay tuned for more: the Formal Hall swap with Christ College is next.