Each guest began to shell their eggs and was met by an impressive marbled egg, each one differently coloured. As they tasted what was once the white of the egg they exper-ienced a range of wholly unexpected favours such as fennel, caraway and rhubarb all selected to confuse the palate. Most surprising was that identifcation of these favours was bizarrely inaccurate for such a range of distinguished palates.
‘Good God,’ said Dr Ottwater in surprise when he came to the yolk. ‘How on earth did you get eggs with green yolks?’
‘Look at mine, this one’s red,’ said Mary Frances, equally amazed. Each yolk turned out to be of a different colour too. When it came to the taste of this
part of the egg, opinions were wildly divided, from spinach to defnite hints of raspberry to suggestions that the egg was starting to go off. Dr Hargreaves could not have been more pleased with the result of his experiment as he explained the gastronomic prin-ciples.
‘Your eggs are in fact all identical in terms of the mixture of favours, the only dif-ference is in the choice of food dye. Our eyes can pull favours in the direction expec-ted from a colour. Fennel with a green dye might taste like fennel, but with red fruity.’ Looking around the table at disbelieving faces he pulled a large handful of eye masks from his jacket pocket. ‘Put these on and try again.’
Blindfolded, they tasted their eggs for a second time. On this occasion a consistent pattern of favours started to emerge with George Le Strang completely changing his original thoughts on the favours and eventually identifying all three favours accurately.
Next, came the turn of Credo Ottwater.
‘First let me say that I am honoured to be in such distinguished company. Dr Har-greaves has given us all a wonderful demonstration of the infuence of colour on our perceptions but I would humbly suggest that is no more than sleight of hand compared to the power of smell. To clean your palates and bring your understanding of favour to a new level I present two sorbets. One has taste but no smell, the second contains ele-ments that can only be smelled but is, in terms of taste, invisible to your tongue.’
Plates were brought bearing the two small balls of sorbet each with a small numbered fag. True to his word the frst was clearly a lemon sorbet, but stark with no length of fa-vour: sweet and sour combining to give the impression of a lemon favour without any depth or texture. The second, as promised, seemed initially tasteless in the mouth until the heat of the tongue began to release the volatile oils Dr Ottwater had meticulously extracted from lemon skin by selective distillation. An intense lemon taste built up over time and lingered long after the ice in the mouth had melted. When everyone had tasted the two sorbets, Dr Ottwater proposed the fnal experiment.
‘Now mix the two together and taste them.’
The effect was electrifying. The harsh short-lived taste of one locked together with the ethereal disembodied smell of the other to create a complete three-dimensional ex-perience of lemon. As spontaneous applause broke out around the table, Ottwater rose to take a bow.
The main course, devised by Mary Frances, was introduced simply as ‘a whimsical dish’. With the removal of the silver cloches a heady and aromatic scent enveloped the diners. Around the meat centrepiece the plate was flled with a syrupy thyme and rose-mary port reduction. Within this were nine small black balls, some looking like entire black truffes, others rather smoother. Mary Frances took a slice of meat smothered it in the sauce and after perching one of the small black objects on top, popped it in her mouth. She closed her eyes not through affectation, but through the powerful gustatory refex that comes into play when experiencing the most exquisite of tastes. She had dis-cussed the details of how this dish was to be cooked with the chef but he had exceeded her highest hopes. When her eyes opened the entire table was watching her with their knives and forks raised.
‘Well guys, don’t just sit there gawping at me. Taste it.’ She sat back and, corralling a drop of sauce that had attempted to escape her mouth with her fnger, enjoyed the spec-tacle of watching the others take their frst mouthful. This was a remarkable dish and one that evolved with each mouthful. Most of the diners successfully picked out a black truffe frst only to fnd the next mouthful tasting of black olive or prune, each pulling the sauce in a different gustatory direction. The meat had been gently cooked for almost eight hours at a low heat and changed in texture and taste with each slice. Not a single diner successfully managed to identify the cut of meat but all agreed that the way it com-bined with the sauce was nothing short of magnifcent.
