by Chris Bunch
He sautéed all that in clarified butter. Then he dumped the mixture into another pot and set it to bubbling with a dozen quartered tomatoes, a cup of tomato paste, four green peppers, and a two-fingered pinch of dry mustard.
A health glug or three of very dry red wine went into the pot. Then he added the finishing touch. He stirred in the smoky starter sauce that he had prepared in advance, raised the heat, and simmered ten minutes. The sauce was done.
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REVENGE OF THE DAMNED
The Emperor's Nuked Hen
The Emperor was preparing a dinner that he had promised Mahoney was perfectly suited to a war motif. He called it “nuked hen".
Using his fingers and the hollow of his palm as measuring spoons, he dumped the following ingredients into a bowl: a pinch of fresh cayenne, two fingers of ground salt, ground pepper, a palm of dried sage, and finely diced horseradish. He moved the bowl over to his big black range. Already sitting beside it was a bottle of vodka, fresh-squeezed lime juice, a half cup of capers, and a tub of butter.
The Emperor took a fat Cornish game hen out of a cold box and placed it on the metal table. He found a slim-bladed boning knife, tested the edge, and then nodded in satisfaction. He turned the hen over, back side up, and started his first cut alongside the spine.
He picked up his knife. “You might want to watch this, Ian,” he said. “Boning a hen is easy when you know how, but you can chop the clot out of it and yourself if you don't."
Very carefully, the Emperor cut on either side of the spine. He pushed a finger through the slit and pulled the bone up through the carcass. Next, he laid the hen flat, placed a hand on either side of the spine, and crunched down with his weight.
"See what I mean?” he said as he lifted the breastbone out.
The Emperor moved over to his range and fired up a burner. “First, I'm going to burn the clot out of this hen,” the Emperor said, turning to his range. “The whole trick is getting your pan hot enough.” The Emperor turned the flame up as high as it would go and then slammed on a heavy cast-iron pan. In a few moments, the pan began to smoke, and fans in the duct above the range whirred on. A few moments more, and the pan stopped smoking.
"Check the air just above the fan,” the Emperor said. “It's getting wavery, right?"
"Right."
"As the pan gets hotter, the air will wave faster and faster until the whole interior is a steady haze.” The haze came right on schedule.
"So it's ready now?” Mahoney asked.
"Almost, but not quite. This is the place most people foul up. In a minute or two the haze will clear and the bottom of the pan should look like white ash."
As soon as the ashen look appeared, the Emperor motioned for Mahoney to duck back. Then he dipped out a big chunk of butter, dumped it into the pan, and moved out of the way. Mahoney could see why as flames flashed above the pan. As soon as they died down, the Emperor moved swiftly forward and poured the spices out of the bowl and into the pan. He gave the mixture a few stirs in one direction, then the other. Next he tossed in the Cornish game hen. A column of smoke steamed upward in a roar.
"I give it about five minutes each side,” the Emperor said. “Then I spread capers all over it and toss the hen into the oven for twenty minutes or so to finish it off."
The Emperor dumped the thoroughly blackened hen into a baking dish. On went the capers, and into the oven it went—at 350 degrees. He cranked the flames down on the range, shoved the pan of drippings back on the fire, and stirred in two Imperial glugs of vodka and a quarter glug of lime juice. He would use the mixture to glaze the hen when it came out of the oven.
"I sort of get the idea,” Mahoney said, “that you're in the process of heating up a pan for the Tahn."
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THE RETURN OF THE EMPEROR
Raschid's Eggs Of Pattipong
Pattipong described them on the menu as Imperial Eggs Benedict. For some reason, the name bothered Raschid. He argued—mildly. Pattipong told him to get back to the kitchen. “Imperial good name. Thailand ... best elephants. Royal Elephants. Or so I hear."
Raschid had made sourdough starter a week or so before—warm water, equal amount of flour, a bit of sugar, and yeast. Cover in a nonmetallic dish and leave until it stinks.
