I considered all the various permutations of how this would play out and came to the only possible conclusion: “we’re dead.”
We had three weeks to create a menu that would save our lives.
__________
General Miyamoto was a man who could smile, shake your hand and then order your execution with his next breath. He was the one man on camp who I truly feared. Whenever he was in my vicinity my pulse ran just that little bit quicker.
The day after Trevelyan had made his pact with the devil, the General had sent for me to come to his office, that instant.
“Chef Cornwall,” he said, his dark eyes fixing me with deadly intent, “I do hope you won’t disgrace me in front of my guests. Do we understand each other?”
I forced a smile. “Your judgement of my ability is as true as a Kyudoka’s arrow. I am here by my master’s grace alone, and I will not let you down.” I bowed once.
“That is correct, you won’t,” he said curtly, and waved me out of his office with a dismissive hand. I let out a heavy sigh. I got the feeling he was almost hoping we’d fail. I was determined to give him the best meal he’d ever had, if only to spite him.
__________
“All we have to do,” I said late one night as Trevelyan and I shared a bottle of whisky, “is to pool everything we know about Japan, the Japanese mindset, and our Japanese captors. Then we can deduce the kind of meal that would astound and delight them.”
I was smoking a cheap cigarette, a Geisha’s Thigh that a young corporal of my acquaintance blended specially. I only ever resorted to these at moments of high crisis, as the acrid smoke seemed to sharpen my wits. I punctuated my revelation by blowing a plume into the air.
“I concur,” Trevelyan said, knocking back the entire contents of his tumbler. “That’s definitely our route to success on this one,” before adding a further insight, “they hate China.”
I nodded. “So, no Chinese food then,” I replied grabbing a pen and paper.
“They’re a proud nation,” he said, getting into the swing of it, “tremendous self-control. Can be bloody tough and cruel.”
“Good,” I said noting it all down, “so we need to reflect that. Let’s keep this going.”
Trevelyan was on a roll, “They like watching extremely fat people wrestle.”
“Sick.” I said, “Sick and depraved. What else?”
“Apparently they can sleep with one eye open.”
“Clever…” I was writing it down, “…buggers.”
Trevelyan poured himself another splash of whisky. “I read that they’re rather fond of uncooked fish,” he said, bemused.
I put the pen down for a moment and looked up. “You know a lot about Japan,” I said, genuinely surprised. Trevelyan said nothing, but I could see he appreciated the compliment. I felt like we were finally getting somewhere.
__________
I spent the week in a huge mess tent, experimenting with flavour combinations, textures and tastes. Otter liver salad with a béchamel sauce? No, too cloying. Sloth face terrine with a cranberry reduction? No. Sloth face doesn’t work with cranberries. Or anything.
I couldn’t cook to save my life. Which was unfortunate, because that was exactly what I had to do. It was the most intense, terrifying and yet somehow exciting time of my entire incarceration. The meal was just over a fortnight away and we were almost certainly going to be shot at the end of it.
__________
The next evening, after another hectic day in the kitchen, a delivery arrived. It was addressed to the ‘General’s Kitchen’, and was a large box wrapped in paper. By now I had adopted the egotistical behaviour of any really high quality Head Chef. “Why is this in my kitchen?” I screamed into the face of a lance corporal who was chopping vegetables.
“Sorry sir, it’s the star anise and ground vanilla you ordered from Tokyo. I haven’t had a moment to put them in the stores.”
I shook my head at this abysmal laxity. At that moment another large box arrived and so after throwing a pan of boiling water at the wall I asked the young delivery boy what it was.
“No idea sir, sorry sir. Perhaps it’s the bluefin tuna we’ve been waiting for.”
Trevelyan was standing by the door and had witnessed all of this. “Incredible isn’t it?” he said, “that despite all of the fences, the guards, the dogs, the guns, our ingredients slip through security without anyone knowing a damn thing about them.”
I agreed. It was incredible, but there wasn’t a guard on camp who would risk ruining the General’s meal by denying us our supplies. The seed of an idea was beginning to form.
“Nobody is going to dare look inside a delivery meant for the General.” I said, my mind beginning to race. “I have been told I can bring any kind of food into this camp. Anything. No expense spared.”
“Go on,” Trevelyan was listening intently.
“Well, for the next two weeks anything goes. We’ll be bringing in truck loads past the fences, the guards, the dogs.”
“So I guess the question is what else can we bring in?”
“Troops,” I said, grinning excitedly.
“Troops!” Trevelyan’s interest was piqued. “How?” My keen military mind was running through myriad scenarios, eliminating the superfluous and honing in, honing in and thrice honing in, until, bingo! I really was a devious, creative bastard and when I was on a roll I took some stopping. “Major Trevelyan,” I announced triumphantly, “I give you Operation Trojan Whale.”
Trevelyan smiled like he’d been told he was a free man already. “You really are something else Cornwall,” he said. “That is absolutely brilliant.”
__________
The plan was simple. A crack group of commandos would hide inside a whale that was to be the main course of General Miyamoto’s feast. The commandos would stay inside until the main course, a whole whale on a giant plate, was served. They would then spring out onto the table and gun down the entire Japanese High Command just as they were about to tuck in. Then they’d kill all of the guards and liberate us. If anything it would be too easy.
