Shadow Faculty of Gastronomic Science
Trinity Term 1969
Aperitif
French 75
Amuse-gueule
A fresh oyster in dill-scented cream over Laphroaig whiskey Hors d’oeuvres
Courgette fowers lightly fried in a fennel and Courage’s Best Bitter batter with a fresh anchovy and pecorino stuffng
Elvers in saffron oil
Served with 1929 Dom Perignon Champagne
Entr é es
Giant sea urchin baked with fennel en papillote with caramelised vermouth Grand turbot de Brillat-Savarin
With a special presentation of the celebrated delicacy Fugu - Prepared by Takeshi Tokoro
Served with Nuits St Georges Blanc 1962 and Condrieu 1964 Dessert
Seaweed ice cream
Served with Château D’Yquem 1947
Fruit
Dragon fruit
Port
Dow 1927
Kingsley-Hampton paused after every dish, closing his eyes to imagine each favour, and mentally sipped each wine. He had drunk plenty of Dom Perignon, but not of that vintage. He knew the other wines only by name or passing acquaintance. Kingsley-Hampton’s education in oenology over the last year had at the very least equalled his education at Oxford in philosophy, politics and economics – the preferred course for gentlemen with political ambitions or indeed for gentlemen with suffcient means to need no ambition at all. Whenever the opportunity arose, The Honourable Kingsley-Hampton would head to London to attend wine auctions. Dressed in his fnest suit and presenting his card, he would merely explain that he was tasting on behalf of his father who would be bidding by telephone. With this simple ruse, he and a select group of real bidders would be allowed to taste a bottle from select auction lots under the guidance of auction houses’ fnest experts.
Another item unknown to Kingsley-Hampton was the mysterious ‘Fugu’ prepared by the equally unknown Takeshi Tokoro. He rose to his feet and started pacing the thread-bare carpet. On seeing the hunched fgure of Patrick Eccles sitting at the desk on the far side of the room and driven more by his curiosity than his desire for social inclusion, he posed the question to his enforced roommate.
‘Eccles. Any idea what Fugu is?’
Eccles turned in a state of surprise to look at his roommate with a look of incompre-hension.
‘Foogoo, F-U-G-U,’ repeated Kingsley-Hampton slowly, as if talking to a deaf aunt or an imbecile. ‘Something Japanese, I presume.’
‘Oh, Fugu. It’s a Japanese delicacy made from puffer fsh.’ ‘How the hell do you know that?’
‘I’ve just read about it for this essay I’m writing. You see it has a toxin that allowed scientists to work out the mechanics of the action potential.’
‘If it’s poisonous, why do they eat it?’
‘Well the toxin is mostly in internal organs rather than the fesh, so the fsh has to be specially prepared. Even so, there is apparently a rather unusual tingle on the tongue from the small amounts of toxin in the rest of the fsh. I don’t believe it tastes anything special, more a case of Russian roulette.’
‘Russian roulette?’
‘A little too much tingling and all the nerves in your body stop working and… well… you die.’
‘How extraordinary. Well done, Eccles. Now your next task is to fnd out who this faculty of gastronomic science crowd are. Sounds like my sort of dining society.’ He wandered over and dropped the menu on the desk.
Eccles cast his eyes over the menu, barely able to imagine the dishes and fnding the names of the accompanying wines as unrecognisable as a foreign language.
‘Where did this come from?’
‘Seems to have been used as a bookmark. I found it tucked inside a copy of Plato’s Republic I got from the library just before that clot of a chaplain tried to kill me with some picture he was lugging through Old Quad.’
‘Well that’s a start, there are only so many people who would have been reading Plato at the end of last term.’
‘Excellent thinking. Now come on and let’s see who’s down in the college bar before dinner. It’s time you met some people. You’re taking this work thing far too seriously.’