He used that as a base for what were still called English muffins. They were equally easy to make. For about eight muffins, he brought a cup of milk to a boil, then took it off the stove and dumped in a little salt, a teaspoon of sugar, and two cupfuls of premixed biscuit flour. After he beat it all up, he let it rise until double size; then he beat in another cup of flour and let the dough rise once more.
Then open-ended cylinders were half filled with the dough. Raschid did not mention that the short cylinders had been pet food containers with both ends cut off. Even in this district, somebody might get squeamish.
He brushed butter on his medium-hot grill and put the cylinders down. Once the open end had browned for a few seconds, he flipped the cylinder, browned the other side and lifted the cylinder away, burning fingers in the process.
He added more butter and let the muffins get nearly black before putting them on a rack to cool. For use—within no more than four hours—he would split them with a fork and toast them.
He next found the best smoked ham he—or rather Pattipong—could afford. It was thin-sliced and browned in a wine-butter-cumin mixture.
Raschid went back to his recipe. The browned ham was put in a warming oven. He had lemon juice, red pepper, a touch of salt, and three egg yolks waiting in a blender. He melted butter in a small pan. Then his mental timer went on. Muffins toasted ... eggs went into boiling water to poach ... the muffins were ready ... ham went on top of the muffins ... two and a half minutes, exactly, and the eggs were plopped on top of the ham. He flipped the blender on and poured molten butter into the mixture. After the count of twenty, he turned the blender off and poured the hollandaise sauce over the eggs.
"Voila, Sr. Pattipong."
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VORTEX
The Emperor's Bombay Birani
"The theme tonight is India,” the Eternal Emperor said.
The Emperor held up a mound of cubed meat. About two pounds worth, Sten noted. “This is goat,” the Emperor said. “I had a field constructed for him and his brothers and sisters. Had the field planted with the same stuff his ancestors ate in India—mint, wild onion, you name it.” He plunked the mass into an ovenproof casserole.
He started shaking out spices over the lamb. “A little ginger,” he said, shifting to the recipe again. “Ground cloves, cardamom, chili, cumin ... heavier than the others ... couple of squeezes of garlic, and ye olde salt and pepper."
He dumped in some yogurt and lemon juice, and stirred up the whole mess, then set it to the side. He started frying onions in peanut oil.
He dumped half the fried onions on the lamb and mixed it up. He pulled the rice off the range. The water had been boiling for about five minutes. He drained the rice, stirred it up with the onions, and spread it out over the lamb.
"A little butter drizzled on the top,” the Emperor said, “and ... voila! I call this Bombay Birani, but basically it's an old goat stew.” He slammed on a tight-fitting lid, popped the casserole into the oven, and set it for bake.
"Now, I'm going to cheat,” the Emperor said. “The way this is supposed to go is, you set it at 380 degrees. Bake one hour. Then cut it to 325 and go for an hour more."
"But Marr and Senn, bless their souls, have come up with a new oven. Cuts real time half or more. And I can't tell the difference."
* * * *
It was an incredible dinner. Unforgettable. As usual.
There were mounds of food all over the table. Dhal and cucumber cooler. Three kinds of chutney: green mango, Bengal, and hot lime. Real hot lime. Little dishes of extra hot sauces and tiny red peppers. And fresh griddled flat bread—chapatties, the Emperor called them. Pl
us the Bombay Birani. Fragrant steam rose from the casserole.
"Dig in,” the Emperor said. Sten dug.
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EMPIRE'S END
Sten's Ultimate Steak Sandwich
Sten was rather morosely preparing himself a solitary meal, trying to remind himself that the best revenge is living well. Yet another pastime he had sort of picked up from the Eternal Emperor.
His meal was, by description, a simple Earth sandwich. Its filling would be a rib-eye steak from a steer.
But it may have been the Ultimate Steak Sandwich.
Earlier that day, before the paperwork and Go Higher And Hither orders had a chance to consume him as usual, he'd cut diagonal slices in the three-centimeter piece of meat. The steak went into a marinade—one-third extra-virgin olive oil, two-thirds Guinness—the remarkable dark beer he had been introduced to just before his last face-to-face meeting with the Eternal Emperor—salt, pepper, and a bit of garlic.
Now it was ready for the charbroiler.
