When I first came to the U.S. of A., I was in a relationship with a
professional chef, whose expertise was in nouvelle cuisine, with a
Mediterranean bent. Occasionally, I would cook for him, and he loved the
taste of SouthEast Asian food.

One day,he presented me with a cake of blachan that he had bought in
Chinatown.

I put it in the fridge, and didn't think about it as I was busy working
and going to school. Come August, the fridge broke down. I called the
landlord, he said he would come over and fix the fridge or replace it.

Well, I had completely forgotten about the blachan (in those days, I
didn't have the common sense to double-bag it or put it in a sealed
Tupperware container), and of course, in the heat (it was 90F for days,
at that point), it began to smell. I, of course, being used to the smell,
didn't really notice it. Besides, it was in the kitchen of my apartment,
which I didn't use very much, preferring the partner's professional-type
kitchen for my cooking endeavours.

The landlord came over, I let him in, and he was working on the fridge,
when suddenly, he comes out, looks at me, and says, "I think there's a
dead rat under the fridge."

At that point, I remembered the blachan, and said, "Oh, no, that's
something we cook with back home."

I swear, he turned green. He didn't say another word, but left soon after
and had his workers bring in a new fridge.

I retrieved the blachan (it doesn't rot, right?) and took it over to the
partner's house. He threw it out without telling me, because it was
making all his foo-foo French food too stinky for his taste. %^D

sq, "still laughing about it"