by Chris Bunch
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THE RETURN OF THE EMPEROR
Raschid's Eggs of Pattipong
Pattipong described them on the menu as Imperial Eggs Benedict. For some reason, the name bothered Raschid. He argued—mildly. Pattipong told him to get back to the kitchen. “Imperial good name. Thailand ... best elephants. Royal Elephants. Or so I hear."
Raschid had made sourdough starter a week or so before—warm water, equal amount of flour, a bit of sugar, and yeast. Cover in a nonmetallic dish and leave until it stinks.
He used that as a base for what were still called English muffins. They were equally easy to make. For about eight muffins, he brought a cup of milk to a boil, then took it off the stove and dumped in a little salt, a teaspoon of sugar, and two cupfuls of premixed biscuit flour. After he beat it all up, he let it rise until double size; then he beat in another cup of flour and let the dough rise once more.
Then open-ended cylinders were half filled with the dough. Raschid did not mention that the short cylinders had been pet food containers with both ends cut off. Even in this district, somebody might get squeamish.
He brushed butter on his medium-hot grill and put the cylinders down. Once the open end had browned for a few seconds, he flipped the cylinder, browned the other side and lifted the cylinder away, burning fingers in the process.
He added more butter and let the muffins get nearly black before putting them on a rack to cool. For use—within no more than four hours—he would split them with a fork and toast them.
He next found the best smoked ham he—or rather Pattipong—could afford. It was thin-sliced and browned in a wine-butter-cumin mixture.
Raschid went back to his recipe. The browned ham was put in a warming oven. He had lemon juice, red pepper, a touch of salt, and three egg yolks waiting in a blender. He melted butter in a small pan. Then his mental timer went on. Muffins toasted ... eggs went into boiling water to poach ... the muffins were ready ... ham went on top of the muffins ... two and a half minutes, exactly, and the eggs were plopped on top of the ham. He flipped the blender on and poured molten butter into the mixture. After the count of twenty, he turned the blender off and poured the hollandaise sauce over the eggs.
"Voila, Sr. Pattipong."
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VORTEX
The Emperor's Bombay Birani
"The theme tonight is India,” the Eternal Emperor said.
The Emperor held up a mound of cubed meat. About two pounds worth, Sten noted. “This is goat,” the Emperor said. “I had a field constructed for him and his brothers and sisters. Had the field planted with the same stuff his ancestors ate in India—mint, wild onion, you name it.” He plunked the mass into an ovenproof casserole.
He started shaking out spices over the lamb. “A little ginger,” he said, shifting to the recipe again. “Ground cloves, cardamom, chili, cumin ... heavier than the others ... couple of squeezes of garlic, and ye olde salt and pepper."
He dumped in some yogurt and lemon juice, and stirred up the whole mess, then set it to the side. He started frying onions in peanut oil.
He dumped half the fried onions on the lamb and mixed it up. He pulled the rice off the range. The water had been boiling for about five minutes. He drained the rice, stirred it up with the onions, and spread it out over the lamb.
"A little butter drizzled on the top,” the Emperor said, “and ... voila! I call this Bombay Birani, but basically it's an old goat stew.” He slammed on a tight-fitting lid, popped the casserole into the oven, and set it for bake.
"Now, I'm going to cheat,” the Emperor said. “The way this is supposed to go is, you set it at 380 degrees. Bake one hour. Then cut it to 325 and go for an hour more."
"But Marr and Senn, bless their souls, have come up with a new oven. Cuts real time half or more. And I can't tell the difference."
* * * *
It was an incredible dinner. Unforgettable. As usual.
There were mounds of food all over the table. Dhal and cucumber cooler. Three kinds of chutney: green mango, Bengal, and hot lime. Real hot lime. Little dishes of extra hot sauces and tiny red peppers. And fresh griddled flat bread—chapatties, the Emperor called them. Plus the Bombay Birani. Fragrant steam rose from the casserole.
"Dig in,” the Emperor said. Sten dug.
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EMPIRE'S END
Sten's Ultimate Steak Sandwich
Sten was rather morosely preparing himself a solitary meal, trying to remind himself that the best revenge is living well. Yet another pastime he had sort of picked up from the Eternal Emperor.
His meal was, by description, a simple Earth sandwich. Its filling would be a rib-eye steak from a steer.
But it may have been the Ultimate Steak Sandwich.
Earlier that day, before the paperwork and Go Higher And Hither orders had a chance to consume him as usual, he'd cut diagonal slices in the three-centimeter piece of meat. The steak went into a marinade—one-third extra-virgin olive oil, two-thirds Guinness—the remarkable dark beer he had been introduced to just before his last face-to-face meeting with the Eternal Emperor—salt, pepper, and a bit of garlic.
Now it was ready for the charbroiler.
He took softened butter, and beat a teaspoon of dried parsley, a teaspoon of tarragon, a teaspoon of thyme, and a teaspoon of oregano into it. He spread the butter on a freshly baked soft roll, foil-wrapped the roll, and put the roll in to warm.
