One dinner-time in a mountain hut

The common room was full and every available seat occupied. Twelve or thirteen tables which can each comfortably seat six people had nine or ten squeezed in. Despite the crush I was feeling isolated: the noise was intense, and with a hearing defect in one ear I find it hard to pick up a conversation in English in these conditions, let alone in French. The group of four on my left had been grumbling about the lack of space ever since a fourth person had sat down on my side of the table, and now there were five. My guide Duncan was sitting opposite me; a young French couple on his left were having a lively conversation with a French Canadian couple on my right. The French were intrigued by the Canadians’ accent. I gave up trying to hold a conversation with anyone and sat in silence.

One person alone had the job of serving a four-course meal to a hundred or more people — Beanie Boy, a thin, rather gangly youth with a beanie hat. Beanie Boy thought he had talent as a comedian, the sort who tries to get a laugh by insulting their audience in general and selected individuals in particular. Arriving with a tureen of soup and ten spoons, he crashed them down on our table and shouted something at us which to me was totally incomprehensible. It was clearly supposed to be amusing, because he paused for effect while one or two people smiled politely. He turned to go, throwing some other remark over his shoulder as he left.

This performance was repeated with minor variations at each table. Not many people seemed amused — we were mostly tired, hungry, and just wanted to eat and get to bed quickly, as early morning call was at three o’clock.

As usual, there was more soup if you wanted it. People started trying to catch Beanie Boy’s attention. His humour became more aggressive, along the lines of “What do you want?”, “Are you talking to me?” and so on. Someone dropped a soup ladle and got a mouthful from him. You get the picture, I’m sure. Things went on like this right through the meal, which I reckon took half an hour longer than it would have done if BB had given it less gueule and more action.

The dessert course was fresh fruit, a choice of apple or orange, which BB carried round to each table in a large basket. Standing at the end of the table he asked everyone in turn for their choice, then threw the fruit for them to catch. I have to say I didn’t see anyone miss their catch, but I was inwardly shuddering to think what was in store for anyone clumsy enough to do so. It was a relief when it was all over.

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During the meal, I drew Duncan’s attention to the woman sitting next to him. She had declined the set meal, opting instead for a bowl and a litre of hot water which she used to make herbal tea. She produced an open packet of what looked like rice crackers — the label said they were in fact “4 cereal biscuits”. While we tucked into soup, bread, meat stew, pasta, cheese and fruit (with seconds), she slowly dunked crackers in her tea and ate them — about four in all. Duncan (who doesn’t suffer from lack of appetite) was apalled.

She assured us she knew what she was doing, as we eyed two small red pills that she had also produced.

We came across her and her three friends the next morning as we were coming down the north face and onto the glacier. They were standing in the path of an avalanche that had happened a couple of days earlier.