The eyes and noses of all but one of the diners had followed Gerard as he brought the plate to the table. Monsieur Lemprière’s eyes had just spotted an empty bottle stand-ing beside a full wine decanter that he fervently hoped held the contents of that bottle – Château Petrus 1947: a legendary vintage of an extraordinary wine. A wine crafted from the most pampered vines in France, with grapes picked only in the afternoon so that no remnants of dew could dilute the essence of each grape. The enveloping aroma of truffes and thought of this wine were enough to melt Lemprière’s heart. He would surely have fallen in love with the frst woman to enter the room at that moment, but fnding himself in only male company the magic expressed itself as a wave of unchar-acteristic forgiveness for the damage Arthur Plantagenet’s garum had done to his taste buds and, indeed, he felt a sudden fondness for the whole nation of England. And this was before a single morsel or drop had passed his lips.
The ’47 Petrus lived up to its immense reputation, from inspection of its regal purplish hue to a heavenly aroma and a taste constructed with the precision and com-plexity of a baroque cathedral. Waves of different tastes and aromas crashed over the palates of the fortunate diners and blended with the divine turkey favours, leaving sev-eral of them in a state of near rapture. All pretence of manners and etiquette were aban-doned as opinions were shared through full mouths, with aromatic dribbles of fat escap-ing and being left to fall unhindered by napkins. The fellows of the faculty had sampled this dish several times before, but on each occasion their memory had failed to retain the full intensity of the favours. For the guests, with the exception of Monsieur Lemprière, this was a new experience and one that they would take to their graves.
The diners were left only with their memories of this exquisite combination as the table was cleared yet again, making way for George Le Strang to raise a toast to the magnifcent truffe and its greatest admirer, Brillat-Savarin. He then went on to intro-duce his guest and the dish they had concocted together.
‘I am honoured to present the chef célèbre , Monsieur René Lemprière from le George Cinq en Paris , un chevalier of the kitchen and creator of heaven on porcelain.’ George changed effortlessly if somewhat pretentiously between an English and French accent. ‘Together we have created a new dish, which is to be christened here tonight: “Napo-leon’s Revenge”. If the events of June 1815 had been different and Napoleon had been victorious at Waterloo, then this would have been a ftting meal for a conquering emper-or. It is served with Chambertin-Clos de Bèze, Napoleon’s favourite Burgundy.’
The dish arrived on a long platter and was placed in front of Monsieur Lemprière for carving. It looked and smelt to the world and the assembled guests as a fne beef Wel-lington, a long-time stalwart of St Jerome’s dinners. It did have a more elaborate dec-oration than usual with small feur-de-lis all over the pastry, but that was not enough to make such a dish uniquely Napoleonic. George had kept the details of this dish secret, so its exact contents were a mystery even to the other members of the faculty, but Augustus felt forced to ask the question they were all thinking.
‘A French beef Wellington, George?’
‘Not boeuf Wellington or even boeuf Napoleon – rather le cheval de Wellington.’ Theodore Flanagan, who was famed for fnding an Irish connection in the most un-
likely settings, rescued another random fact from the recesses of his brain. ‘Of course, both Napoleon’s and Wellington’s horses were bought in Ireland. Bona-
parte’s came from Ballinasloe, County Galway and Wellington’s horse from the Cahirmee fair in County Cork… Copenhagen, that was Wellington’s horse, wasn’t it?’
‘I think you missed an Irish claim there Theodore,’ said the Master, ‘Wellington him-self was born in Ireland.’
‘Of course, thank you Master. Another famous Irishman claimed by the English,’ said Theodore.
‘Now what was Wellington’s famous dictum on being accused of being Irish?’ countered George, irritated that the presentation of this dish was being interrupted. ‘Oh yes, being born in a stable does not make one a horse.’
‘ Touché , George, touché .’ Theodore acceded gracefully and consigned to his memory the thought that Arthur Wellesley, the 1st Duke of Wellington, was not worthy of being called Irish after all.
‘As I was saying,’ continued George, ‘this is not beef Wellington but how the fnest French chefs may have cooked the good horse Copenhagen in celebration.’