Next he sliced onions. A lot of onions. He sautéed them in butter and paprika. As they started to sizzle, he warmed, in a double broiler, a half liter of sour cream mixed with three tablespoons of horseradish.
Next he'd charbroil the steak just until it stopped moving, slice it on the diagonal, put the meat on the roll, onions on the meat, sour cream on the onions, and commit cholesterolicide.
For a side dish he had thin-sliced garden tomatoes with a vinegar/olive oil/basil/thin-chopped chive dressing and beer.
Marr and Senn's Dinner Party
Sten wiped chicken gore on his apron and took the message from the runner. He scanned it.
"It's official,” he said. “The Zaginows will be here tomorrow night."
Senn fretted. “Not much time."
"It'll do, Senn, dear,” Marr soothed. “Otho's pantry is far better stocked than I imagined. We shouldn't have to cheat too much."
Sten hoisted a cleaver and resumed whacking chicken into parts. “Not that I doubt your abilities,” he said, “but I don't see how you plan a menu for something like this."
"Well ... We want them to be impressed,” Marr said. “So the dinner should reflect on your success. However, we want to do business with these people..."
A claw taloned out of the exquisite softness of Marr's fur. It speared a tomato and plunged it into boiling water. “We want them to like us. We don't want them to think we believe we're better than they are, for heaven's sakes."
Marr lifted the tomato from its hot bath—spun it toward the opposite paw. Where another claw whisked away the skin. Snip. Slide. Just like that. Sten's jaw dropped.
On automatic, Marr speared another tomato and repeated the process. And another tomato was peeled. Snip. Slide. Just like that. “Haute cuisine is definitely out, out, out,” he said.
"It wouldn't do,” Senn agreed. “Not at all.” His wickedly sharp claws were blazing through a stack of yellow onions. Skinning and chopping so deftly, Sten didn't feel the slightest sting in his eyes.
"We've decided on native dishes,” Marr said. “Food one might imagine came from an ordinary being's kitchen. But still a little exotic and daring because it is from someplace else."
"Also, it gives us a theme,” Senn said, disposing of another onion. “A Flag of All Nations sort of theme. It fits with the jumble of beings that make up the Zaginows."
"We like themes,” Marr said.
Sten was only half-listening. He was busy gaping at the Milchens’ skills. They were living k
itchen machines. Full of all kinds of little tricks.
"Great. Great. Themes and all,” Sten said. “But, before you go any further, I have to ask you a question."
"Question away, dear,” Marr said, thunking down the last peeled tomato.
"I can't do onions like Senn...” he said, pointing at the furry little whirlwind, chopping up big mounds of the stuff. “I'm not built for it. But that trick with the tomatoes ... Every time I have to peel tomatoes, I mutilate the suckers. One pound of peel for every ounce of tomato."
"Poor thing,” Marr said.
"You only have to dip them in boiling water,” Senn said in a small—I really, really, don't think you're stupid—voice.
"And he's the leader of us all,” Marr said.
"I did read about it, once,” Sten said, weak. “But I never got around to testing it out."
"There, there, dear,” Senn said. “Of course you didn't."
The kitchen was filled with the delicious odor of tomatoes, garlic, and onions sizzling in olive oil. Marr tasted, adjusted the paprika, stirred some more, then nodded to Senn, who poured in fresh chicken stock.
Marr clamped a lid on the pot and set it to simmer. “When dinner is served,” he told Sten, “you might want to go easy on the soup."
Sten eyed the big pot, “Sure looks like enough to go around to me."
Senn laughed. “Oh, there's plenty, all right. But this is a special recipe. A guaranteed first-course tension-breaker. For the guests, that is. Not the host. Hosts should beware of this dish."
"You see,” Marr elaborated, “After we strain it through a sieve, we're going to stir in some flour and sour cream. Just enough to make it smooth.
"Then ... a moment before we serve it ... we add vodka. Lots of vodka! And ... voila,” Senn said. “We give you ... Hungarian tomato vodka soup! It's quite potent, too."
"A tongue loosener, huh?” Sten said, dry. “Did you guys ever consider a career as Mantis interrogators?"
"Amateurs,” Senn sniffed.
"No challenge at all,” Marr said.
* * * *
"After we get the Zaginow delegation nice and soothed,” Senn said, “we need to work on their courage.” He was dusting chunks of meat with flour, spiked with lots of salt and pepper.
Marr was assembling chopped-up onions, bell peppers, and crushed garlic. “Build them up for a firm commitment,” he said.
Senn giggled. “So to speak."
"Don't be dirty,” Marr said, putting on a pan doused with olive oil to heat.
"I can't help it,” Senn said, the giggles building. “My mind just works that way. Especially when we're cooking mountain oysters."
Sten frowned. He picked up a chunk of the floured meat. Sniffed it. “Don't smell like oysters to me."
"They're calf testicles, dear,” Marr explained. “Cut from the little dickens before they're old enough to know what's missing."
"We're going to do them Basque style,” Senn said. “The image is so sexy. Muscular brutes with large libidos."
"Makes you want to fry balls all day,” Marr said.
Sten looked at the meat he held in his hand. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “I hope you know they went for a good cause."
