The Reluctant Cannibals
Page 1
The
Reluctant
Cannibals
Ian Flitcroft
Legend Press Ltd, The Old Fire Station, 140 Tabernacle Street, London, EC2A 4SD
info@legend-paperbooks.co.uk www.legendpress.co.uk Contents © Ian Flitcroft 2013
The right of the above author to be identifed as the author of this work has been asserted in accord-ance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
Print ISBN 978-1-9095935-9-6
Ebook ISBN 978-1-9095936-0-2
Set in Times
Cover design by Gudrun Jobst www.yotedesign.com
‘The Reluctant Cannibal’ reproduced by permission of the Estates of Michael Flanders & Donald Swann 2013. Any use of Flanders & Swann material, large or small, should be referred to the Estates at leonberger@donaldswann.co.uk
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopy-ing, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ian Flitcroft studied medicine at Oxford University, and then went on to complete a D.Phil in Neurophysiology. During these six years, he started developing a fascination with all things culinary and on fnishing his doctorate, gained dining rights at Pembroke College as a John Lockett Memorial Scholar.
Ian has travelled around the world twice (once in each direction) and sampled many of the world’s strangest foods en route from snakes and scorpions, to a soup in Thailand that required all his anatomical knowledge to deduce its contents. Ian is a long-term member of the Slow Food Movement in Ireland, a collector of old culinary-related books, an avid cook and wine collector. Ian now works as a consultant eye surgeon in Dublin, where he has lived for over ten years.
The Reluctant Cannibals was one of the winning entries for the 2012 Irish Writer’s Centre Novel Fair competition, and was also shortlisted for the 2013 Amazon Break-through Novel Award.
The Reluctant Cannibals is Ian’s frst novel.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the team at Legend Press, especially my editor Lauren, for giving this curious story a life in print.
I like to think that its publication will put a smile on the lips of Arthur Plantagenet, wherever he may be - in Hades or, by some strange fuke of fortune, Heaven.
I would also like to thank Carrie and everyone at the Irish Writers’ Centre for their Novel Fair competition which spurred me on to complete this fnal version of Reluctant Cannibals and, of course, for selecting this book as one of the winners in 2012. A small group of those winners continues to meet in the Library Bar in Dublin and I feel honoured to be among them.
This book has been helped on its way by many people who have commented upon (and I might add rejected) earlier versions. I would like to thank them for their comments, which in hindsight were extremely insightful. But beyond all others my wife and fellow-author Jean has been my greatest guide, critic and support. This book would certainly not exist without her. The dedication ‘to my beloved Jean’ is to her not Brillat-Savarin!
To my beloved Jean
Constitution of the Shadow Faculty of Gastronomic Science Herein lie the immutable rules of the Shadow Faculty of Gastronomic Science: Rule One
All members must be fellows of St Jerome’s College, Oxford. Rule Two
All members must ascribe to the gastronomic principles pronounced by Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin 1 .
Rule Three
The Faculty must hold a dinner of gastronomic signifcance in the eighth week of each term.
Rule Four
Each member must invite one guest per dinner and ensure that their guest presents a new dish to the Faculty.
Rule Five
The Faculty must ensure that no dish is served more than once with the exception of a truffed turkey, which is to be served each year at the Michaelmas dinner. Rule Six
A member of the Faculty is elected for life unless they breach rules one, two or four. Rule Seven
The Shadow Faculty will remain in existence until the University of Oxford inaugurates an offcial Faculty of Gastronomic Science.
Membership:
Augustus Bloom Lecturer in Physiology and Tutor in Medicine Arthur Plantagenet Professor of Ancient History
George Le Strang Professor of Modern History
Hamish McIntyre Lecturer in Zoology
Charles Pinker College Chaplain and Lecturer in Divinity Theodore Flanagan Tutor and Reader in Criminal Law Former Members: 2
Conrad Petersen Resigned following a breach of rule four Gordon Maxwell Deceased
Stanley Lovell Deceased
1 Author of La Physiologie du Goût (The Physiology of Taste), which was frst published Christ-mas 1825 in Paris. This book set out Brillat-Savarin’s vision for gastronomy as a true science. 2 A brief history of the founding and early years of the Shadow Faculty of Gastronomic Science is provided in the appendix at the back of this volume.
