It wasn’t his fault those foods tasted so awful. Even the muffins! Too dry! Why couldn’t people just figure out how to make food as good as Renoir’s pastries? Guster hugged his knees, fighting back the tears. Why was everyone making things so difficult for him? Didn’t they want to make the One Recipe too?
Strangely enough, as soon as he had he thought about all those delicious treats, the most wonderful smell wafted into his nose and tickled his nostrils. He turned; there was a single scone, lying on the snow behind him, brown and crisp and still steaming. He crept over to it, bending low to examine its golden, crispy dough. He smelled it — it was perfection. Had he wished it there? It was like something Renoir would have made. He prodded it with his fingertip; it was real enough.
There was no one in sight — just a huge pile of rocks and ice. That was a strange place for a scone. Someone must have left it there. But who? Was it dangerous? Guster shook his head. Don’t be silly, he told himself, picking it up and drawing it to his face. Something that smelled so wonderful couldn’t hurt anyone. He took a bite. It was exquisite! He closed his eyes. The flavor washed down his throat. It was as if he’d been a dry lakebed all his life and now it was raining a sweet pastry rain.
No sooner had he finished it than two strong hands seized him by the arms. A third hand covered his eyes. A fourth hand — with the distinct smell of pickled ginger — clapped over his mouth before he could scream.
“Don’t worry, child, all we want is zee One Recipe,” someone said.
Chapter 12 — The Cult of Gastronimatii
Pickled Ginger. Guster had smelled it before; and this time — like before — danger was close at hand. The hands lifted from his eyes and he saw him — the Chef in Red from the Patisserie. The chef’s red toque was pulled low over his black eyes, masking the top of his face, his pointy teeth bared in a maniacal grin.
Guster struggled to escape when two more chefs — both dressed in flowing red aprons — tied his wrists together. They held him tight by the arms.
“Zee eggbeater, child. Where is it?” said the Chef in Red, his face threateningly close to Guster’s.
Guster’s heart thumped in his chest. How had they found him here? “What are you talking about?” he was trying to buy some time, but he’d already stolen the eggbeater right out from under the Chef in Red’s nose back in the Patisserie.
The Chef in Red sighed. “Do not try my patience, child,” he said motioning to one of the other chefs. “Show him how we found ’im!”
The chef on Guster’s right arm let go. Guster hadn’t noticed it before, but he was shorter than the other two, with tan skin and dark hair sticking out from the toque that masked his face. There were corn designs embroidered in black around the hems of his apron and jacket. He wore a tiny red ear of corn around his neck.
Impossible! thought Guster. He knew that ear of corn. “Estomago!”
“Ci, Senor,” he said. “I had you back there in Cusco! But then —” Estomago rubbed the back of his skull. “It seems I owe you a very strong favor.” He smiled cruelly. Guster had no doubt he intended a deadly repayment.
Estomago pulled a sealed plastic dish from a large picnic basket covered in a red cloth that he held in the crook of his arm. He opened the dish and showed the contents to Guster. Inside was a piece of molded green Jell-O.
“So?” said Guster.
“It is a mold,” said Estomago. “From when your sister foolishly dropped the eggbeater in the mud. It left an imprint. I made this jell-O in the impression to preserve it after you were gone.”
Guster caught his breath. They had the recipe? He strained against the chef still holding his arms to get a closer look at it. There was the shape of the bear and the butter churn as well as the coordinates. Next to that were the very tips of pyramids and the end of a river, but nothing more. No wonder they still needed the eggbeater.
“Naturally we followed the clue, and we know about the butter,” said Estomago. “Had I known what you had, I would’ve killed you and taken the eggbeater back in Peru!”
Which is exactly what the Chef in Red wanted to do. Now he just might do it.
Anger flushed over Guster. He was mad at himself for getting distracted by that scone. He was mad at himself for leaving the longhouse. He was mad that the Chef in Red had caught him. Now he was mad at himself for being so mad, and he wanted to burst. “I know who you are!” he yelled at the Chef in Red.
The Chef in Red smiled wickedly. “Oh you do, do you?” he said. “And who might that be?”
“The Cult of Gastronimatii!” Guster cried.