‘You’re not saying this is horse meat, are you?’ said an incredulous Reverend Pinker. ‘The fnest fesh from the fnest beast that graces this earth, Reverend,’ replied Ge-
orge. ‘Marinated with garlic, thyme and port. Then baked in a fennel-favoured croûte . With a heart of gold.’
As the frst slice was placed on the plate, the soft unctuous heart of foie gras was revealed and, with the frst mouthful of the fnely favoured fesh, most of the diners’ initial reservations evaporated. The chaplain, the sole remaining dissenter, found solace in the glass of Chambertin-Clos de Bèze Grand Cru that had been placed in front of him, and as the expressions of delight around the table became too much, he picked up his knife and fork. Looking intently at the plate, he cut a piece of horse meat and raised it to his mouth. The table had fallen silent as all eyes were now watching the chaplain for his reaction. The chaplain’s eyes were closed as he chewed, and then came the verdict.
‘Good God, that’s divine.’
A great cheer around the table and the French defeat at Waterloo was expunged tem-porarily from history.
Theodore Flanagan’s guest, Dermot Keogh was looking decidedly pale and nervous as the table was cleared for dessert. Dr Keogh was on sabbatical from Trinity College Dublin and had begun to think he had the measure of Oxford, until tonight of course. The unusual parts of normal animals and normal parts of unusual animals had left him wondering whether it was such a good idea to offer ice cream as a dessert. Seeing him shifting in his seat as the time approached, Theodore took pity on the young man and rose to make the introduction.
‘Gentlemen, may I present my guest Dr Keogh, with what I assure you will be a most surprising dessert: saffron and nitrogen ice cream.’
Dermot Keogh stood to polite applause and could sense the slight disbelief from some quarters that so simple a dish as ice cream was being offered in such revered com-pany. Surprisingly, this dish did not contravene rule four of the faculty of gastronom-ic science’s constitution. Seaweed ice cream had been served last year, but the unique nature of Dr Keogh’s dish had been deemed by the faculty to represent an entirely new departure. He nodded to Gerard across the room who opened the doors to let two scouts into the room. The frst was carrying a large bowl of liquid with the most remarkably luminous yellow colour. This was a mixture of cream, milk, sugar, egg yolks, vanilla and saffron. As it was placed on the table, the weight of the bowl was almost too much for the small serving girl and the contents sloshed, revealing beyond all doubt that this was a liquid and most defnitely not ice cream. Dermot Keogh heard George Le Strang mutter, ‘They must like their ice cream runny in Dublin.’ There were a few suppressed snorts at this, which were only silenced by a glaring Theodore Flanagan.
The second server brought a large stainless steel fask, which was placed in front of Dr Keogh. The arrival of this second component turned the amusement into curiosity, made all the greater when a large whisk was carried in by Gerard on a silver tray and placed beside the fask. The quaking doctor then lifted the lid from the vial to reveal a cloud of what looked like smoke pouring from its mouth and fowing over the table-cloth. Turning to his host for assistance, Theodore was recruited to pour the contents of the vial into the cream mixture leaving Dr Keogh free to rapidly whisk. This produced an almighty plume of smoke, fog or whatever it was, which engulfed both Irishmen for several seconds. The remaining diners were left with the clanking sound of the whisk in the bowl and dim outline of Dermot Keogh’s elbow failing in great circles.
A few seconds later as the air cleare
d, a beaming young physicist was holding a bowl of ice-cold, perfectly solid and luminous ice cream amid rapturous applause. The mys-terious ingredient was liquid nitrogen, which boils at almost minus 200°C. When it hit the warm cream, the liquid boiled away in a torrent of nitrogen fog, freezing the cream mixture so fast that the ice crystals were microscopic and the resulting ice cream flled with tiny bubbles. While all were impressed by the sense of gastronomical theatre, few thought the taste could live up to expectations. Bowls were passed around and, after a little suspicious prodding, the ice cream was slowly tasted by all. Monsieur Lemprière was nodding slowly to himself as he ate in total silence and one by one all the others fell silent in eager anticipation of his verdict. Finally he made his announcement.