So I had to get a message out of the camp. I knew that a couple of the chaps from the Royal Signals had been secretly training a carrier pigeon to speak English. Unhelpfully they’d only taught it to chirp “Up yours Hirohito,” and that was about it. However I discovered that it could also identify the Royal Naval ensign and would keep on flying until it found one. My message would find a way into friendly hands.
I wrote a note on a tiny scroll and attached it to the pigeon’s neck, sealing it within an empty .303 Lee Enfield round. I was confident the plan would work, but I still had to ensure the meal was good enough to keep me alive until we sprang our trap.
One Week later
The guards stood and stared as the recently harpooned baby humpback whale passed through the camp gates on a flatbed lorry. Trevelyan and I watched carefully, hardly daring to smile as we thought about the whale’s deadly cargo.
Earlier that day we’d been speculating on how many men, rifles and rounds of ammunition you could fit inside a baby humpback whale and concluded that about ten might be possible, more than enough to overpower the camp. The only thing that surprised me was why nobody had thought of it before.
When we got the whale into the kitchen tent I asked everyone bar Trevelyan to leave. Once we were alone Trevelyan hitched me up on top of the whale and I peered down into the blowhole. I couldn’t see anything, so I put my mouth up against it and called down inside.
“Hey! How are you men feeling? Do you need food and water?”
To my relief an answer came straight back.
“Yes. Water. It’s very hot down here. Water would be much appreciated.” Trevelyan ran to grab a canteen and filled it from a pail. He passed it to me and I forced it down through the blowhole. I
looked at Trevelyan who was grinning from ear to ear and I gave him the thumbs up. We’d done it! We’d only bloody gone and done it! Trevelyan could see I was getting emotional and started chuckling to himself. He clapped me on the back.
“Stop it!” I joshed, feeling tired and emotional. It had been a stressful few weeks but we’d come out on top.
“You silly bugger,” he replied, shaking his head. After a few seconds the canteen was pushed back up through the blowhole. That was quick, I thought.
“Thanks,” came the voice from inside. I felt the weight of the canteen. It was still half full. A worrying thought crossed my mind and I must have been frowning because Trevelyan noticed something was bothering me.
“Problem?”
I pressed my mouth to the blowhole again. “How many of you are in there?”
There was a brief moment of silence. Trevelyan and I waited.
“Just me,” came the reply.
I felt as though I’d been sucker-punched.
__________
Able Seaman Grimshaw was the only volunteer for Operation Trojan Whale. When I saw him I couldn’t believe my eyes. Rarely had I felt so underwhelmed. He was a slight, freckled young man of seventeen years, with thick-lensed glasses and a baggy uniform. He was nothing like the kind of fellow I expected to come out of a whale’s mouth.
Grimshaw explained how the exhausted pigeon had fallen out of the sky and into his Captain’s lap, just managing a faint curse of Hirohito before it died. The Captain had read out my letter in front of the whole crew. But rather than a clamour for volunteers, a silence had fallen across the ship. He had been the only one to raise his hand. He didn’t even look like a soldier.
“How long have you been in the Navy, Grimshaw?” I asked.
“Two years sir,” he said politely.
“Two years? And have you ever handled a weapon before?”
“Oh yes, sir,” he said brightly, “During training at Raleigh we did a day on the ranges with them, sir.”
I looked at Trevelyan who sighed and rolled his eyes.“You’re not a soldier are you, Grimshaw,” I said.
He paused and looked at the ground and then said, “No sir. But I’d like to do my bit. I’ve been stuck on that ship for the last year and a half, and I haven’t seen any action yet.”
“I don’t know what kind of action you had in mind son but I doubt you’ll find it here. You’re a prisoner now,” Trevelyan said ruefully.
“What are you Grimshaw? A radio operator? A medic?” I asked.
“No sir,” he said sheepishly, “I’m a chef.”
__________
Grimshaw was a breath of fresh air. Bluntly, he was wasting his time trying to be a soldier. His talents lay in the galley. And what talents he had! I promoted him to Captain, which gave him seniority over everyone in the kitchen other than Trevelyan and myself. With his help we started to create the menu that would save our lives. He stepped up to the challenge with relish, and over the next few days grew more confident. He was good company too, and despite coming from different backgrounds we all got on like a house on fire. The three of us worked day and night, and I started to believe that we’d produce the finest meal the Japanese High Command had ever eaten.
A week after Grimshaw’s arrival, the big day finally arrived. I was shaking like a shitting dog. In our makeshift kitchen, full of clapped-out ovens, uneven surfaces, uncertain electrics and haphazard staff, we were going to attempt the most ostentatious display of gourmet cooking since the War began. I gathered together the entire kitchen and waiting staff. With the Japanese High Command guests taking their seats it was time for a pep talk.
