‘Close the door, Eccles. There’s a bit of a draught.’ Patrick rose to his feet, mumbling an apology and duly obliged. He then headed for
the safety of his bedroom.
‘By the way, Eccles, Felipe Banzarro is coming back at the start of next term,’ said Kingsley-Hampton, turning to look at Eccles who responded with a blank stare.
‘The chap who should be sharing this room with me. He had to take a year off be-cause of his accident last summer, so that’s why I got lumbered with your useless self. Offcially he’s not starting until next year, but he’s bored in Buenos Aires and frankly I’m bored with you. So he’s coming back for a bit of R and R here in Oxford for the summer. I’ve had to take out a lease already to secure my rooms out of college next year, but I’d rather be in college for Trinity term. So you’ll be moving out next term to make space for Felipe and staying in the rooms I’ve leased above the Mitre Hotel.’
Chapter 27
Arthur’s death had cast the preparations for the end of term dinner into disarray in more ways than one. Even though Arthur was no longer a member of the shadow faculty, his presence within the organ pipes of the chapel cast a long shadow. There was frstly the question of Mr Thaddeus Rhymer, the renowned medium, who Arthur had invited. It seemed discourteous to un-invite a guest merely because the man who made the original invitation had died. With this turn of events being extremely rare, no established form of etiquette exists to handle it, so it was decided Mr Rhymer would have to be accommod-ated in the absence of his host. Fortunately the chaplain’s original guest, a distinguished organist from Germany, had to cancel at short notice. Although not thrilled at the prospect of having a spiritualist as a guest, Charles accepted his task with impressive grace.
In another deviation from normal, several culinary questions usually settled in the tast-ing meetings were left unresolved as the discussions were frequently diverted into legal and ethical debates about their dear departed colleague’s leg. With the question of the best way to serve oysters still unanswered a week before the end-of-term dinner, the faculty decided to put the challenge to their guests. The best way to eat this most fragrant mol-lusc would be decided at the dinner itself, so each guest was asked to present a recipe to the chef by return post. With all his recent inner turmoil, Charles had also neglected to have the menu printed. He would normally have been mortifed at such an oversight, but Charles took this in his stride and merely created a single handwritten menu for the fac-ulty archives. Indeed the anticipation of this dinner had with each approaching day lifted the spirits of all the faculty members to an almost giddy excitement, an understandable release of tension considering recent events.
The guests themselves, in keeping with previous dinners, spanned an exotic range of backgrounds and gastronomic interests. Hamish had invited an American marine bio-logist from the Scripps Oceanographic Institute, Chad Zimovic, who was a world ex-pert on jellyfsh. George Le Strang, inspired by the chaplain’s suggestion of making this Hilary term dinner into a Lenten feast, had invited Monsignor Alfonse Poitier from the University of Avignon, who was the leading authority on the culinary history of the Cath-olic Church. Theodore Flanagan had invited Myles Holohan, a surprisingly young man who had risen through the ranks of oenology to become wine critic of The Irish Times .
Augustus Bloom’s guest was, under the circumstances, a rather eerie choice but one that had been made before Arthur’s death. Dr Geoffrey Altmann was an expert in the phantom limb phenomenon, a curious quirk of nature where amputees can get sensations from a severed limb decades later. He was also an excellent chef who owned a farm that specialised in preserving unusual species of duck.
The night of the Hilary dinner was now upon them and so, with the vice-chancellor apparently mollifed with the promise of money, they returned to their traditional dining room overlooking the fellows’ garden. This room was flled with the paintings of past fellows who hadn’t merited hanging in the great hall, either because of their limited im-pact on history or the limited skill of the artist chosen to create their portrait. The portrait of one of their past members, Gordon Maxwell, was already hanging in the room. A space would soon have to be created here for Arthur too when his portrait was fnished, unless of course the Master approved his inclusion in the Hall.
Augustus had inherited the remnants of Arthur’s large supply of elixir v égétal de Chartreuse, so it was no surprise that this complex potion found its way into their intro-ductory cocktail. After the subtle green martinis had been handed out, Augustus picked up a spoon and tapped his glass to get the attention of the diners for the toast.
