All This in 60 Minutes

by Lee, Nicholas

  But there were the sheep’s eyes in Saudi Arabia, duck foetus (still in the egg) in the Philippines, snake’s blood (taken from a live snake) in Taiwan, and burnt starlings, also in Taiwan. Let me explain ...

  We were somewhere outside Riyadh and our Saudi minder bought us lunch. From inside their Arabic newspaper wrapping, the sheep’s eyes were throwing me completely with their constant stare, a stare of ‘I dare you’. I took on that sheep’s dare plus the one from Ray Martin, grabbed an eye, flung it into my mouth then spat it out. It tasted like newspaper, and I hate newspaper. Of the four of us, only two gave it a go, if you can call a lick a go, but I can’t help it if I don’t like newsprint. Ray in his autobiography swears and declares he was the only one to actually eat one (he swallowed the lot) and that I declined the offer of that tasty Saudi speciality.

  While writing his tome Ray would constantly ring me to check on facts, but the call was mostly to tell me that the facts had already been written. Whenever I disputed his version of events, which was every time he rang, he’d tell me, ‘He who holds the pen owns the truth.’

  The truth. I now own the truth and suspect he had a loose grip on his pen, and a tighter grip on something else, but he got out there into the publishing world first, and wrote that his reward for swallowing that eye is bragging rights.

  Then there was the idyllic flower farm, in the middle of nowhere in Taiwan, and the board of the flower cooperative had put on dinner for us, the honoured guests. With ne’er a common language we signed our way through the evening. During one such riveting conversation, a huge plate of something that resembled nothing I’d ever seen before was put in front of us. On closer inspection the hundreds of whatever they were looked organic and at some stage must have lived. An even closer look into the huge black mass revealed small birds of some kind, complete with eyes, beaks and feet.

  Ray pointed to my empty plate then back to our host. Our host, now embarrassed into feeling he had slackened off with his hosting duties, very kindly filled my plate. I quickly whispered to Ray, ‘What do I do here?’ Stupid question. He was as ill-informed on starling etiquette as I was, but with a ‘better you than me’ look, he told me not to embarrass our hosts and get on with it. Then he smiled.

  Never one to embarrass my hosts, I grabbed one of our small feathered friends and shoved it into my mouth. There was a loud crunching sound, my teeth cracked the beak, rib cage and legs. Then a softer mellow sound as I then did my best to masticate the few tiny feathers that were still embedded. Just as I tried to swallow all of the above, our hosts leaned forward, picked up a starling each, and as one, like finalists in Olympic synchronised swimming, they deftly removed the tiny legs. Then, even more deftly, they removed the miniscule amount of flesh from the drumsticks and rib cage, and threw the rest away. Finally, they each held an atom of bird flesh, gently placed it into their mouths and swallowed. Obviously there was no need to waste energy by using good chewing teeth, the ones that were now very cleanly smiling at me. Still today I’m pulling small bits of feather and beak from my teeth. Thanks Mr Smart-arse Martin.

  As for balut, a duckling foetus still in the shell, what can I say? After it was explained to me exactly what it was, I figured, how hard could it be? After all, I love duck, and I love eggs. Piece of piss, really.

  The first feeling of squeamishness came as my shaking hands clumsily removed some of the shell from the pointy end of my balut to reveal a little duckling looking like a baby taking a nap. With fluid running down my arm, I noticed my lunch had a beak, a few tiny feathers and large eyes, thankfully closed.

  Suddenly my love of eggs and duck seemed to have deserted me. I was struggling. My duckling was covered in a freeway of blue veins, with a large area of yellow near its stomach, I presumed it was the yoke, though not being familiar with poultry reproduction I couldn’t be sure. I was staring in disbelief when my Filipino host tipped his egg up and sucked out a mouthful of juice, which I was told was the amniotic fluid, and ‘so tasty’. Luckily for me I had ‘wasted’ all my amniotic fluid. Shame. I was then given a freezing cold bottle of San Miguel beer, a pinch of salt, and the order to start eating my well-earned delicacy.

  Slowly and extremely gently I bit into the little bugger and surprisingly it was much softer than I’d expected. I could feel the texture of minute feathers but it wasn’t gagging material and the whole thing tasted like egg. I took a swig of beer after every mouthful to wash away the foul taste that never seemed to arrive. It wasn’t such a bad taste at all. It was the look of this Philippine delicacy that was so off-putting. If it had been handed to me on a plate in a darkened room, I’d probably have asked for more.