The Chef in Red scowled. “My, my. Someone ‘as been doing ‘is homework,” he said. “Well, then. Allow me to introduce myself properly: I am Palatus, Arch-Gourmand of zee Ancient Order of Flavor, Sovereign of zee Sect of zee Savorous Societ-ee, Lord-Evertaster of zee Cult of Gastronimatii.” He removed the hat masking his face, then bent low to look Guster directly in the eyes. “And you?” he asked with a hiss.
“Guster Stephen Johnsonville,” said Guster. He struggled, but the chef still holding him was too strong and the ropes on his wrists too tight. They may kill him, but Guster wasn’t going to show weakness. He wasn’t going to give away what he knew about the One Recipe. “You were the ones who destroyed those food factories!”
The Chef in Red, Palatus, laughed a cruel, evil laugh. “Of course! It is what zee Gastronimatii do! ’Ave you heard of Marie Antoinette? The one who said ‘Let them eat cake!’”
Guster had heard of her. His fifth grade teacher taught them how Marie Antoinette said the starving peasants should eat cake, even though Marie was the only one who had any.
“Zee people were eating bread that tasted like rocks! And in France! Zee Gastronimatii burned as many of those filthy loaves as they could. Only delicious and masterfully made cake remained! Things truly worthy of Paris! And Marie Antoinette was a loyal member of zee Cult! A champion of the sacred flavors!”
“But those people were starving!” said Guster. How could Palatus brag about that?
Palatus lowered his face to Guster’s level. “It had to be done. It is zee way history goes — zee Cult of Gastronimatii policing the cuisine of each nation. The French Revolution, zee first World War, and now zee factories. Can’t you see? We will stop at nothing to protect the pure flavors from the putrid sewage others would mix with it!”
“You know zee pain that such vile filth causes!” He pointed at his mouth. “Zee way it stabs your tongue like daggers! Zee way it poisons your throat.” He coughed, unscrewing the lid of his jar of pickled ginger, his eyes watering. He took a pink slice of the pungent root and slid it into his mouth like it was medicine, then swallowed. “I must cleanse my palette just thinking about it! Those factories made food. Not cuisine. And so they must be eliminated! Wiped off zee map!”
“You can’t! People will starve!” said Guster, but even as he said it, even as he feared for his own life, he understood. He knew the pain Palatus felt.
“There are Tasters and there are Scavengers,” said Palatus furiously. “Zee ones who simply eat, and zee ones who live for each bite of flavor! It is a war and you would be foolish not to join zee side that will triumph.”
“I already have,” Guster said, though there was less conviction in his voice than he would have liked.
“Have you?” asked Palatus, his eyebrow raised. “Because, Guster Johnsonville — Evertaster — I see great potential in you. I watched you that night in the Patisserie. I know why Renoir gave the eggbeater to you! The makings of the Gastronimatii are in you!”
A new, different kind of guilt surged over Guster. That wasn’t true. He wasn’t like them. He was just being careful… wasn’t he?
“Estomago! Duodenum! Go to zee house. Tell them we ’ave zee boy, and that they will only get ’im back when they give us zee eggbeater!” shouted Palatus as he took the picnic basket from Estomago.
Estomago took one malicious look at Guster, then hiked downhill. The other chef — the o
ne Palatus called Duodenum — turned and bore a set of pointy fangs at Guster before he too took off down the glacier toward Guster’s family.
Palatus yanked the ropes around Guster’s wrists, pulling him further up the ice. “Where are we going?” asked Guster. He dreaded how it would all end, but he had to know.
“To have a meal,” said Palatus, trudging through the crusty snow. It was a strange answer, but there was nothing Guster could do. His wrists were bound too tightly. Palatus could end it all right then if he wanted to and Guster knew it.
They trudged on. Guster sank up to his knees with each step, the sweat trickling down his forehead. The going got more difficult the higher they went. Pulling his legs out of the deep snow over and over was hard work.
Eventually they came to a vertical shelf of ice that blocked their path. Just to his right, a narrow ice bridge spanned a crevasse so deep, Guster could not see the bottom.