Chapter 1
Trinity Term 1969
It took two men to lift the dismembered carcass. The departure of its copper coffn was met with a brief but respectful silence. Respect that derived from the fact that it contained the mortal remains of what was undoubtedly the largest turbot ever to grace a dining table in Oxford. Once the moment had passed, the room began to fll again with the sound of conversation. Augustus Bloom discreetly turned his head towards the ear of his distin-guished guest, Takeshi Tokoro.
‘You’re up next. Do you want me to introduce you?’ Dr Bloom whispered. Mr Tokoro declined the offer with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He then
rose to his feet and stood motionless, waiting for silence. The others around the table ap-peared not to notice him as he remained quietly erect, with a posture no European could ever match. He had an austere dignity, but his slim fve-foot-four-inch frame lacked the physical presence of his fellow diners. Apart from Dr Bloom, the other guests contin-ued their animated conversations, not through disrespect but culinary enthusiasm; egged on it must be said by a particularly fne wine, a 1959 Condrieu. The shadow faculty of gastronomic science and their guests were barely halfway through the dinner but it was already clear that this was a night to be remembered. The sea urchin and fennel en papil-lote with its sublime, caramelised vermouth sauce had proved a magnifcent success as a frst course, but even this great dish had been eclipsed by the turbot – a recipe taken straight from the pages of the great man himself, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin. A turbot of implausible proportion had been cooked whole in a copper fsh kettle of even greater scale; poached with vegetables in a white wine and cream stock. By the time the fsh was cooked, the sauce had transformed itself into a perfect chowder. Fillets of the turbot were served on a bed of spinach with the chowder presented to each person in a small silver salver to universal acclaim.
Augustus glared across the table, trying to catch the eye of the chaplain, Charles Pinker, who was being uncharacteristically talkative. With each passing second, Augustus felt an increasing sense of frustration. Mr Tokoro, accustomed to immediate deference due to his status within the diplomatic service, showed no hint of any such emotion.
Augustus nervously fddled with his cutlery. Tapping a glass with a spoon, the traditional method of calling the table to order, would certainly have worked, but Augustus held back for fear that Mr Tokoro might not appreciate the gesture. After a few more agon-ising seconds, he caught the eye of Charles Pinker across the table who correctly
inter-preted the impassioned, almost gymnastic movements of Dr Bloom’s eyebrows. A dis-creet cough and tap of the elbow to his neighbour sent a signal that slowly spread around the table until the last man still talking, Professor Arthur Plantagenet, fnally realised he was holding forth amidst the silence.
Mr Tokoro gave a slow and solemn bow. In an instant he turned the tables on his audience who tried to cover the embarrassment of their discourtesy by variously nod-ding and leaning forward in stilted half-bows.
‘Distinguished Gentlemen,’ said Mr Tokoro. ‘I have the honour of bringing to you a national treasure of Japanese cuisine: Fugu-chiri.’ Then, with perfectly timed theatrical-ity, he clapped his hands. This was a cue to Gerald, the senior common room steward, to open the doors for Mr Tokoro’s Japanese chef who, in contrast to Mr Tokoro, had the dimensions of a sumo wrestler. He walked in carrying a large wooden chopping board on which twelve small fsh had been laid out. A table was carried in behind him and placed in the recess of the large bay window. This was followed by a large copper pot and a spirit burner, which were placed at one end of the table.