  •

  The 60 Minutes search for great food became all-consuming, and one fast-talking producer managed to get the okay for a story on, at that time, the best restaurant in the world, La Tour d’Argent (The Silver Tower) in Paris. Best restaurant must mean best food, so I couldn’t wait. Overlooking Notre Dame, and the river Seine, the three Michelin Star restaurant had been serving up great meals since 1582. Henri IV often dined in and regularly requested takeaway. The restaurant proudly boasted that the fork had been invented in the establishment, and hanging proudly on one wall was their menu for Christmas Day 1870.

  I’ve seen a few menus in my day but this was unforgettable. La Tour d’Argent had a reputation to uphold, so one small event like the siege of Paris in 1870 was not going to stop its great chefs from creating an extravagant Christmas feast for the aristocrats.

  I don’t know how the restaurant survived the 1830 and the 1848 revolutions, let alone the biggy of 1789. But when the Prussians arrived in Paris in 1870 there was already a severe food shortage from the killer winter, so the Prussians’ hope was that the Parisians would be starved into surrender.

  Aristocrats neither surrender, nor starve, they simply must eat, and after all, it was Christmas—so La Tour bought the zoo. Castor and Pollux, the only elephants in France, were delicately squeezed into the restaurant’s pots, and were the opening taste sensation on that Christmas menu:

  ELEPHANT SOUP followed by

  CAMEL, ROASTED ENGLISH STYLE or

  KANGAROO IN A FINE RED WINE or

  CHOICE OF CAT SURROUNDED BY RATS, or

  A TERRINE OF ANTELOPE.

  We had one day to create and film our story, and it was nonstop madness. We had it all figured out. There would be sequences with Philippe the barman, the scores of chefs, discreet shots of diners, the cellarmaster in his cellar, plus a major interview with Monsieur Claude Terrail, the owner. And of course, the pièce de résistance on the menu—the duck. Canard à la presse, or Caneton Tour d’Argent, or Canard au Sang, the specialty of the house. Duck was first served about 1890, and every duck since has been given a number, and every well-to-do diner who orders the duck receives a card printed with their duck’s number.

  King Edward VII had duck number 328, King Alfonso XIII had 40,312, Emperor Hirohito had 53,211 and number 112,151 went to Franklin D. Roosevelt.

  The duck is never decapitated, always strangled (of course), and when ordered, word travels rapidly through the restaurant and the other envious diners all stare, point and whisper, fascinated with the ritual that is the cooking and serving of one of the most famous dishes in history.

  Our first shots were in the kitchen. It was loud and fast and wherever I stood I was in the way. I didn’t get any screams but lots of dirty looks and sometimes a small nudge. Everyone was moving fast. Huge pots bubbled heartily over blue gas jets. Chefs everywhere. A chef each for entrées, soup, fish, desserts, sauces, and one just to decorate the plates.

  And of course, the king pin, numero uno chef, Jacques Sénéchal, who slowly wandered around his domain, tasting everything by dipping a large spoon or hairy finger into the pots. And he was scary. I got the feeling it was not a good idea to piss him off.

  Philippe the barman was the complete opposite. Friendly, polite and suave as he poured drinks for the lunchtime crowd. The drink of choice was
champagne, and it flowed along with his charming personality that dominated the room. With a huge smile on his face he offered me champagne. ‘Non, merci,’ I replied, pointed to the camera and shook my head. He winked and said, ‘Later.’ That got the thumbs-up from me. Philippe was only too keen to perform again and again for the camera, greeting the diners, popping the champagne cork with great flair, pouring champagne and creating cocktails while I filmed it all. A great bloke.

  Back in the kitchen and getting closer to serving lunch, things were really hectic. The orders came in thick and fast. I was still trying to keep out of everybody’s way but not succeeding. The one bloke I did not want to upset was the terrifying Monsieur Sénéchal who was watching me like a hawk. Then he approached me and as he loomed I looked around, wondering what I’d done wrong. Did I sweat into the mousse? Did I accidentally elbow a delicate crêpe?

  He stood an inch from me, staring me in the eye. ‘You are working too ’ard,’ he said. ‘You must eat. I will get you some food.’

  I thanked him and continued to make it look like I was working too hard. Then, suddenly in front of me was this amazing-looking, steaming hot, Tour d’Argent masterpiece. The head chef handed me a knife and fork, and said, ‘Bon appétit.’