‘ Monsieur, ce n’est pas une glace… mais c’est magnifque .’ As indeed it was in favour, texture, conception and delivery. The French chef rose to
his feet in tribute and the rest of the table followed, leaving a young Dr Keogh in a daze of success, the like of which he had never known.
The only guest left to offer a dish was Arthur’s guest, the Master. You might think that at this stage of a dinner of such unbridled culinary range, he would be worried that his own offering might fall a little fat. There were certainly no signs of any external doubt as he in turn rose to his feet.
‘Gentlemen, I can after these remarkable dishes offer you only two simple but unique fruits: the miracle fruit and a new variety of sweet lime I discovered on my travels with the foreign offce which remains unknown to conventional or gastronomic science. I give them to you without any exotic preparation as, to my mind, the good Lord created them perfectly in the frst place.’
The chaplain, fnally feeling on safe ground gastronomically and spiritually, led the applause. The Master nodded with regal grace before adding, ‘And don’t forget to taste the miracle fruit frst.’
A large bowl containing the shiny red miracle fruit and vivid green limes was passed around the table. The miracle fruit, despite its grandiose title, is not a particularly remarkable-looking fruit. More like large red olives than a proper fruit, they were too small to be impressive and too smooth-skinned to be surprising in appearance. Certainly their favour aroused little excitement around the table, but few were brave enough to ex-press this thought. George leaned across to his guest Monsieur Lemprière and whispered his verdict.
‘Quite tasteless, René; I’d stick to the wine.’
Heeding his advice, René passed on the miracle fruit and lingered instead on the dessert wine that had been served with the ice cream, a good but not a remarkable Mus-cat.
Then, one by one the faculty and their guests embarked upon the sweet limes. They were overcome by the novelty of an intense lime favour without any hint of acidity. Piqued by their reactions, René Lemprière carefully sliced off the skin, halved his lime and popped one half into his mouth. His faced contorted into spasms of shock. A food of citric acid assailed taste buds that his brain had prepared for sweetness.
‘Pah, what is zis, one of your English jokes?’
Everyone looked truly stunned, except of course for the puckered Frenchman and the Master who was smiling beatifcally and without a moment’s hesitation offered an ex-planation for the confusion.
‘I do apologise, René. Perhaps a normal lime had been mixed in with the bowl by mistake.’
George Le Strang, mortifed by this mistake, without hesitation offered the remaining half of his own lime. He had tasted his and it was without doubt one of the Master’s exotic sweet limes. In the same move he also removed the offending lime from Monsieur Lemprière’s plate, who graciously accepted the error and brought a slice of Le Strang’s lime to his lips, albeit briefy.
‘But zis is the same, George. It is just a lime, ’ave you all lost you reason? Zis is like the Emperor’s pyjamas – someone says it’s sweet and you all believe.’
A baffed George tasted Lemprière’s lime and then his own. Both tasted just as sweet. The Master could contain himself no longer and burst out laughing. ‘Forgive me, René, it seems you didn’t taste my miracle fruit.’ ‘I admit I did not, but why does zat matter?’
‘Try a little miracle fruit and then taste the lime again,’ suggested the Master. Lemprière took a bite of the mildly tasting miracle fruit and then cautiously took a
slice of lime.
‘ Incroyable . What kind of magic is zis?’
‘Miracle fruit is remarkable not for its taste but its effect. Once tasted, anything sour or acidic tastes sweet for an hour or so. So these are indeed not sweet limes but quite ordinary limes made to taste quite extraordinary.’ The Master sat back triumphantly and signalled to Gerard to bring a small decanter to the table.
‘Indulge me for one more test, in the spirit of gastronomic exploration. Everyone taste this wine and tell me what you think.’
Each person at the table was given a small glass of straw-coloured wine. The verdicts were similar and rather puzzled. All agreed it was a poor quality sweet wine and a little lost why the Master was so pleased to be offering it around. To resolve the mystery, Ger-ard was asked to bring in the bottle for inspection. With great solemnity Gerard brought in a bottle of white wine vinegar and placed it on the table to scenes of total amazement. The Master stood and took a graciously low bow to a stunned but wildly clapping audi-ence.
