by DBC Pierre
Perhaps also a pining for home, my teeming isles, for fish and chips, a pint of ale, and a game of darts. Ah, this limbo.
After repacking my bag with new contents, I leave the Marius with Thomas and hurry to the airside tunnel. Chugs from a generator meet me at the tunnel mouth, and a scent of kerosene haunts the air. I see the jet sitting open and glowing inside, frosty patterns grown on its wings. A second jet now sits behind it, and a man stands on the tarmac nearby. He seems familiar, and I tag him as one of Didier’s crew. I linger by the tunnel mouth till Gottfried steps from the dark. The sentry sees him and nods, obviously taking me in my cape for a member of the event crew. I hand Gottfried the bag and he opens it to look inside, angling it to a nearby light.
“What time will they start engines?” he hisses.
“Eleven-fifty precisely. Is the timer accurate?”
“Of course! I built it myself. I’ll set it for eleven-forty, I don’t want any ground crew around.” After fumbling for a few moments in the bag, he pauses to click his tongue: “I’ll miss that early-morning cigar. And just wait and see Specht squeal like a little girl about his sixty-euro box. I bet you a brandy he does.”
“All in a good cause. Sure you won’t be at risk?”
“I’ll be here at eleven-thirty to see that nobody enters the plane. I don’t expect a problem, guests are flying themselves so they’ll have a contract pilot to run checks and start up. I can give him a schedule change. Apart from that every risk is worth taking. Firstly, it’s open ground, and the mess will mostly stay in the plane. Secondly, I’m unemployed after this weekend—everyone is, after many years, so we’re not happy. My comrades won’t shed tears over this. Thirdly, I’m not actually doing anything—you are.” He hands me the bag and points to the open jet: “Inside to the left you’ll find a storage hatch. Thank God it won’t be airborne, then we’d really have a show.”
He waves to the sentry, and I realize as I cross the apron that this will have looked like a routine security check by airport staff. Now I understand Gottfried’s choice of uniform, as sure enough the sentry waves me aboard.
When I step out I see Gottfried watching from across the apron, nodding to himself, wetness glistening around his mouth. I hurry back past him and hear him softly growl: “A little souvenir from Berlin. A memento from old Kreuzberg, and maybe tonight they have to catch the subway home with the rest of humanity.”
Western Fanshell Mussel Soufflé
with Black Rhino Horn
INGREDIENTS
5 garlic cloves, finely minced
6 cups good Puligny-Montrachet
12 shallots
bunch chopped parsley
28 fresh western fanshell mussels
50ml olive oil
350ml double cream
50g black rhino horn, powdered, with
occasional polished chips
SOUFFLÉ BASE
6 egg yolks
10 egg whites
350ml milk
8 tbsp unsalted butter
pinch of cornstarch
pinch of salt
Add 8 shallots, all of the garlic, and 2 cups of the wine to a sauté pan and reduce. Set the reduction aside and sauté the remaining shallots with the mussels and 4 cups of wine before straining both liquids and setting aside. Retrieve and clean the mussels, finely chop, and also set aside.
For the soufflé batter, bring the milk and butter to a boil, add the flour, and cook until stiff. Reduce heat and cook for another 5–7 minutes, until the batter is smooth and shiny. Mix slowly in a mixer until cool, then beat in each egg yolk individually while folding in the shallots and mussels.
For the sauce, reduce the reserved mussel liquids by half, then add cream and further reduce until thick.
To complete, heat an oven to 190°C, beat egg whites until stiff, and fold into warmed soufflé batter. Bake in cups for 25 minutes. Serve fresh from the oven, adding the sauce and sprinkling the soufflé crowns with powdered rhino horn.
SERVES 7. BON APPÉTIT!
EIGHT O'CLOCK
Peering through the curtain, I see maidens lined up wearing dresses styled after wartime. Cheeky girls, rudely alive, bouncing, fidgeting. I briefly ponder what it is that bends a person toward such vitality. I suppose there was the child who snuck a finger beneath bedclothes to fetch a secret swipe; and others who held undergarments at a full arm’s length, turning their faces in disgust.