Mary Frances had also brought a wine that had been carefully decanted before the meal and which received almost as many accolades as the dish it accompanied. George Le Strang had declared it proof of the prowess of French viticulture and identifed it as a Château Haut-Brion but, with a show of humility, declared himself uncertain of the year. When the course was over, knives and forks were laid to rest on the plates with the same sense of loss one has when a train containing a loved one pulls out of a station. Then came the moment when the exact nature of the dish and the wine were to be revealed by Mary Frances.
She asked Gerard to bring one of the empty bottles to the table. It bore a simple label with a wood-cut design bearing the name Heitz Cellar, a product of the new and self-confdent Californian wine industry.
‘One of our better Californian wines. Not Château Haut-Brion, Professor,’ Mary Frances said to George Le Strang, ‘but certainly its equal.’
George laughed politely. ‘ Très amusant , Madame. But what wine did we really drink, because it was certainly French not American?’
‘This was the very bottle I gave Gerard to decant earlier today. Isn’t that right Ger-ard?’
Gerard looked panic-stricken at being addressed directly from the table and looked to Augustus for guidance who simply nodded supportively and Gerard followed suit.
‘Rubbish, I’ve never drunk an American wine in my life,’ said George, grabbing the bottle and taking a long sniff from the bottle.
‘You have in fact been drinking American wine all your life, George,’ said Dr Lid-dell. ‘After Phylloxera destroyed the European vineyards last century, most of the vines were grafted on American root stock.’
George glared at his guest for this treasonable interjection. Taken aback, Dr Liddell took a tactical retreat.
‘Though of course, Phylloxera was originally an American disease which is why the American vines could resist it in the frst place.’
‘Aha,’ said George triumphantly. ‘The American cavalry coming to our rescue only after shooting at us frst.’
‘I love French wines as much as you, Professor,’ said Mary Frances in a conciliatory tone, ‘but I am certain that one day a Californian wine will exceed the best from France.’ ‘I shall be long dead and selling fur coats in hell by the time that happens dear lady,’ 15 replied George in language far more restrained than might have been the case if a lady
had not been present.
‘Well wherever it comes from it is jolly good,’ said Charles, draining the last drops from his glass. George touched the base of his own glass only to push it a few inches further away.
When it came to the dish itself, a series of wildly inaccurate guesses as to the nature of the meat had flled the room with peals of her laughter. She fnally relented on reveal-ing the source of her whimsical title for the dish and source of the meat.
‘Gentlemen, let me put you out of your misery. This dish was an unusual combination of two cuts of meat, one inside the other. Slow baked veal cheek stuffed with ox tongue. A rather tasty culinary pun: tongue in cheek.’
The frst to rise to his feet was Charles Pinker. He looked toward Mary Frances, gave a small bow and then started clapping. Soon, almost the entire room was on its feet with the notably gracious inclusion of George and the understandable exception of Mary Frances herself. Mary Frances glowed in the admiration of her fellow diners. Sadly the vice-chancellor also remained in his seat, frmly opposed to the idea of lauding offal over a decent cut
of English beef.
The appearance on the sideboard of several bottles of Sauterne and an army of scouts clearing the table heralded the vice-chancellor’s own contribution to the dinner. Des-pite initial protestations he had eventually relented and provided a recipe. This involved the vice-chancellor contacting his former nanny, now approaching the age of ninety and living in a home in Torquay, for her recipe for bread and butter pudding. After some consternation it was confrmed that this dish, while by no means original, had not pre-viously been presented to the shadow faculty and so was technically permissible under rule four of the constitution. The vice-chancellor’s dessert, made with real Bird’s custard powder, had been the highlight of his gastronomically impoverished childhood. When the recipe had been delivered to the chef, Monsieur Roger, Augustus was immediately consulted. This was the frst dish that the chef had ever refused to cook despite some signifcant reservations over some of the menu suggestions from earlier years. Augustus had managed to placate the chef but had to grant him certain latitude to ‘do what you can to improve it’.