Palatus forced Guster across the bridge. Guster stepped gingerly. If the ice broke, he’d plummet to his death. It trembled beneath him. He took a few more shaky steps. Miraculously, it held until they got to the other side.
Palatus threw Guster down in the snow. Tiny chunks of ice got down Guster’s jacket and froze to his back. He propped himself up on his hands. “You are just a selfish, picky eater!” he cried. He wasn’t going to let Palatus kill him before he’d said the truth.
Palatus shook his head. “You misunderstand me, boy. Indeed, zee mere sludge you call food pains me. Indeed, I want to taste zee One Recipe more than anything. I ’ave given my life in pursuit of it — as have the rest of the Gastronimatii — but I am not like my colleagues. Where they are insatiable monsters, I alone have taken steps to understand zee full power of the Gastronomy of Peace. It is not meant merely to be consumed. It has a purpose.”
“The One Recipe is supposed to bring world peace!” shouted Guster.
“Indeed,” said Palatus. A smile formed on his lips. He untied Guster’s wrists. “And that is why there is no reason for men of like minds to quarrel. Not when there is joy to be had.” Palatus set down the picnic basket and spread the red table cloth out on the snow. He set a plate on it, then pulled a steaming bowl of French onion soup, a baguette, and a cut of filet mignon out of the basket and placed it on the table cloth.
It was startling how good the soup smelled — the true opposite of Mom’s. The aroma pulled on Guster like a magnet. He wanted to dive in, to consume it all. Something to finally fill his stomach! He needed it.
“Come, enjoy all that the Gastronimatii have to offer,” said Palatus. He held out a fork and a spoon.
As if Guster could trust him! But Guster was so hungry. He folded his hands close to his body to keep them from reaching out. He had to resist. He had to —
He snatched the utensils and dove toward the meal, slurping the soup greedily, tearing tender strips of meat off with this teeth. He was no longer in control. He needed those foods. The flavors burst across his tongue like an explosion. They did not just consume his mouth — they flooded his body.
“There is so much the world could be,” said Palatus tenderly. “Zee Gastronimatii know the Octaves of Taste, frequencies of flavor that when used properly can make astounding cree-ations! Zee symmetry in a simple baguette, or the beauty of mixing soup ingredients in the golden ratio. These things move people — more than music, more than theatre. It is zee ultimate art — for cuisine is humankind’s lifeblood! Why shouldn’t I want that for humanity?”
I see now, thought Guster, as he bathed in the flavor. He was the meat and this was the marinade. If only food always tasted like this. His pain would be over.
Perhaps he had judged them too harshly. If this is what the Gastronimatii wanted for everyone, maybe it was the right thing to do. Who was he to stand in the way of such progress?
“You need not go back,” said Palatus, removing his mask. His hair was so blonde, it was nearly white. “Come with us.”
And if he did? He may never see the farmhouse again. Would that be so bad? Don’t be an idiot, thought Guster. He was in danger, and he wasn’t going to let his guard down.
“They are coming,” said Estomago as he and Duodenum came charging back up the hill. They stopped at the shelf of ice on the other side of the chasm. “And they have two giants with them!”
Palatus touched his fingertips together. “Good. Prepare the ambush,” he said.
An evil grin twisted across Estomago’s face. He took a cooking torch from his belt, lit it, then pressed the flame close to the bottom of the frozen ice shelf. “It’s like roasting a ham,” he laughed. “You have to know which parts to make tender.” The ice cracked and groaned, on the verge of breaking free. Estomago stepped to the side and waited.
Moments later, Mom, Zeke, Mariah, Torbjorn and Storfjell came hiking up the hill. Guster’s mouth was too full to cry out a warning.
“Stop there!” shouted Palatus, his voice echoing across the chasm.
Mom stopped in her tracks. Henry Junior clung to her back. Torbjorn and Storfjell stood ready, round wooden shields strapped to their arms, battle axes in hand.
“Give us the eggbeater!” said Palatus.
“Give us Guster first!” shouted Mom, her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing with such fury that Guster could hardly believe she was his own mother.
“Do you really think that you are able to make dee-mands when you face zee strength of zee Gastronimatii?” said Palatus. His metal cleaver sang as he pulled it from his belt. Estomago and Duodenum pulled wickedly long, pointy blades from their belts too.