The former line up here, then, behind the table.
An organ-grinder emerges with a monkey in a uniform of blue and gold, who jumps onto the table and removes his pillbox hat. Tiny envelopes tumble out, and as the soup course is cleared, the monkey pigeon-toes up and down the table handing one to each guest, frowning and twitching in that deranged, strangely familiar way of apes, who after all are cousins, little mirrors sent by nature to lampoon us. The envelopes contain cards printed each with the pattern of a maiden’s dress. Quaffing wine, the guests search out their girl and hold up the card to call her over.
The bookkeeper and I step aside as dishes pass out—some barely touched, with tiny breasts and drumsticks inside—while waiters pass through with a bell-like oven full of perfect soufflés. A portly guest calls for a boy instead of a maiden, and after a moment a boy slips off a bathrobe behind us and passes through the curtain, shining white like silver birch. His eyes are pale and set wide apart, his nose small, lips long and full on a blank face. There’s a seedy beauty about him, a gyroscopic elegance to his gait that shows him to be a creature whose boyhood has sailed over the apex of gender into something neither female nor male. On top of this, in the way he averts his gaze, in the sticky languor of his smile, he seems to advance a taste of himself, and this doesn’t escape the guest, who mouths him hungrily when he arrives.
Sturdy dwarves follow bearing a miniature litter with a pagoda roof where live songbirds cling or perch around the gutters. On a velvet cushion lies the tiniest, most delicate and translucent Oriental woman the world can have ever seen. She lies on her side, naked, one leg drawn up beside the other, and all around her are instruments for the enjoyment of opium and fine cigars. Fingers reach out to touch her skin as she passes, or to slide between her perfect red lips, just deeply enough to be warmed and wet. By now the back of the room is obscured in a haze, and moving figures can no longer be seen in detail, though I can see certain boys or maidens go down on their hosts with tongues, while others drip honey into mouths from their fingers, or pass lilies and jasmine under noses, or have fingers dipped into themselves. Smoke plumes into a ceiling of cloud, making the space even more magical, distancing arches from each other, softening light and shade, muting color till the scene is a centuries-old bacchanal.
I observe the men’s natures: after being hand-fed in various ways, some grope their maidens, whispering deals to possess them, others simply command them like whores. The eldest suffers a gasping orgasm at the table and hurriedly calls for cocaine. After the soufflé course, their moods upholstered by wine, they lean into alliances with each other, chuckling, trading maidens, inevitably falling into debauch.
The next course arrives with younger, darker-skinned maidens, and trays of rare fluids in glasses. With this the Basque makes his first appearance, encased in a shiny tailcoat, wearing the half-mask of a cat. A cheer rings out and he takes a deep bow.
With attention thus drawn from my curtain, I see another man enter without fanfare. Not decadently dressed but in a comfortable black suit and open collar. He moves to the fountain, takes up a goblet, skims it full of wine. After a taste he throws it back, filling again from the spout. Something sets him apart from the guests, he’s not of their type—yet he enjoys the run of the salon. I study him for clues. Sandy-haired, lightly bearded, maybe nearing sixty; he’s a man who observes, a neutral player here, but one whose neutrality safekeeps something, whose gaze c
hallenges for credentials.
I’m spellbound at the curtain.
Here they are—the shadowy forces.
The shadowy forces, a stranger beside the fountain of Marius.
And a sphinx lying in wait.