*
The Master’s lodge was located in the most ancient part of the college and was ap-proached through a narrow and dark corridor. The six members of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science emerged from this gloom into a charming small courtyard with a yellowing but not yet leafess cherry tree. In spring, this tree was a source of great joy as its sheltered position made it one of the earliest trees to blossom in the whole of Oxford. Tonight, spring seemed a long way off as the assembled fellows approached the small iron nailed door of the lodge. Augustus knocked on the door, which opened without ap-parent human intervention until the diminutive fgure of the Master’s housekeeper came into view. They fled past her without any words being spoken or needed.
They were led into the panelled dining room, which was dramatically lit with a pair of silver candelabras. The heavy oak table was set with a plate of quartered fgs on a silver platter and a decanter of a drink too pale for sherry surrounded by fne crystal glasses. As they silently admired the rich purple sheen of the fgs and their blood-red fesh, Lord Faulkner made his entrance, already fully gowned in anticipation of dinner and carrying a silver tray adorned with food.
‘Gentlemen. Many thanks for gathering here this evening. There are a few matters that need to be discussed but frst, do please try some of these fgs; they go very well with the white port. These duck and quince canapés are rather good too.’
Arthur Plantagenet’s jaw dropped, adding yet another chin to his already impressive collection. The fgs were passed around and though all were impressed by the Master’s choice of white port as an accompaniment, the atmosphere remained decidedly chilly. Polite discussion ensued about the source of fgs and whether they were best baked or, as here, eaten fresh. The smoked duck breast canapés with quince and juniper preserve were truly remarkable. Faulkner hadn’t included juniper as part of the description, but it didn’t take long for Arthur Plantagenet to identify this favour along with the other herbs and spices. Arthur was truly impressed at such an unexpected use of quince from such a surprising source. The uneasy détente was fnally broken by Lord Faulkner tapping an antique silver spoon on the table.
‘Gentlemen, could you all take a seat.’
Everyone duly obliged and any sense of levity that had accompanied the food van-ished in an instant. Even the eternally ebullient Hamish McIntyre looked crestfallen. Once everyone was seated and the fnal murmurs had subsided, Faulkner continued. He had a powerful natural presence, one that easily commanded respect. It was this one at-tribute, beyond all others, that had propelled him through life with such ease.
‘Now I’m sure you all know why I’ve gathered you here.’ After a perfectly timed pause he continued.
‘Is there anything any of you would like to say frst?’ This elicited only an uneasy shifting of buttocks on seats and clearing of throats.
Faulkner cast his eyes around the room looking for volunteers. The poor chaplain looked overwrought and an unsporting target, so his eyes moved on.
‘Dr McIntyre?’
In a moment of uncharacteristic reticence, Hamish McIntyre demurred by casting his gaze to the remains of duck and fgs on his plate. Faulkner moved on and looked towards Le Strang.
‘Professor?’ But the good professor offered nothing in reply. ‘Dr Flanagan, your Irish eloquence seems lacking today, and Professor Plantagenet,
it’s unlike you to resist an invitation to hold forth.’ It was indeed quite unlike Arthur, who was dying to talk about how good the duck
and quince combination had been.
‘Well, Master, apart from congratulating you on this delightful combination of tastes, I am on this occasion happy to leave the foor to you.’
‘So,’ turning to the last of the assembled members, he addressed Augustus. ‘Dr Bloom, I understand the gentleman w
ho expired last term was your guest.’
‘He was indeed, Master. If I may explain a little of the background, I think this may help to clarify the situation.’
A nodded cue from the Master left Augustus free to continue. ‘Well, as you are aware, in our joint desires to develop gastronomic science, we each
invite a guest for a dinner each term. This guest chooses, and on occasion creates, a par-ticular dish. For Mr Tokoro it would have dishonoured him to refuse his suggestion.’
‘Dishonoured, but perhaps a polite refusal might have saved his life?’ ‘Master, I still wake at night thinking of all the tiny twists and turns that could have
altered the events of that night.’
‘And this dish was prepared solely by Mr Tokoro and not the college kitchen staff?’ ‘Mr Tokoro had brought his own chef with him to prepare and cook the fsh at the
table, but he helped to prepare one or two of the fllets himself.’ ‘This was at the start or the end of the meal?’