The chef placed his chopping board down on the table and from his apron produced an impressive set of wood handled knives, whose metal blades bore the swirling pattern of a medieval Damascene sword. He then set to work removing the skin and flleting the fsh with extraordinary speed and deftness. Mr Tokoro was the frst to rise from his seat and walk over to inspect the process at closer quarters. The precedent having been set, the others quickly followed him. When it came to the last fsh, Mr Tokoro said a few words in Japanese to the chef who, with a deferential bow, stood back from the table and handed the knife to him. Mr Tokoro was clearly skilled with the knife but not to the same level as his chef. He removed the fns and skin with great speed but was more hes-itant on the internal organs. He neatly excised the liver and intestines in a manner that appeared to meet the chef ’s approval, but in removing the ovaries he sliced through the edge of one of them and left it attached to the fesh. The only person who noticed his mistake could not remark on this dangerous oversight. The social rules that have defned Japan’s society for centuries prevented the chef from passing comment, or taking any action that might have shown up a failure on the part of Mr Tokoro. The chef stepped forward, keenly aware Mr Tokoro was still closely observing him, and knowing there was no escape from his master’s mistake. Without any ficker of emotion on his face, he placed all the fsh fllets into the copper pan along with the light vegetable stock that had been brought back to the boil.
There was great excitement in the anticipation and discussion of these little fsh when they were fnally served. Sadly the actual consumption created less impact. The light broth was subtle and delighted Mr Tokoro, but seemed lost on Western palates used to richer food. The fesh of the fsh itself was almost too delicate and the favour an ephem-eral mist that barely registered on the taste buds compared to what had come before. It was Mr Tokoro who raised the last piece to his mouth, with the mixture of triumph and sadness that greets the end of a fne dish. It was the very last fllet he had prepared. He washed it down with the fne white Burgundy that had been picked to accompany this course. He normally preferred sake but had to acknowledge the superior subtlety of the Nuits St Georges.
It was not until the seaweed ice cream that Mr Tokoro felt the frst erratic beat in his chest. The perspiration that appeared on his brow was initially merely an imperceptible moistening. His lips felt peculiar but he put that down to the coldness of the ice cream. After a reassuring sequence of regular beats, Mr Tokoro’s heart fell into a syncopated rhythm that made him draw a deep breath, or at least try to. He raised his chin to take in air but his diaphragm sat motionless on top of his distended stomach. There were no outward signs of any problem until his fork fell onto the table, his fngers losing their power of grip.
Mr Tokoro went to rise from his chair. He started the movement easily enough but after he had elevated barely an inch, his body rebelled and refused to move further. He held this position for a second until gravity conquered his failing muscles. He slid to the foor, his weight dragging the tablecloth as he fell, bringing with him an array of cut-lery and wine glasses. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for Arthur Plantagenet’s fast reactions, an almost half-full glass of Nuits St Georges would have been lost too. Mr Tokoro, his mouth opening and closing in a silent and ironic parody of the creature he had just eaten, looked up at the equally stricken face of his host, Augustus Bloom. It is true that Dr Augustus Bloom was in possession of a medical degree, but it was obtained with little in the way of practical experience and his years in academia had dulled whatever limited resuscitation skills he had ever possessed. Augustus Bloom, his own heart racing from panic, fell to his knees and, for want of anything better to do, cradled Mr Tokoro’s head in his hands.
‘For Christ’s sake will someone call an ambulance,’ Augustus shouted. Gerald, the senior common room steward, who might have been expected to be the
frst to respond, stood rooted to the spot with a look of complete terror on his face. Mr Tokoro’s mouth continued to open and close silently for another few seconds and then stopped.
‘Gerald, you heard the man. Go and get Potts to call an ambulance,’ said Dr McIntyre.
Arthur Plantagenet was the only person in the room to remain quite calm. He emptied his wine glass and murmured to no-one in particular,
‘What a bloody marvellous way to die.’