He took softened butter, and beat a teaspoon of dried parsley, a teaspoon of tarragon, a teaspoon of thyme, and a teaspoon of oregano into it. He spread the butter on a freshly baked soft roll, foil-wrapped the roll, and put the roll in to warm.
Next he sliced onions. A lot of onions. He sautéed them in butter and paprika. As they started to sizzle, he warmed, in a double broiler, a half liter of sour cream mixed with three tablespoons of horseradish.
Next he'd charbroil the steak just until it stopped moving, slice it on the diagonal, put the meat on the roll, onions on the meat, sour cream on the onions, and commit cholesterolicide.
For a side dish he had thin-sliced garden tomatoes with a vinegar/olive oil/basil/thin-chopped chive dressing and beer.
Marr and Senn's Dinner Party
Sten wiped chicken gore on his apron and took the message from the runner. He scanned it.
"It's official,” he said. “The Zaginows will be here tomorrow night."
Senn fretted. “Not much time."
"It'll do, Senn, dear,” Marr soothed. “Otho's pantry is far better stocked than I imagined. We shouldn't have to cheat too much."
Sten hoisted a cleaver and resumed whacking chicken into parts. “Not that I doubt your abilities,” he said, “but I don't see how you plan a menu for something like this."
"Well ... We want them to be impressed,” Marr said. “So the dinner should reflect on your success. However, we want to do business with these people..."
A claw taloned out of the exquisite softness of Marr's fur. It speared a tomato and plunged it into boiling water. “We want them to like us. We don't want them to think we believe we're better than they are, for heaven's sakes."
Marr lifted the tomato from its hot bath—spun it toward the opposite paw. Where another claw whisked away the skin. Snip. Slide. Just like that. Sten's jaw dropped.
On automatic, Marr speared another tomato and repeated the process. And another tomato was peeled. Snip. Slide. Just like that. “Haute cuisine is definitely out, out, out,” he said.
"It wouldn't do,” Senn agreed. “Not at all.” His wickedly sharp claws were blazing through a stack of yellow onions. Skinning and chopping so deftly, Sten didn't feel the slightest sting in his eyes.
"We've decided on native dishes,” Marr said. “Food one might imagine came from an ordinary being's kitchen. But still a little exotic and daring because it is from someplace else."
"Also, it gives us a theme,” Senn said, disposing of another onion. “A Flag of All Nations sort of theme. It fits with the jumble of beings that make up the Zaginows."
"We like themes,” Marr said.
Sten was only half-listening. He was busy gaping at the Milchens’ skills. They were living kitchen machines. Full of all kinds of little tricks.
"Great. Great. Themes and all,” Sten said. “But, before you go any further, I have to ask you a question."
"Question away, dear,” Marr said, thunking down the last peeled tomato.
"I can't do onions like Senn...” he said, pointing at the furry little whirlwind, chopping up big mounds of the stuff. “I'm not built for it. But that trick with the tomatoes ... Every time I have to peel tomatoes, I mutilate the suckers. One pound of peel for every ounce of tomato."
"Poor thing,” Marr said.
"You only have to dip them in boiling water,” Senn said in a small—I really, really, don't think you're stupid—voice.
"And he's the leader of us all,” Marr said.
"I did read about it, once,” Sten said, weak. “But I never got around to testing it out."
"There, there, dear,” Senn said. “Of course you didn't."
The kitchen was filled with the delicious odor of tomatoes, garlic, and onions sizzling in olive oil. Marr tasted, adjusted the paprika, stirred some more, then nodded to Senn, who poured in fresh chicken stock.
Marr clamped a lid on the pot and set it to simmer. “When dinner is served,” he told Sten, “you might want to go easy on the soup."
Sten eyed the big pot, “Sure looks like enough to go around to me."
Senn laughed. “Oh, there's plenty, all right. But this is a special recipe. A guaranteed first-course tension-breaker. For the guests, that is. Not the host. Hosts should beware of this dish."
"You see,” Marr elaborated, “After we strain it through a sieve, we're going to stir in some flour and sour cream. Just enough to make it smooth.