“Yes we do,” said Mom. “Torbjorn, Storfjell, do your worst.”
“Gladly!” said Torbjorn, and the two giants thundered up the mountain like bulls, their beards waving behind them, Torbjorn’s head lowered so that his horned helmet was aimed at Estomago.
Palatus hurled his cleaver through the air just as his two minions did the same. The knives flew, spinning straight for Mariah and Zeke. Torbjorn saw the first cleaver and pushed off one foot, throwing himself in front of the flying blade. He extended his shield; the cleaver struck it with a thud. Storfjell blocked a second knife with his shield. The third sailed dangerously close to Zeke’s head.
Seeing his chance, Estomago lit his torch and held it to the cliff side. The ice creaked dangerously. With a horrible cry, Duodenum turned up the dial on this torch and spewed a huge ball of fire at Torbjorn.
The Buttersmiths ducked just as the wall of ice broke free. Duodenum and Estomago leapt out of the way as it came crashing down on Torbjorn and Storfjell. They were buried in an instant.
Horrified, Guster searched for a sign that they were still alive. The ice was silent. Duodenum laughed.
Mom gasped. Guster’s heroes had fallen. Now no one could rescue him, even if he wanted them to. Duodenum and Estomago seized Mom, Zeke and Mariah easily by the arms.
“Ha!” said Palatus. “You see what happens when you dare to dee-fy us! Now, give us zee eggbeater.”
“We’ll copy the recipe! Then we can both have it,” she called across the chasm. Guster could hear fear in her voice. They were trapped and he could tell she knew it.
Palatus laughed. “And share zee Gastronomy of Peace with lowly Scavengers like yourselves? Never! That recipe has a destin-ee!”
“But the world needs it!” said Mom. Yes, thought Guster. And Palatus wants to be the one to give it to them.
“If only you understood!” cried Palatus. “We will blow up a thousand more factories, or burn a thousand more farms if that’s what it takes to get that eggbeater. We’ll sink this island if we ’ave to! Or simply,” Palatus’ eyes narrowed, “You will never see zee boy again.”
Mom closed her eyes, sighed, then took the eggbeater from Mariah’s backpack. Estomago ran up to her and wrenched it from her fingers.
He crossed the snow bridge and kneeled before Palatus, presenting him with the eggbeater. Palatus grasped it like a scepter and smiled cruelly. “Ah, the One Recipe.”
“That is for ’im to decide,” said Palatus. He motioned with his head. “Estomago, the Dreamless Gravy!” he said.
Estomago pulled a steaming silver gravy boat from the picnic basket and crossed the snow bridge once more to where Duodenum held Mom tightly by the arms. Estomago drew a ladle from his belt, filled it with a meaty, steaming brown liquid and put it to her lips. She kept them sealed.
“You ever see a man fall asleep in his chair after a turkey dinner?” said Palatus to Guster. “This gravy is one million times more potent! There is enough turkey juice in it to knock out an elephant. One mouthful, and your mother will sleep for a full decade.” Mom struggled; it was no use.
Could Palatus really do that? Could he really put Mom to sleep?
“Do not worry. It won’t hurt her — she will sleep soundly,” said Palatus, the hatred pouring from his eyes. “You are an Evertaster, Guster Johnsonville. Consider my offer. She tastes the gravy and you get ten years of freedom.”
There was no reason to doubt the gravy could do that. Guster had seen enough damage done by the Gastronimatii to believe it.
“Imagine, ten years of this,” Palatus pointed to the meal at his feet.
Ten years without anyone telling him what to do. No chores, no nagging, no casseroles. No more burnt or rubbery food that tasted like damp carpet. He’d be grown by the time it was over. She would never be able to tell him what to do again. How many times had he wished for this! “And if I refuse?”
“No one can be forced to go the way of the Gastronimatii,” said Palatus. He breathed in the remnants of the filet mignon and held it in his nostrils. Guster could smell it too. “You must make the choice between taste and hunger.”
If only the Gastronimatii had made this offer eleven years ago. If only he could have skipped his time at home. If only he could erase it. It was just one sip. It wasn’t going to hurt her.
Evertaster Page 13