After a growing frustration with the continental frippery of earlier courses, the vice-chancellor felt a growing sense of excitement as the door opened and the scouts ap-peared bearing plates. When everyone was served, Augustus leaned across to whisper in the vice-chancellor’s ear.
‘It is customary for the guest to introduce their dish.’ ‘Gentlemen, dear Lady,’ the vice-chancellor said, rising to his feet. ‘May I present
some proper English cooking. For all the fancy talk around this table I rather think you have missed the point. Food should simply be tasty and wholesome, just as this dish is.’
With that, he sat down to silence and picked up his spoon. The taste was exactly as he remembered and transported him to a gentler, safer place. More objectively it could be described as a mostly textureless glutinous starch of a vibrant synthetic colour with the occasional raisin for variety, fnished off with a lake of more Bird’s custard. The vice-chancellor enjoyed the murmurs of surprised approval from around the table, though some of the comments did catch him by surprise.
‘Really extraordinary.’
‘The amaretto in the brioche really works with the vanilla in the crème anglaise .’ ‘Oh, and the dark chocolate instead of raisins is masterful.’ Looking across at the plates of his two neighbours he realised they were eating a dif-
ferent dessert.
‘What exactly is that?’ he demanded of Augustus. ‘This is our chef ’s variation on the theme suggested by your recipe.’ ‘Rather like Rachmaninov’s Rhapsody On A Theme Of Paganini,’ said Charles
Pinker who was in on the charade.
‘Would you like to try some?’ Augustus asked.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Oh you must,’ said Mary Frances, leaning forward to catch the vice-chancellor’s eye. ‘It is truly divine.’
Unbidden, Gerard delivered a plate of this variation on a theme of an English nanny to the vice-chancellor. Monsieur Roger’s version was a door that led to a new gastro-nomic world: a world that after a single spoonful the vice-chancellor thought was best left unexplored.
Dr Oliver Liddell had waited patiently for his turn, which he introduced with a his-torically accurate but rather long discourse on the sad demise of the fnal savoury course from the English dining tradition. He also felt obliged to discuss the loss from the dining table of certain English fsh such as perch, pike and eel. It was the latter he had selected for this particular dish, smoked eel with a spicy persimmon chutney.
‘We have also prepared an interesting international comparison of cured meats,’ said George Le Strang after thanking his guest. ‘Including Bresaola and Parma ham from Italy, several types of Spanish ham including Pata Negra and two English hams: one from York and another which has… ’ he paused for a moment before continuing, ‘… been produced locally.’
Arthur’s wish had fnally been granted. He now appeared on the plates being distrib-uted around the table, camoufaged with the other meats and the smoked eel.
Total secrecy had been maintained by the shadow faculty with all the meats being delivered to the kitchen with no mention of their provenance. So apart from Augustus, George, Charles, Theodore and Hamish, the other diners had no idea they were particip-ating in a grand gastronomic experiment, conceived by the man who was looking down at them from his portrait on the panelled wall of the dining room. The shadow faculty members all picked at the eel and other meats discreetly, watching to see who frst tasted the small roulade of sliced meat placed at the 12 o’clock position on each plate.
Mary Frances, sensing the lack of conversation around the table, decided this was a good time to tackle the vice-chancellor on the future of gastronomy within the uni-versity.
‘Vice-chancellor, I was just wondering, do you have any real intention of meeting the conditions of Professor Plantagenet’s legacy?’
‘I was of a mind to consider it, but I must say that all the nonsense I have heard around this table tonight has made me wonder. After all it is just food.’
With that he picked up the rolled-up slice of Arthur onto his fork. All the members of the shadow faculty watched intently for his reaction but frustratingly he merely waved his fork around in the air as he continued to talk.