Olive Ridley Turtle Necks in
Parmesan and Brioche Crumbs
with Celeriac Remoulade
INGREDIENTS FOR TURLE NECKS
7 Olive Ridley turtle necks
½ loaf of brioche
(day-old, crust off, dry in slices)
160g grated Parmesan
INGREDIENTS FOR REMOULADE
2 whole eggs
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp pepper
50ml vinegar
¾ tsp Dijon mustard
340ml vegetable oil
INGREDIENTS FOR SEASONING GARNISH
1½ tsp chopped onion
15g chopped cornichons
5g anchovy, diced
1 hard-boiled egg, finely chopped
¼ head of celeriac, shredded
10g parsley
salt and pepper
Purée brioche and Parmesan until smooth, adjusting the Parmesan to taste before setting aside. In a robot coupe, mix eggs with vinegar, salt, pepper, and mustard. Add the oil a little at a time to fully incorporate until it’s as thick as double cream. Add anchovies, cornichons, chopped onion, chopped hard-boiled egg, celeriac, and chopped parsley. Consistency should be very thick, the flavor full and robust. Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper.
Finally, crumb the necks in brioche and parmesan mix and deep-fry until golden brown. Serve with the sauce and garnish with fried Italian parsley.
SERVES 7. BON APPÉTIT!
NINE O'CLOCK
An extraordinary amusement makes the salon hush before the next course. Through the door I see the tail of an enormous snake appear, borne by a kitchen hand. More of the snake slides in with two more carriers, then another two, and another two, until finally a chef appears with the head of an anaconda. The porters move under the arches like pallbearers, pulling it over the table till it spans the whole length and droops to the floor at each end. A massive lump at the midsection, many times the girth of the head, suggests another creature might lie inside. Nature shows off an artwork on the skin, exquisite gold and chocolate ribs, rounded and serifed in a deco style with orbs seeming to peer from between them. To think, for all this display, which must have taken some time—nature forgot to give the creature empathy, or even legs.
It has made a rug that kills by strangulation.
One of the bearers stands at the head to announce: “For tonight’s first amusement, a special adventure: this, the largest of all serpents, was flown today from its jungle lair. But we won’t be eating it. Rather, what we have before us is the most precise tenderizer of meats the world has ever known. Our only question—what was its last meal? It’s an adventure, and we hope you will commit, sight unseen, to savor whatever specialties emerge.” He sweeps up an arm: “Monsieur le chef!”
Chef takes the snake’s head and, on a count of three, bearers heave the animal onto its back, showing ivory articulations that gleam in the light. With a quick sawing motion Chef pulls the knife clean through its flesh.
“Ah,” he says, “there’s something here.”
He rolls up his sleeves and thrusts his arms in up to his elbows, rummaging and scowling to one side. And finally he bends in, scooping deep with his hands.
And hoists out a perfect human baby.
I flinch, feeling the salon recoil as one being. But after a moment a hot breath finds my ear from below: “It’s only pork and veal,” hisses the bookkeeper, “with lobster eyes—we do it every time, bankers love it.” After this he takes my shoulder and points me to the door, where apparently I have a caller.
“Slight concern.” It’s Thomas. “Some girl is down here, not attached to the event—small, with dark hair. Strange because it’s after-hours. Would she have her own key?”
“She’s terminal staff, they have a temporary store by the stairs.”
He points me up the tunnel to find her and I set off, billowing in my cape. There’s no sign of Anna around the stairwell, nor in the store. I poke around a bit more, and eventually see light softly glowing from a recess in the tunnel wall ahead. Approaching, I see that it’s being used as a temporary storage area, stacked with cages and crates; at the sound of my steps, something moves.
“Pff—you frightened me,” hisses Anna.
“What are you doing? Be careful,” I say.
“God, you look like Dracula. Look down here, how cruel.” She crouches to a box punched with holes. Inside stands a very fine little creature, perhaps some rare savanna deer or miniature gazelle, scratching around, squeaking.
“What is all this?” She squeezes my wrist. “It’s horrible, and look over there—something’s in that one, you can hear it moving. Who are these people, what’s going on, it’s like a zoo down here—they can’t be making movies at night?”
“I’m sure it’s all fine, they won’t be here long—probably best if I walk you up, get some fresh air. Is the wagon still open? We could grab some coffee.”