‘To gastronomy and Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin.’ After the murmurs died down, Augustus spoke again. ‘Some of our guests may be unaware of the recent loss of one of the founding mem-
bers of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science, Professor Arthur Plantagenet. In the words quoted by Brillat-Savarin, Omnia mors poscit; lex est, non poena, perire 9 . In re-membering him, let us strive only to try and enjoy this remarkable meal with as much enthusiasm as Arthur would have, even if he can’t be with us tonight.’
‘Amen,’ muttered Charles, raising his glass while looking nervously around the room.
Arthur’s name was toasted while the guests sampled the unusual botanical concoction of herbs in their martini glasses. It was, all agreed, an unusual taste with the verdicts varying from appalling, through medicinal to really rather good. Taste apart, it was cer-tainly good enough to evaporate the sombre mood left by the mention of Arthur’s death. What more could you possibly ask of any cocktail?
After Charles had explained that the evening’s dinner aimed to exemplify the very best food one can eat while maintaining a Lenten fast from meat, he delivered the col-lege grace with his usual ease and indeed speed. As soon as he had fnished, Gerard, accompanied by a swarm of scouts, swept in with the amuse-gueule . To Hamish’s great pride his squills had been brought into service but transformed beyond his wildest ex-pectations by the college chef, Monsieur Roger. Each plate arrived with a single squill that had been steamed in vermouth. The light crustacean odour mixing with the scent of the Noilly Prat caused all the diners to inhale deeply and savour their splendid aroma. The little creatures’ edges had been neatly trimmed and a small ribbon tied around their tails. The guests looked in admiration at their plates and then at their hosts looking for guidance to the next move.
‘This little creature gives me faith that God exists,’ said Hamish rising to his feet. ‘No-one but a generous, benefcent being could bring into existence a crustacean that tastes so good and is so easy to eat.’ With that, Hamish lifted the small ribbon and the whole carapace rose up, revealing the creature’s muscular tail bathed in foaming hol-landaise. He hoisted the contents into his mouth, his table manners temporarily over-come by culinary lust. The others followed suit and within seconds this morsel had put every taste bud in the room on notice of even greater delights. Monsignor Alfonse Poit-ier was even heard to murmur, ad majorem Dei gloriam , to the greater glory of God, before clinking his glass with the chaplain’s in a moment of unity.
Then, George Le Strang rose to his feet to introduce the next gastronomic challenge. ‘Gentlemen, we shall next be serving several dishes that are designed to answer two
simple but fundamental questions in gastronomy. The frst is whether to cook or not to cook one of my dearest friends the oyster and the second related question is what in-gredients best enhance the incomparable briny favour of an oyster. You have all pro-posed a method of preparation of oysters that our chef has followed. One of you,’ Ge-orge nodded towards Theodore’s guest, Mr Myles Holohan, ‘has also added the extra dimension of what best to drink with oysters. Let the games commence.’
George clapped his hands with the imperious hauteur of a Roman emperor in the Coliseum and nodded at Gerard who was positioned with his hand on the door handle. With the signal given, the serving scouts carried in ten silver platters, each adorned with ten oysters, two of each favou
r, so that frst impressions could be checked and clari-fed before the pronouncement was made. Gerard also discreetly laid out ten pencils and notepads while the cellar steward brought forth the liquid accompaniments. Each diner received a glass of a simple youthful Entre-Deux-Mers, a 1959 Pol Roger Champagne and a large sherry schooner flled with a tiny but expertly poured Guinness.
‘Would you be so kind as to describe your selections, Gentlemen?’ said George, ex-tending an open palm towards his own guest, Monsignor Poitier.
‘ Merci, Professeur . I have chosen a method favoured in the Vatican in the nineteenth century: oysters coated in a champagne volouté famed under the hottest grill for the shortest possible time.’ A polite but impatient round of applause came from the table as the diners eyed the plates in front of them, then it was the turn of Hamish’s guest Mr Zimovic.