‘As the highlight of the dinner this was the last of our savoury courses.’ ‘So he had sampled the delights of the St Jerome’s cellars by that stage. Don’t you
think that such a dangerous and delicate task as dissecting out the liver and ovaries of a puffer fsh should be done with a steady hand and a clear head?’
The Master’s detailed knowledge of which organs of the puffer fsh are particularly toxic caught Bloom off guard.
‘Well I imagine the aperitifs and the wine may have had… ’ His voiced trailed off as Faulkner helpfully fnished Bloom’s sentence.
‘… some contribution towards the making of this disaster? That is not an entirely un-reasonable position and one that implicates you all in this affair.’
Theodore Flanagan, the law tutor, burst forth in their collective defence. ‘But at the inquest the Coroner declared his death was misadventure. I assumed this
matter was behind us.’
‘Legally, yes, Dr Flanagan, but morally and diplomatically it is not so clear-cut. Gen-tlemen, secure within these walls you may not have been fully aware of the conse-quences of Mr Tokoro’s death. It has caused problems for international relations with Japan, created an extremely bad odour with the university authorities and I have to con-sider the reputation of St Jerome’s College.’
Turning to Augustus, the Master continued. ‘I understand that you have been in dis-cussions with the vice-chancellor ’s offce, Dr Bloom.’
‘Well I was summoned, but I felt this was a college matter rather than a university one.’
‘And Dr Bloom, I hear that you told him as much… in no uncertain terms.’ Augustus tried to hide a smile under a mask of contrition and failed nobly. ‘Master, I think I speak for us all when I say I’d rather answer to you than to Dr
Ridgeway.’
‘Thank you for your faith in my judgement, Dr Bloom. I cannot claim any great affec-tion for Dr Ridgeway or for university interference, so I have indeed decided to handle this as an internal matter.’
Faulkner continued across the murmurings of relief that began to fll the room. ‘So I have two requests to make of you all. Firstly, please don’t serve anything that
might possibly be poisonous, and secondly, keep your activities as secret or, at the very least, as discreet as possible. But don’t underestimate the vice-chancellor. He is an irrit-atingly tenacious character by all accounts, and not without infuence in the university. Try not to antagonise the man too much.’
Faulkner’s words were met with a furry of thanks and confusion as the faculty mem-bers rose to shake his hand. Once the hubbub had subsided, Faulkner motioned for quiet and for the fellows to take their seats again.
‘That just leaves the international and diplomatic issues for me to address. Let’s not forget that a foreign diplomat died on college grounds. I have had to use a lot of favours at the foreign offce to keep relations with Japan on an even footing. Everything on that score seems to be back on track, but the Japanese ambassador does have one last request of you all which he has asked me to convey.’
Charles Pinker, eager for a sense of absolution from the Japanese ambassador, was a surprising leader in reply.
‘Of course Master, we’ll do whatever we can for the ambassador.’ ‘It is a simple if rather bizarre request. He is eager for your impressions of the exper-
ience of eating Fugu.’
This was met by a choking sound from Hamish McIntyre who broke into an enorm-ous laugh once the small piece of fg had been dislodged from his gullet.
‘My God, he just wants to know what it tasted like? Pass the phone there, I’ll call him myself.’
‘That won’t be necessary Dr McIntyre. I understand he merely wants a brief written description from each of you. And as to his reasons, I understand that it was a promise to his wife who lost a brother to Fugu that has prevented him from trying it personally. Now all this talking of food is making me hungry. Shall we head across for dinner?’