“Coffee? While these poor things are here like this? Look, he doesn’t even have water, it’s unbelievable. I’m going up to get water, and maybe they can give me some fruit or bread. My poor babies—keep watch until I come back.”
No sooner has Anna gone than voices approach up the tunnel with a squeak of struggling trolley wheels and sundry clangs, knocks, and rattles.
“What the hell do they eat to get this heavy?” grunts a man.
“Just grass, I guess, or who knows.” It’s Thomas’s voice. “Call for some help, though, we’re running late—he needs to be on his feet by ten forty-five, and to the butcher truck by eleven-ten, it’s our pièce de résistance—we can’t mess it up.”
“Big rush for something that lived a hundred years already.”
I hurry down the tunnel to meet Thomas, heart racing when I see the massive crate. My stomach starts to heave.
“Look.” Thomas beams. “I bet you never expected this—it was a great idea, we couldn’t believe it. We’re not a hundred percent sure it’s the famous one, they all look the same—but as far as the guests are concerned it will be. The single rarest creature on earth, the last of its kind. A real coup.”
I stand shaking my head. Between slats in the crate a wise but frightened old eye looks out, catching the light.
A giant tortoise’s eye.
“Incredible, eh? And easier than expected—environmentalists have killed the native fishing industry by declaring everything off limits, you can barely swat a fly in the Galápagos. Which meant plenty of helping hands amongst the fishermen. Apparently these are very edible, you can use every part of them. We’re tempura-battering some brain with a sea-urchin salad for the surprise course. But I’m gambling we could walk him into the salon first, guests should see him alive.”
The odyssey unveils a new cone, a new point, a new end-play to deal with. My mind races, listening for Anna’s footsteps to return. “Are you wheeling him up with the other animals? Because the girl will be back in a minute.”
“Eh? Keep her out—call security if you have to.”
Golden Lion Tamarin Monkey Brain &
Blue Cheese Ravioli
with Champagne Zabaglione &
White Alba Truffle
INGREDIENTS FOR RAVIOLI
1 Golden Lion Tamarin monkey brain
500g ravioli pastry
100g cave-aged societé Roquefort, cold
2 egg whites
INGREDIENTS FOR ZABAGLIONE
1 tbsp hollandaise
2 tbsp fish velouté
2 tbsp champagne
1
tbsp lightly whipped cream
White Alba truffle to shave
Remove the monkey brain fresh and slice into 7 equal rounds. Discard the carcass. Slice cheese into small enough slivers to cover half of each brain portion, then cut pasta into cup-sized rounds, brushing the edges with an egg-white wash. Nestle a brain portion with blue cheese into the middle of each circle and place a pasta lid on top, squeezing toward the edge with good pressure. Individually blanch the ravioli (very quickly) in rapid boiling water, then refresh in iced water with a few drops of olive oil.
For the sauce, add the champagne to a pot and reduce by half. Add velouté and bring to a boil before removing from heat, quickly adding cream and following with hollandaise. Buzz the mixture with a stem blender until a light, frothy zabaglione appears.
Garnish the ravioli with sauce and finish with truffle shavings.
SERVES 7. BON APPÉTIT!
TEN O'CLOCK
Tangles approach on a number of fronts. The guests are pigs, and now Thomas and Didier are set apart from me by their menu; set apart in the way a favorite dog is set apart by gobbling shit.
The situation is volatile. I run down the airside tunnel to see if Gottfried is there, maybe he can decoy Anna for a while. But there’s no sign of him around the apron; and when I see the jet I find it has two uniformed pilots attached to it, one visible through the cockpit window. Running back up the tunnel, I turn my mind to the tortoise, who has barely an hour to live. But there’s nothing I can do, the evening’s machinery is ruthlessly engaged.
I burst around the corner into the bahn tunnel and bolt past the salon door toward the stairwell. Too late. Anna steps from the stairway with a paper bag and two bowls, on a collision course for Lonesome George. I watch her shadow glide close to the trolley and stiffen, halting on the wall like a stain.