* * * *
"Now, we need to engage their minds,” Marr said.
Sten looked doubtfully at the large heap of bird parts he'd carved up with his cleaver. “Brain power through a clottin’ chicken? You've gotta be kidding."
"Stupid animals, yes,” Senn said. “But they're so willing. Especially plucked and dressed out. See how patiently they await their marinade?"
"Like the Zaginows?” Sten guessed.
"Excellent, Sten, dear. You're beginning to get the idea,” Marr said. “At this point we should have our new friends primed and ready for fresh approaches ... Alert them through their taste buds there are endless possibilities once an alliance has been achieved."
"Don't be so stuffy,” Senn said. He waved a spice-dusted paw at Sten. “Ignore him. The dish is called jerk chicken, after all,” he said.
"I like it ... mon,” Sten said.
Marr set down the bunch of scallions he was dicing up. “You've heard of it?” He seemed disappointed.
"From Jamaica, right?” Sten said. “One of the old Earth islands. A place where they smoke rope fibers and drink silly fruit drinks with little parasols on top."
Marr sighed. “Aren't we running out of clean pots, yet?"
"Not a chance,” Sten said. “I've only heard of jerk chicken. I'm not moving until I see how this is done."
"In a kitchen,” Marr said, “only the chef is permitted to be clever. Pot washers laugh at Chef's cunning jokes. Pot washers peel potatoes. Pot washers are in a constant state of awe at Chef's genius. Pot washers scrape slime from floors. Pot washers duck a lot when sharp objects are thrown at them when they make poor Chef mad. These are only some of the things pot washers do."
Marr sniffed, “What they don't do, is be clever. Pot washers are never, ever clever."
"I promise it'll never happen again,” Sten said.
"He really wasn't that clever,” Senn said.
"Very well,” Marr said. “It can stay. But only if It promises to button Its lip."
"Mmmmmph,” Sten grunted, pointed at his zipped lip.
"Actually, this is a dish even a pot washer could master the first time,” Marr said. “It only tastes complex."
He touched a switch under the chopping board and a metal processor revolved up. Pawfuls of chopped hot pepper and scallions went into the processor, along with a few bay leaves, some grated ginger, and diced garlic.
"Now the allspice,” Marr said. “That's the anchor. You use about five tablespoons for every kilo of meat. Along with one teaspoon each of nutmeg, cinnamon, salt, and pepper."
He dumped the spices into the processor and hit the button. As it whirred, he slowly poured in oil.
"Peanut oil,” Marr said. “Just enough for it all to stick together."
In two beats it was done. Sten peered at the goo.
"Another thing pot washers get to do,” Marr said, “is smear goo over chicken."
"This is true. Chefs never smear goo,” Senn said. “Especially when they're furry."
Sten, the comparatively hairless pot washer, began spreading the marinade over the chicken. Actually, he didn't really mind. It smelled wonderful. His mouth watered imagining what it was all going to taste like when Marr and Senn tonged the chicken off the barbecue.
In the corner, he could hear Marr and Senn arguing over the relative merits of pine nuts in Lebanese pilaf. All about him were the warm smells of a dozen dishes bubbling and simmering. He felt relaxed ... clear-minded.
On the whole, he thought, he'd much rather be a pot washer than a Hero of the Revolution.
Marr and Senn observed Sten's beaming face as he slathered marinade over chicken.
"Do you think he's ready?” Marr whispered.
"Absolutely,” Senn said. “I don't like to pat myself on the back, but I think this is one of the best jobs we've ever done."
"Beings don't realize,” Marr said, “that the first—and only—real secret of a dinner party is getting the host prepared first."
"A little kitchen magic,” Senn said. “It works every time."
Alex Kilgour's Beef Jerky
The strips of beef were drained and laid on the counter. Over them Alex sprinkled salt—at least a pinch per slice. After that, chopped parsley. Then very generous pinches of a potpourri of the spices he'd bought. Thyme. More savory. Sweet basil. Pepper. Garlic pepper. Herb pepper. Marjoram. Some cumin, just for the hell of it. He pressed the spices into the meat with the flat of his knife, then flipped the slices over and repeated the seasoning.
The meat went into the tenement's dilapidated oven, set at its absolute lowest, and with a cork holding the oven door open a centimeter or two.
He took a long nap, storing energy for the future. When he awoke, just before dusk, the slices of beef were dry, twiste
d, black, thoroughly nasty, and no more than a kilo in total weight.
He admired his jerky. “Ah'm noo th’ cook th’ Emp, Marr, Senn, or e'en m’ wee Sten is. But this'll chew easy, I’ th’ woods, I’ th’ rain."
* * * *
THE END
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
International best-selling authors and screenwriters Allan Cole and the late Chris Bunch were collaborators for nearly twenty years. Together, and separately, they have published over forty novels and sold more than 150 TV and movie screenplays. For details about Allan's life and work, see his homepage at www.acole.com. For information about Chris, see his Wikipedia entry at en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ChrisBunch. Both authors are also featured in the International Movie Data Base (IMDB.com)
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