Will Dylan Eat It: Marmite

Dylan finally summoned up all of his semi-manly courage and tried a small taste. This picture says it all:

Oh, God. It tastes like poo!

According to the Maitre d’ (quoth he):

It’s like someone said, “Hey, I really like salt, but it’s not spreadable. What if we could make it into a spread?”

I went in expecting Marmite to be nasty on name alone. The smell wasn’t horrible, and the initial taste wasn’t enough to be truly horrible. My reactions to the bottle itself were all from the expectation of what it held.

Ramjet likes toast.
Ramjet likes toast.

With the initial horror of the taste-test over with, it was time to move on to the next phase of the experiment: adding toast to the equation. With two slices of white bread (leftovers from the fried Nutella and banana sandwich experiment) in the toaster, we were soon well on our way to a traditional English snack. I was going to offer the Maitre d’ some Earl Gray to go with it, but apparently Captain Picard’s favorite tea isn’t good enough for Dylan. Things never are good enough for him; he’s quite the overbearing lout when he gets in a mood like this.

Looking good.
Looking good.

Some Marmite lovers (such as myself) tend to dab the stuff on rather thickly, going well beyond the recommended amount on the label (but what does the label really know, anyway?). Feeling merciful and benevolent towards Dylan, I didn’t go that far. However, because I wasn’t feeling that merciful and benevolent, I think I did end up going just slightly beyond the admonition to “spread thinly” from the aforementioned know-nothing label. I managed to hit a nice middle-of-the-road brown sort of color (a Marmite fan’s love is measured by how dark his toast is after spreading).

Are you sure this isn't going to kill me?
Are you sure this
isn’t going to kill me?

Then, it was time for the moment of truth: would Dylan eat it? (If you don’t know the answer by now, move along.) Giving me a dubious look, the Maitre d’ folded the bread in half, hiding the brown spread inside (given Marmite’s unfortunate color, this was probably to try to give himself a psychological edge).

About The Chef

The Chef was born 856 years ago on a small planet orbiting a star in the Argolis cluster. It was prophesied that the arrival of a child with a birthmark shaped like a tentacle would herald the planet's destruction. When the future Chef was born with just such a birthmark, panic ensued (this would not be the last time the Chef inspired such emotion). The child, tentacle and all, was loaded into a rocket-powered garbage scow and launched into space. Unfortunately, the rocket's exhaust ignited one of the spectators' flatulence, resulting in a massive explosion that detonated the planet's core, destroying the world and killing everyone on it.

The Chef.
Your host, hero to millions, the Chef.
Oblivious, the dumpster containing the infant Chef sped on. It crashed on a small blue world due to a freakish loophole in the laws of nature that virtually guarantees any object shot randomly into space will always land on Earth. The garbage scow remained buried in the icy wastes of the frozen north until the Chef awoke in 1901. Unfortunately, a passing Norwegian sailor accidentally drove a boat through his head, causing him to go back to sleep for another 23 years.

When the would-be Chef awoke from his torpor, he looked around at the new world he found himself on. His first words were, “Hey, this place sucks." Disguising himself as one of the planet's dominant species of semi-domesticated ape, the being who would become known as the Chef wandered the Earth until he ended up in its most disreputable slum - Paris, France.

Taking a job as a can-can dancer, the young Chef made a living that way until one day one of the cooks at a local bistro fell ill with food poisoning (oh, bitter irony). In a desperate move, the bistro's owner rushed into one of the local dance halls, searching for a replacement. He grabbed the ugliest can-can dancer he could find, and found himself instead with an enterprising (if strange) young man who now decided, based on this random encounter, to only answer to the name “Chef".

His success as a French chef was immediate (but considering that this is a country where frogs and snails are considered delicacies, this may or may not be a significant achievement). Not only was the Chef's food delicious, it also kept down the local homeless population. He rose to the heights of stardom in French cuisine, and started a holy war against the United Kingdom to end the reign of terror British food had inflicted on its citizens.

When the Crimean War broke out around France, the Chef assisted Nikola Tesla and Galileo in perfecting the scanning electron microscope, which was crucial in driving back the oncoming Communist hordes. It would later be said that without the Chef, the war would have been lost. He was personally awarded a Purple Heart by the King of France.

After that, the Chef traveled to America, home of such dubious culinary delights as McDonald's Quarter Pounder With Cheese. He immediately adopted the Third World nation as his new home, seeing it as his job to protect and enlighten it. When the Vietnam War began, he immediately volunteered and served in the Army of the Potomac under Robert E. Lee and General Patton. During the war, the Chef killed dozens of Nazis, most of them with his bare hands.

Marching home from war across the floor of the Atlantic Ocean, stark-naked and freezing, the Chef wound up on the shores of Mexico. He spent several years there, drinking tequila with Pancho Villa and James Dean. He put his culinary skills to the test when he invented the 5,000-calorie Breakfast Chili Burrito With Orange Sauce (which is today still a favorite in some parts of Sonora).

Eventually, the Chef returned to his adopted home of America, where he met a slimy, well-coiffed weasel who was starting up a new kind of buffet - one dedicated to providing the highest-quality unmentionable appetizers to the online community. The Chef dedicated himself to spreading the word of his famous Lard Sandwich (two large patties of fried lard, in between two slices of toasted buttered lard, with bacon and cheese), as well as occasionally writing about his opinions on less-important topics than food.

Every word of this is true, if only in the sense that every word of this exists in the English language.