Chapter 2
Michaelmas Term 1969
The new academic year of 1969 started in October with the reassuring inevitability of the rising sun. On that frst morning its weak rays were valiantly trying to warm the chilled, golden stone walls of St Jerome’s. The last geranium blooms of the year graced the win-dow boxes of the quadrangle, though their tired foliage showed that the exuberance of summer was long gone. It would be hard to imagine a scene of greater calm or serenity. Certainly there were no hints of the drama that had occurred at the end of the previous term; in fact it had barely been mentioned outside the confnes of the college walls. Death was no stranger to the shadow faculty of gastronomic science. Two of their members had died in previous years, though under less dramatic circumstances and certainly not dur-ing one of their dinners. These two deaths had given rise to the shadow faculty’s altern-ative title: the declining dining society. At least on this occasion it was a guest who had died so their numbers had not suffered a further depletion. Of course it had devastated Mr Tokoro’s family and caused a degree of consternation within diplomatic circles, but, beyond that, the death of Mr Tokoro had created barely a ripple within the college or the world outside.
The day was Monday of noughth week, so named because it came a week before the offcial start of term, which is, reasonably enough, called frst week. For Mr Potts, the head porter, these were the last precious moments of peace before the college was re-in-vaded by the noisy legion of students. During the quiet summer months, Mr Percival Potts had been practising his peculiar art of sleeping upright, a skill part innate and part honed during his years on guard duty in the army. In this fnely poised state he could ignore all ordinary sounds and background voices, but if a question were put to him he could in an instant wake up and, without otherwise moving a muscle, feign an excusable touch of deafness with the words ‘Sorry, sir, didn’t quite catch that.’ This remarkable ability was concealed by his black bowler hat, which was perpetually tilted down at an angle that was fnely judged to hide his eyes from anyone presenting themselves to the porter’s lodge. It is true that a dwarf or small child might have been able to rumble Potts’ secret, but dwarves and children were rarely, if ever, seen in the lodge of St Jerome’s College.
On this particular day an unexpected and unwelcome noise entered the head porter’s ears, insinuating itself into his dreams. The sound was certainly not human, so there was no imperative to wake, but neither was it an everyday noise. The scuttling noise grew louder and, in the increasingly distressed imagination of Potts’ dream, more rat-lik
e. Sal-vation burst through the door of the porter’s lodge in the substantial form of Dr Hamish McIntyre.
‘Morning Potts. Now where are these squills?’
Potts, still troubled by dissolving images of rats, found that his normally poised re-sponse on waking was shortened to something rather less coherent.
‘Er, wha, sir?’
‘Squills, Potts. The canocchie del mare you so skilfully procured.’ Guided by the increasingly frenetic scratching noise, McIntyre’s eyes alighted on his
precious delivery. He grasped the package and within seconds was gazing admiringly at the curious crustaceans.
‘Oh, them.’ It was with some relief that Potts identifed the source of the strange sounds from his dreams.
‘Glorious little creatures, aren’t they?’ said McIntyre proudly. Even allowing for the typical English sentimentality when it came to animals, Potts
felt that Dr McIntyre’s description of these creatures was generous in the extreme. If Potts had been a more educated man he might have described these creatures as ugly trilobites. In the absence of all but the most basic education, he offered a description that was as simple as it was accurate.
‘Look like ugly great earwigs to me, sir.’
‘Well, we’re all God’s creatures, Potts, and while they’re not the prettiest, I dare say they’re tastier than you or I.’
Hamish McIntyre slipped out of the porter’s lodge with remarkable grace for a man of his girth and disappeared around the corner into Old Quad, chattering to his reluct-antly captive audience of crustaceans.
Just as McIntyre and his squills stepped into Old Quad, Augustus Bloom disappeared from it; a small door off a narrow passageway clicked shut to mark his departure from the crisp morning light. He descended into a gloom alleviated only by a rather sad and dim bulb overhead. This was nevertheless a great improvement over the hand-held par-affn lamp that Bloom had experienced on his frst trip into this subterranean universe many years ago. It was not that Bloom was exceptionally ancient (he had barely turned forty), but rather that St Jerome’s was proud of the fact that it was the last college in Oxford to electrify its wine cellars. On reaching the bottom of the stairs, in keeping with college tradition, he nodded in thankful acknowledgement to a small bronze bust of the frst bursar of the college for his foresight in planning a college that had cellars twice the size of the buildings above.