‘As hard as it is to turn one’s back on a legacy of this magnitude, I feel the cost to Oxford’s reputation of creating a faculty of gastron… of what is no more than a preten-tious version of home economics, might be too high. There are plenty of girls’ boarding schools around to teach about cooking and if you want continental cooking then you should go to the continent.’
Then he placed the entire piece of dried meat into his mouth. After chewing for a few moments he opened his mouth to pass judgement on this morsel only to fnd that no sound emerged. More alarming was the realisation moments later that no air could enter his lungs either. He pushed his chair back noisily as he rose to his feet in panic. Mary Frances, who had been about to launch a vocal counterattack in defence of both gastronomy and girls’ schools, suddenly changed tack.
‘Oh my, God. Augustus, he’s choking,’ said Mary Frances. ‘You’re a doctor aren’t you? Do something.’
That the vice-chancellor was choking was already amply clear to everyone in the room and in light of Mary Frances’ words they all looked to Augustus to save him. The delay in Dr Bloom’s response, which was long enough for the vice-chancellor’s colour to turn from suffused pink to an alarmingly dusky shade of puce, was motivated in part by Augustus’ profound dislike for the man but also by the practical defciencies in his medical training. With a determined pull on his jacket from Mary Frances, Augustus f-nally stood up. Bending over he peered in the vice-chancellor’s mouth for any visible obstruction while his patient grabbed frantically at his arms. Seeing nothing he hit him ineffectually on the back. Only then did he recall a more appropriate response, the Heim-lich manoeuvre, though he had never actually performed it. Placing his arms around the base of the vice-chancellor’s ribcage he locked his fsts together and gave a frm upward jerk. The small piece of his dear departed friend that had been stuck in the vice-chan-cellor’s gullet few through the air and landed on the tablecloth. With a deft fick of his fork, Charles Pinker defected it towards the freplace where it remained. With a rasping intake of air, the vice-chancellor collapsed back onto his chair.
‘Well that was a close thing. Would a brandy help?’ said Augustus to break the si-lence.
A nod was suffcient response for Gerard who within a few moments slid a large glass of Cognac in front of the vice-chancellor. As it was clear the vice-chancellor was a man of little culinary refnement, Gerard felt that the Cognac used in the kitchens would suffce. He always kept a bottle handy as he was occasionally called on to fambé at the tableside.
During the commotion that followed, one of the more inquisitive and daring members of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science picked a small piece of Arthur from his plate and chewed gently, unobserved
by his fellow diners. Afterwards he took a long draught of wine and murmured his opinion mostly to himself, but aware that one other interested party might be listening as well.
‘Chewy and slightly stringy with a certain sweetness. More like Bresaola than ham, but veering towards Biltong at the edges. Strange hint of beer in there too. Interesting but sadly not a patch on Pata Negra.’
*
Within the wine cellars, in the chamber directly beneath the chapel, there now sat two old chairs side by side. In one of the chairs, illuminated by a sputtering candle, was a man in the garb of an eighteenth-century cleric. He was sipping a glass of wine while stroking a small Mallard duck that sat peacefully on his lap with its head under its wing. He looked up and, peering into the gloom past the racks of wine, tried to identify the source of an unusual sound. It was that of wood hitting the stone foor with a slow but rhythmical meter. The sound came closer until the form of Arthur Plantagenet came into view. He was still learning to master the art of walking with a wooden leg and it was with great relief that he slumped into the second chair.
‘Chewy, huh! Imagine comparing me to a piece of Biltong,’ muttered Arthur. ‘Mind you, if I could have properly choked that ingrate Ridgeway it would have been worth-while.’
‘And have him down here for the rest of eternity, I think not,’ said Hieronymus Bloch, enjoying his frst proper conversation in over two hundred years.
‘Hadn’t thought of that. Talking of eternity, why am I still here? I don’t understand why I haven’t passed over yet.’
‘My mind has been much vexed by such questions since 1752. Worry not, your time will come as I am sure will mine. Take a glass of port with me and later perhaps I can entertain you with some Bach. I’ve recently been practising his Fantasia in C minor.’
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 34