Chapter 8
The next morning a thoroughly recharged and emboldened Augustus Bloom strode into the porter’s lodge. Now that the immediate threat over their existence had been lifted, they had no time to lose in preparing for their next dinner at the end of term. In his hands were letters inviting his colleagues to this term’s menu planning meeting. The shadow faculty of gastronomic science had, over recent years, fallen into a comfortable pattern of events during term time. They held a menu-planning meeting usually in the second week of term followed by one or more tasting meetings over subsequent weeks to refne the menu and recipes. In addition to suggestions for the menu, faculty members could also discuss their choice of guests for the forthcoming dinner at these meetings. Under rule four of their constitution each guest also had to provide a dish that was new to the fac-ulty, so it was important to choose someone who could rise to this particular challenge. Of course the faculty chose the theme of each dinner and produced their own creations, but there had been many a dinner when the most spectacular dish had been devised by a guest. Such turns of events merely spurred on the members of the faculty to aspire to even greater heights in their pursuit of gastronomic perfection. The choice of wine was naturally important too, so this was always on the agenda. Arthur Plantagenet had in re-cent years taken this task to heart and made frequent forays within the wine cellars solely in the interest of gastronomic progress. The culmination of all this planning was the end-of-term dinner that was held on the Wednesday of eighth week – an otherwise dull day of the week – chosen for the sole reason that it didn’t clash with other more offcial dinners held at the end of term.
Augustus had an additional letter to dispatch on this morning, an invitation to the din-ner to be held next summer in Trinity Term. Although bizarrely early for such an invite, he was under orders from Mary Frances, a lady he had met just once but with whom a long correspondence had cemented a deep friendship. Augustus just hoped that on this occasion his invitation would bring the celebrated Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher, univer-sally acclaimed as having produced the best translation of Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savar-in’s The Physiology of Taste , to Oxford.
Dear Mary Frances ,
Thank you for your beautifully crafted missive. It is a deep disappointment for me that we won’t have the pleasure of your company at our Christmas dinner this term, but you are right, I am delighted that your talents are being more fully re-cognised. In relation to your plans to storm our ivory towers, you may be disap-pointed to know that our college is only made of stone and we have no windows in high towers suitable for the casting down of long tresses of hair. I am nonethe-less certain that these minor obstacles won’t stop you being your usual radical, entertaining self when you do fnally visit. To that end, and in great anticipation of the electrifying effect you may have on some of our more conservative mem-bers, I hereby invite you to the fnal dinner of the Shadow Faculty of Gastronomic Science for this academic year, which will be held on Wednesday of eighth week in Trinity Term. I shall be deeply offended by
any rejection or deferral of this most generous invitation .
With the very fnest regards and deep admiration, Augustus *
Patrick Eccles was making his way up the ancient wooden stairs of staircase fve. Cen-turies of use had darkened the steps to a deep, if dusty, patina and the centre of each step was worn into a slippery curve, which made the simple task of ascending them a signifcant challenge. On this occasion, Eccles was staggering up with such a large collection of books in his arms that it was a miracle he survived the three fights of stairs to his room. On reaching the door he tried knocking with his elbow and after a decent pause, calling to his roommate within for assistance. Cursing quietly, he un-burdened his load and opened the unlocked door. He was irritated but not surprised to fnd Kingsley-Hampton sprawled on the sofa reading a book with a pot of tea resting on Eccles’ second-hand trunk, which had been recruited into use as a table. The Honour-able Kingsley-Hampton would never have used his own trunk, an elegant affair from the Maison Goyard ‘ malletier de luxe ’ in Paris, for such a lowly purpose. Eccles deposited his books on one of the chairs and waited for some acknowledgement from Kingsley-Hampton, who leisurely fnished his page before turning down the top corner and drop-ping his copy of Zuleika Dobson on the foor.
‘Eccles. There you are. Any joy in our investigation?’ Finding his resentment suddenly vanish despite his best efforts to maintain at least a
modicum of indignation, Eccles took a seat and delivered his report. ‘Well, I’ve found a few things that might help. The Brillat-Savarin named in one of
the dishes is most likely Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, the author of the frst real book of gastronomy, The Physiology of Taste . The clincher is that this book included a recipe for cooking a giant turbot.’
Eccles passed over an almost pristine copy of the new 1949 translation of The Physiology of Taste .
Kingsley-Hampton fipped through a few pages and glanced at the borrowing sheet inside the front cover. There were only two entries: one from 1951 and the second in October 1969 by a Mr P. Eccles.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 5