This is one of the saddest blog posts I've had to write in awhile (and yes, that includes the recent one about being three months clean and full of so many emotions).
I was betrayed by my beloved nachos.
You readers, are aware of my love of nachos. I was so sad when Finland was pitifully devoid of one of my favorite snacks. Really, things were not cool. Though that nacho burger from Hesburger was pretty awesome. But I digress.
American J was visiting for the weekend so we assembled the Iceland crew for a reunion: Actor, Nonsequitor, Two, and Olive. We all gathered at Actor and Nonsequitor's house for an indoor picnic before being kicked out because both had to go to church.
Seeing as how it stays light outside now until about 10:30pm (it's awesome), we decided to make use of the day and...watch both FIFA soccer games in pubs. Such a great use of the outdoor light. It was the Netherlands vs. Mexico first then Greece vs. Costa Rica.
We went to a pub near Canary Wharf for the first one, then a pub near Oxford Circus for the second. The second is where we finally sat down and ordered some dinner food. I got pulled pork nachos (what else would I have chosen on the menu when their salad was strangely all sold out?) and shared it with American J, who also ordered us a beef roast.
The nachos came and looked something like this (I didn't take an actual photo, this is just an internet facsimile):
Large amount of pulled pork with sweet bbq sauce piled on top, vague corn chips that already had some spices on them, sliced pickled jalapenos, some sort of mature cheddar cheese that had been sprinkled and melted, three little dipping bowls full of guacamole, cooked salsa (hmph), and something resembling sour cream.
I was happy; it'd been awhile since I had nachos (it probably wasn't that long ago but offhand I can't remember...sure seems like a long time).
I dug in. Like literally dug in. I was eating just nachos (e.g. not the roast) for a solid half an hour or more. I love nachos, I really do.
Especially when the entertainment is not living up to its reputation. I was rooting for Greece (I have several Greek friends and have no special ties to Costa Rica) and no one was scoring. Like not at all. It was one of the dullest FIFA games I've ever seen. First half and then eventual call for overtime was sort of like torture. No one was making moves and everyone kept missing. Too much defense, not enough action.
Anyway I polished off those nachos and we eventually all decided it was time to call it quits. American J and I headed back on the tube and even walked home from Ealing Broadway, it was such a pleasantly warm night. I felt fine, if a little full, from all the food we'd eaten that day (breakfast at Cafe Oink, full indoor picnic, extreme nachos and roast for dinner...not to mention several beers).
We got ready and collapsed into bed; it had been a long day.
Sometime around 2am though, I was woken up by extreme stomach pains. I tried to ignore it (my usual MO for when I wake up with any kind of pain...just try to go back to sleep and it'll go away on its own), but it was persistent. I had no idea what was going to happen; not like I felt particularly nauseous or needing to relieve myself. It just really really hurt.
And strangely sitting, squatting, and standing all felt better than laying down. Haven't had that before.
So I lived in the bathroom for a few hours, trying to figure out what to do about it. I took my emergency purse-dose of pepto bismol and prayed that it would work its magic quickly.
It didn't. The vomiting started soon afterwards.
Strangely this didn't make me feel any better. Just squatting and sitting did. I tried it a few times, just sitting up in bed, but eventually I would get tired and lay down. Only to be reawakened to the pain I thought had quieted.
By this time it started to get light outside and at some point the pain did go away enough for me to fall asleep. I slept until about 8:30am when the construction across the hall started. OMG shut up drill I hate you so much right now.
Needless to say I took a sick day and saw American J off.
I later messaged Olive and Two and inquired whether or not they had felt okay after the food. American J had said she felt queasy but this was not an unusual thing for her.
Turns out Olive had a horrible night the night after mine, American J quickly following suit (and unfortunately on her delayed plane ride back to San Diego). I can only imagine what it is like having that kind of pain and sitting in a plane that has sat on the runway for an extra hour and a half longer than it should have. My god.
Needless to say, we blame the nachos. It's the only thing everyone shared (minus Two, who was fine).
Beloved nachos, noooo! How could you do this to me?! Clearly that place (Shakespeare's Head) near Oxford Circus has been put on the black list for us. No more going there. Like ever.
...to be honest this hasn't really put me off of nachos. I still love them and will continue to love them. My love for them is too deep. In sickness and in health...
But I am starting to come to the conclusion that Britain really doesn't do nachos. Really. They're all decent versions but...sigh, there's just something so not right about them here. Perhaps I will need to only eat nachos in America. Where it's likely I will not get sick. At least not from anything other than overeating.
Nachos how could you!?!
It's okay I forgive you.