As the dinner drew to a close the cheeseboards were laid out and the diners’ glasses were reflled with more of the Chambertin-Clos de Bèze. Callum Morton’s hand fell on his knife only to be stayed by the bear-like paw of his host Hamish. With his other hand Hamish raised his glass in the penultimate toast of the dinner.
‘Gentlemen I give you cheese… ’
To the surprise of all the guests, the rest of the faculty chanted in perfect unison an-other of Brillat-Savarin’s bon mots.
‘… a meal without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye.’ This left the guests to raise their glasses and in far less unity, toast everything from
cheese, beauty, women and, belatedly, the Queen of England. Dr Morton’s knife was then free to dive into a divinely swamp-like Vacherin Mont d’Or, which had been baked and then gently de-roofed.
Arthur Plantagenet surprised the assembled company by rising to his feet. ‘Gentlemen, it is an honour to dine with you all. If I were to die this evening I would
die as the happiest, best-fed man in Christendom.’ He held up a hand to quell the rising murmurs before they could trouble his fow of speech. ‘As my colleagues here already know, I am not a well man.’ Arthur enjoyed the total silence that fell on the room for a few seconds before continuing. ‘Indeed I may not live to see the next of these ex-traordinary feasts, so there is no better place to announce my lasting gift to gastronomy.’
Charles Pinker placed his face in his hands and starting rocking backwards and for-wards. Augustus, sensing impending disaster, tried to cut across Arthur.
‘Perhaps this isn’t quite the time or place, Arthur… ’ ‘Nonsense. Gentlemen, the grandest experiment in gastronomy is to answer the
simple question of what is the taste of human fesh. I have therefore decided to donate my body to gastronomic science so that this very question can be decided beyond all doubt upon my death.’
There was a stunned silence in the room that was broken by the voice of Monsieur Lemprière.
‘I’d rather eat an Englishman’s horse than any part of an Englishman. I couldn’t ima-gine your fesh would even be edible.’
‘And a Frenchman would taste better, René?’ rejoined Hamish. ‘Of course, a well-dined Frenchman would have eaten the fnest food on God’s earth
and drunk the best wines, so of course he would taste better than someone whose body has been reared on beer and overcooked beef.’
‘I think Arthur would ft your description of a well-marinated Frenchman rather ac-curately,’ said Augustus, who found to his surprise that his national pride and friendship for Arthur were stronger than his moral objections to canni
balism. At this, the rest of the faculty of gastronomic science rallied behind Arthur with supportive clinking of spoons on glasses and grunts of ‘hear, hear’ and ‘quite right’ from all sides. L’entente cordiale , as George might have said, était vraiment morte .
‘I hear one of your eminent countrymen was all for eating people, Theodore. A cer-tain Jonathan Swift for one. Isn’t that right, Gascoigne?’ Arthur had, in a reversal of his early strategy, decided that even a man from Yale was better than a French horse chef. Pleased to be suddenly useful, Gascoigne Percival eagerly joined the fray.
‘Oh, indeed, but it was ironic, designed to shame the English establishment for their neglect of the Irish poor.’ He paused, suddenly realising he was in the English establish-ment and perhaps that wasn’t the best opening gambit under the circumstances, but the clanking spoon of Theodore Flanagan came as a reassurance.
‘Well said, that man.’
‘Quite, quite, but do tell us what Swift proposed, Dr Percival,’ Arthur said, starting into a quotation of the opening lines of Swift’s pamphlet before the good doctor could reply. ‘“I have been assured by a very knowing American… ”’ Arthur paused to smile at the hapless Percival who felt obliged, against his better judgement, to complete the quotation.
“‘… of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious, nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled.” From that dubious starting point he suggested that the problems of the famine and excess children in Ireland could neatly be solved by having the Irish breed children as food. But as I said, this pamphlet was designed to highlight the problem of Irish malnutrition, not promote cannibalism.’
‘Arthur, please tell me you are not serious. After all, cannibalism is a moral outrage perpetrated by heathen savages.’ Charles tried to inject a note of prejudiced reason into the discussion.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 12