‘These, my friends, are Oysters Rockefeller, the fnest dish ever invented in America, created in 1899 in Antoine’s restaurant, New Orleans, by Jules Alciatore. The real recipe has been kept secret for the past seventy years, but in my youth I had what in Oxford you might call a dalliance with Jules Alciatore’s granddaughter. So you are all blessed with the authentic recipe, of which I shared with your chef under a pact of total secrecy. But I can tell you that the intense green colour does not involve spinach.’
Dr Altmann was next to rise to his feet.
‘I share my dear friend Augustus’ love of the martini, so in marrying the fnest drink with the fnest crustacean I give you an uncooked oyster coated in a frappé of ice soaked in gin with lemon zest and a drop of vermouth. I can guarantee you all that even if this isn’t the best-tasting oyster you’ll ever have eaten, it will certainly be the happiest.’ Dr Altmann sat down to the best reception so far and then it was the turn of Mr Rhymer, the medium.
‘As an allegory of our short lives and inevitable death, nothing comes close to the demise of the oyster, one of the few, perhaps only, animals routinely eaten with a still-beating heart.’ The room fell silent; none of the other diners had even considered the cir-culatory system of an oyster and certainly never envisaged swallowing a beating heart. ‘This oyster will die a death beftting Cleopatra in a warm bath of star anise scented cream. If I were an oyster this is how I would like to be eaten.’ With a gentle round of ‘hear-hear’, Mr Rhymer gave the foor to Mr Holohan.
‘Gentlemen, fne words but a fner mollusc sits before you. Naked, awaiting lemon juice, pepper and your tonsils. Eat on!’ With that he picked up his own raw oyster and glooped it down his gullet, followed by the entire miniature glass of Guinness. After taking a deep bow to the acclaim of his fellow diners, Mr Holohan took his seat. The games were truly afoot.
The eating and enjoying was by far the simplest part of this challenge. The scoring and ultimate rankings were inevitably more divisive. The question was ultimately answered in favour of the uncooked oyster. Poor Chad Zimovic was truly defated that his nation’s greatest creation came last, though Hamish’s generous reflling of his glass with the divine vintage of Pol Roger was some recompense. Monsignor Poitier could distance himself in the knowledge that in recent years, the Vatican had favoured simpler treatments of the oyster, but he was still surprised to fnish fourth. Of the three recipes without heat, Mr Rhymer’s was highly commended but was undoubtedly marked down by his unnerving introduction. This left the naked oyster and the martini oyster for the fnal judgement. It was a close call but by a single vote, Dr Altmann prevailed with his martini oyster, a rarely prepared but exquisite combination where the brininess of a dirty martini 10 was obtained from the salty oyster liquor. Myles Holohan should really have won but just before the vote he created a Black Velvet, a Guinness champagne mix-ture, for George Le Strang. Although the taste was in George’s mind an improvement over pure Guinness, the disrespect shown to this memorable vintage champagne was too much for George who changed his vote in silent protest.
Once the remains of the oysters were cleared, the table was set for the main courses. First up was a dish that George Le Strang had managed to keep secret even from his col-leagues in the shadow faculty. He had bragged this would be the very best dish one could possibly eat during Lent. Served sous cloche , it was presented to the diners in perfect synchrony with the ten silver cloches lifted off the plates to reveal both the visual and ol-factory delights of this dish: Sole stuffed with truffe-scented lobster or Sole Walewska. This dish was one of Escoffer’s fnest creations and for decades was a favourite at the Casino in Monte Carlo, though no gambler had ever tasted as fne a version as Monsieur Roger presented on this night. A neglected classic, Sole Walewska was frst created for the bastard progeny of the liaison of Napoleon I and Marie Walewska, a certain Alexan-dre Florian de Walewski. Alexandre’s mother was wooed by Napoleon and forwent her honour to spare her country from the destructive military forces of France.