"Then ... a moment before we serve it ... we add vodka. Lots of vodka! And ... voila,” Senn said. “We give you ... Hungarian tomato vodka soup! It's quite potent, too."
"A tongue loosener, huh?” Sten said, dry. “Did you guys ever consider a career as Mantis interrogators?"
"Amateurs,” Senn sniffed.
"No challenge at all,” Marr said.
* * * *
"After we get the Zaginow delegation nice and soothed,” Senn said, “we need to work on their courage.” He was dusting chunks of meat with flour, spiked with lots of salt and pepper.
Marr was assembling chopped-up onions, bell peppers, and crushed garlic. “Build them up for a firm commitment,” he said.
Senn giggled. “So to speak."
"Don't be dirty,” Marr said, putting on a pan doused with olive oil to heat.
"I can't help it,” Senn said, the giggles building. “My mind just works that way. Especially when we're cooking mountain oysters."
Sten frowned. He picked up a chunk of the floured meat. Sniffed it. “Don't smell like oysters to me."
"They're calf testicles, dear,” Marr explained. “Cut from the little dickens before they're old enough to know what's missing."
"We're going to do them Basque style,” Senn said. “The image is so sexy. Muscular brutes with large libidos."
"Makes you want to fry balls all day,” Marr said.
Sten looked at the meat he held in his hand. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “I hope you know they went for a good cause."
* * * *
"Now, we need to engage their minds,” Marr said.
Sten looked doubtfully at the large heap of bird parts he'd carved up with his cleaver. “Brain power through a clottin’ chicken? You've gotta be kidding."
"Stupid animals, yes,” Senn said. “But they're so willing. Especially plucked and dressed out. See how patiently they await their marinade?"
"Like the Zaginows?” Sten guessed.
"Excellent, Sten, dear. You're beginning to get the idea,” Marr said. “At this point we should have our new friends primed and ready for fresh approaches ... Alert them through their taste buds there are endless possibilities once an alliance has been achieved."
"Don't be so stuffy,” Senn said. He waved a spice-dusted paw at Sten. “Ignore him. The dish is called jerk chicken, after all,” he said.
"I like it ... mon,” Sten said.
Marr set down the bunch of scallions he was dicing up. “You've heard of it?” He seemed disappointed.
"From Jam
aica, right?” Sten said. “One of the old Earth islands. A place where they smoke rope fibers and drink silly fruit drinks with little parasols on top."
Marr sighed. “Aren't we running out of clean pots, yet?"
"Not a chance,” Sten said. “I've only heard of jerk chicken. I'm not moving until I see how this is done."
"In a kitchen,” Marr said, “only the chef is permitted to be clever. Pot washers laugh at Chef's cunning jokes. Pot washers peel potatoes. Pot washers are in a constant state of awe at Chef's genius. Pot washers scrape slime from floors. Pot washers duck a lot when sharp objects are thrown at them when they make poor Chef mad. These are only some of the things pot washers do."
Marr sniffed, “What they don't do, is be clever. Pot washers are never, ever clever."
"I promise it'll never happen again,” Sten said.
"He really wasn't that clever,” Senn said.
"Very well,” Marr said. “It can stay. But only if It promises to button Its lip."
"Mmmmmph,” Sten grunted, pointed at his zipped lip.
"Actually, this is a dish even a pot washer could master the first time,” Marr said. “It only tastes complex."
He touched a switch under the chopping board and a metal processor revolved up. Pawfuls of chopped hot pepper and scallions went into the processor, along with a few bay leaves, some grated ginger, and diced garlic.
"Now the allspice,” Marr said. “That's the anchor. You use about five tablespoons for every kilo of meat. Along with one teaspoon each of nutmeg, cinnamon, salt, and pepper."
He dumped the spices into the processor and hit the button. As it whirred, he slowly poured in oil.
"Peanut oil,” Marr said. “Just enough for it all to stick together."
In two beats it was done. Sten peered at the goo.
"Another thing pot washers get to do,” Marr said, “is smear goo over chicken."
"This is true. Chefs never smear goo,” Senn said. “Especially when they're furry."