Trevelyan stepped forward. “Tonight,” he said, striding up and down the line of men, “tonight, we go to War!” He had a wild look in his eyes that I’d last seen on the plane back from the Black Forest. “Those bastards out there are expecting us to fail. Maybe even wanting us to fail! But WE ARE NOT GOING TO FAIL! We are going to serve them the most exquisite meal they’ve ever eaten. FOR OUR HONOUR AND FOR GREAT BRITAIN!”
__________
The meal began with a palate cleanser, the baseline from where the taste buds set off on their gustatory journey. A palate primed with, for instance, salty food, will not distinguish the subtlety of seasoning in a new dish. We needed to do this in such a way that our skill was not in any doubt. We’d worked hard and were determined to live another day.
The Palate Cleanser
– Drunken Bee Hummingbird –
– with Vodka & Lime –
The General and his guests sat stony-faced as the waiters brought out identical tiny birdcages on porcelain plates. One waiter demonstrated how to open the tiny cage door directly into the mouth and allow the hummingbird to fly in. After that the rest would take care of itself.
We needed a strong opening dish and we were particularly proud of this one. The hummingbirds had been force-fed a diet of vodka and lime, and had had their kidneys surgically removed so that they couldn’t process the vodka. The idea was that the terrified bird would urinate this cocktail inside the mouth. The super-fast wingbeats would atomise the liquid, forcing a fine mist of lime and vodka into the far reaches of the palate. The diners would then crunch down on the bird and swallow it after a couple of chews. It was a taste explosion. Exquisite.
I stood in the kitchen nervously watching through a gap in the door. How would the General react to my brilliantly inventive gastronomy? Would the birds refuse to come out of their cages? Were hummingbirds even edible? Nobody had checked.
I could only watch and wait.
The General was the first to try. He carefully opened the cage door onto his mouth and immediately the little bird flew in. For a moment he looked uneasy, as if he might gag, but then suddenly his face was overcome with sweet relief, and then joy. He crunched down on the bird, swallowed hard, and broke into laughter. The whole table applauded and then each officer followed suit. To a man their reaction was the same. I breathed a sigh of relief and patted Grimshaw on the back. “One down Grimshaw, one down, let’s keep it going.”
I looked over to Trevelyan, already in his bear suit and tutu and about to get on his unicycle. He gave me the thumbs up that he was ready.
Now for the starter:
Starter
– Humiliated Bear Tongue Parfait –
According to Trevelyan, a typical Japanese family outing is a visit to a local bear park, where bears are hilariously demeaned as they perform circus acts like balancing balls or catching hoops. The absolute zenith is watching a bear in a tutu ride a unicycle. I felt I should somehow reflect the national love of these magnificent and versatile animals so I came up with a brilliantly realised starter.
Each guest was served a bear’s head on a plate. I could have chosen Japanese Sun bears but that would have been too obvious, so instead I opted for grizzly bears. Grizzly bears are much bigger and come from the United States, which had a pleasing political dimension.
You can imagine how difficult it was to source and import eleven grizzly bears in the middle of a world war.
The heads were just decoration. The actual dish was the tongue, which had been removed and blended with chicken liver and cream. This unctuous paté was then moulded into a tongue shape and placed back inside the head. We’d spent an age trying to get each bear to lick its own reconstituted lips, which said something profound about the decadent Western enemy.
During the course Trevelyan would ride up and down the room on a unicycle dressed as a bear in a tutu. It was pure theatre.
When the General saw his bear’s head he smiled and nodded knowingly before tucking in. I was getting the feeling that this was going well. They lapped it up. Every mouthful was devoured. Once again I congratulated Grimshaw and helped Trevelyan out of his bear suit. One of the Japanese officers had kicked him off the unicycle for l
aughs. He had broken his fall on a dresser of glassware, which had given him some nasty cuts and bruises, but it was worth it for the hilarity it provoked in our guests.
And to follow:
First Fish Course
– Inappropriate Sexual Octopus –
– With Aromatic Oyster Liquor –
It was lucky Trevelyan was absolutely rock solid on the cultural touchstones of Japan. He’d told me a traditional tale called The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife. This course was an elegant retelling of that story in which a lady diver is brought to the heights of ecstasy by an adventurous octopus eager to sample the heady scent of a human woman.
As the silver tureens were whipped off, the diner was faced with the Fisherman’s Wife’s legs, carved from lotus root and saucily akimbo. There, nestling at the heart of her wonderfully rendered oyster vagina was a madako octopus. The diner was to eat the octopus live, and then gently tongue out the oyster liquor behind in a charming simulation of the story’s climax.
The presentation was certainly edgy, but actually I was more concerned with how they’d react to the delicate balance of seafood flavours that we’d daringly paired with a local variant of laver bread. This required a more sophisticated palate than the previous courses.
I needn’t have worried. When I saw General Hin playfully examining Director Natu’s front teeth for seaweed pubic hair, I knew they loved it.
Second Fish Course
– Proud Dolphin & Noble Orca –
– Humbled by Japanese Steel Sashimi –
Served on a three-dimensional representation of the Arctic Ocean, including whaling ships, icebergs and sailors carved from white radish, the officers were each presented with a small harpoon gun and encouraged to use the weapons to capture tiny steaks of raw dolphin and killer whale set in crushed ice.
Scoundrels Page 23