The sole induced a state of near delirium amongst the diners and when Myles Holo-han rose to his feet to propose that a bottle of the Pol Roger be sent to the kitchens in gratitude, the response was unanimous. When the plates returned to the kitchen, Mon-sieur Roger always reviewed them for signs of success and failure. He could only smile to see that not a morsel remained on a single plate. Indeed the plates were almost as clean as they had been before this unusual dish had been served upon them. He was a little perplexed with the arrival of the full but uncorked bottle of champagne, initially fearing the worst, until Gerard rushed into the kitchen and with upturned thumbs tried to convey to Monsieur Roger the extent of his triumph as well as one can in the absence of words. By the time Gerard had forced Monsieur Roger to accept a glass of this ex-ceptional champagne, the full extent of his victory was apparent. The chef sat back and took a deep draft of champagne. It was doubtful that Napoleon himself had ever felt as content in his achievements as Monsieur Roger did at that moment.
The accompaniment to this dish was also showered with great praise, both for taste and inventiveness: jellyfsh noodles deep-fried and coated in a fne cream and tarragon sauce. Chad Zimovic revealed the secret of their preparation: fresh jellyfsh squeezed through a potato ricer straight into a pan of oil. As unpromising as the starting materials were, the result was a triumph and the failure of his oyster Rockefeller recipe in the face of stiff opposition was all but forgotten. How the great Escoffer would have felt about the pairing of Sole Walewska with jellyfsh is a matter of conjecture, but he would cer-tainly have approved of the foaming cream sauce.
The lack of a printed menu added a certain frisson of interest when the plates for the next course arrived. There were some puzzled faces amongst some of the guests as the silver cloches were lifted off. On their plates was a dish that looked and indeed had the aroma of an excellent beef stroganoff, but according to the chaplain’s introduction this dinner was, within the traditions of Lent, devoid of all meat. Smiling with mirth at the consternation his dish had created, Monsignor Poitier rose to his feet to explain.
‘Gentlemen, what you have in front of you is a dish that appears to contain meat but in keeping with Papal decree is in fact fsh. Back in the time when the papacy was less inclined to forgo the physical pleasures of the table, meat was still unacceptable during Lent and only fsh could be served. As an alternative to the repetition of fsh dishes, the tail of the beaver was given the honorary status as fsh, seeing as it bore scales and spent most of its time under water. I present to you a unique dish, beaver-tail stroganoff.’
The announcement of this extraordinary gastronomic creation was met with the clinking of spoons on glass, one of the highest accolades the faculty bestowed on such announcements. In terms of a gastronomic icon, this dish shone as brightly as any star. As a dish it sadly failed to excite the palate to the same degree. Fortunately another vestige of a more sybaritic papacy saved the day. The wine accompanying this dish was a remarkable Clos de Papes Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a style of wine frst created for the Pope while the papacy was located within France at Avignon.
By the time the far from empty plates of bea
ver tail were being cleared away the conversation broke away from discussions of the food into polite interchange. Charles Pinker, having failed to make much headway with his guest Mr Rhymer, tried Augustus’ guest who was on his other side.
‘So, Dr Altmann… ’
‘Geoffrey, please.’
‘Geoffrey, what is it that you do?’
‘I’m a neurologist in Queen Square now, but I worked here in the physiology labs with Augustus for a while. Phantom limbs are my special interest.’
Charles blanched visibly but etiquette required that having started the conversation he was obliged to follow through with the topic that Dr Altmann had chosen.
‘Could you explain to a simple clergyman what a phantom limb is?’ Charles asked with a certain trepidation.
‘When a limb is amputated, the patient can have sensations that feel completely real in parts of the limb that have been removed. An itch on the big toe can drive you crazy if there is nothing you can do to reach it.’
‘An amputated limb can haunt the patient? How dreadful. Can a limb haunt others too?’ asked Charles.
‘No, it’s not supernatural – just the brain reacting to signals from cut nerves. Every-one else is quite safe.’
‘Well, that is excellent news. Please excuse me. I better go and remind Gerard to open the port in good time.’ Charles rose to his feet, desperately hoping that there were no external clues to his inner turmoil. Fresh air would help.
He reached the door only to meet the dessert course on its way in. Charles passed through the sensuous clouds of smells rising from each plate, but indicating to Gerard that service should continue in his absence, he headed out of the door in search of a mo-ment alone.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 21