  I was lifting the first forkful to my grateful mouth, thinking how good this would be with one of Philippe’s champers, when our producer came barging in, shouting, ‘Quick! There’s a woman in the dining room smoking, we must get a shot of that.’ I grabbed the camera and from behind a pillar got discreet shots of this plebeian woman. How on earth did she get in here? Sacrilege.

  With the fag shot well and truly covered, I headed back to the kitchen for my taste sensation and ... it was nowhere to be found. I looked questioningly at my newfound caring chef friend.

  ‘Your lunch is in zee rubbish,’ he said. ‘If you do not eat my food when eet eez ’ot, you do not eat my food!’ More sacrilege.

  Before I had time to feel ashamed, the word was out. A couple had ordered the duck, and had agreed to us filming it.

  Chefs, and what looked like all the paraphernalia of a surgical ward, surrounded The Couple. They checked out their dead plucked duck and its number, gave their approval, then sat back for the experience of a lifetime. And it was on. Presses (Christofle, of course), crunching, blood, knives, blood, flames, more blood. It was a true work of art, three chefs, all at the table, and nobody getting in anybody’s way, except me.

  All the other diners were pretending not to look. Very difficult to do when you’re fascinated, envious and desperately trying not to look like a tight-arse in the most expensive restaurant in the world. The tight-arses weren’t the only ones in the room harbouring envy. I was ravenous. My envy increased in direct proportion to the number of ultra-tight shots I got of duck meat being shovelled into the mouths of Mr and Mrs We’re So Rich We’re Having the Duck.

  Having polished off their Canard à la presse, The Couple with orgasmic and superior looks on their faces scanned the room hoping to extract some applause from the rest. But unfortunately the only noise they heard was my rumbling stomach. Watching them peruse the dessert menu, I was thinking, If I have to do one more shot of you two eating, I might also have to hit you.

  Luckily for them I had enough eating shots. We now needed a sequence filmed in the world famous cellar. I dragged my rumbling stomach down to the bowels of the restaurant. Peering into semi-darkness, I could just make out acres of grog in a maze of rooms. This wasn’t a wine cellar, it was a museum.

  We were met by the cellarmaster whose name I didn’t get. I hadn’t heard a word since I set eyes on the nearly 400,000 bottles in the darkness. How on earth was I to film them? I was carrying four lights with me, which at a stretch might show me 400 bottles. To top it off, Ray had decided this was too good to be true, so he wanted to do a piece to camera. When I suggested to the cellarmaster that I might have to set up some lights, he was apoplectic. I, being a wine connoisseur myself, was well aware that it was never good for my bottle of claret to be left on the back seat of the car on a hot day, but come on, a few little lights?

  It turned out that the cellar is kept at a constant 12 degrees Celsius to preserve the wines and brandies, worth tens of millions of francs. Each night after dinner, twelve lucky diners, mostly the famous or the rich, or both, are invited down to the cellar for a special tour to inspect and taste a couple of the unbelievably expensive cognacs and ports. That special cellar invitation is limited to a maximum of twelve, because the combined body heat of any more than that will elevate the room temperature to something like the back seat of my car, and could even make the Château Citran 1858 taste not unlike my cheapskate claret.

  After much negotiating with the cellarmaster, and lying about the intensity of my lights, he reluctantly agreed to allow us to have them on for three minutes, and three minutes only.

  I set up the lights, trying to illuminate as much of the cellar as possible, constantly changing their position, trying to get the museum look by highlighting dust and cracked labels. With the cellarmaster watching my every move, I grabbed a quick reading from my light meter then immediately turned off the lights.

  Ray had finally figured out his piece to camera, and it was a doozy. Difficult for both of us. Ray planned to stroll down an aisle of grog, open a metal gate, move through to a large wooden table, walk around the table to a chair, then sit and deliver the punchline. We rehearsed three or four times with the lights off.

  Happy with the words and the movement, I turned on the lights and as the lights went on, so did the pressure of having to be quick. Ray buckled. He kept blowing his lines, and each time he did we were told we had to leave the lights off for fifteen minutes to allow the room to cool. The more we laughed and knocked Ray about what an amateur he was, the worse he got.

  Forty-five minutes later with the piece to camera in the can we packed up our red hot lights, said ‘merci’ to the cellarmaster, and got out of there before he found out the Château d’Yquem 1871 had gone off.

  Now it was time to meet the boss. Monsieur Claude Terrail, the debonair, supercool owner of this establishment. Oozing French charm with a textbook French accent, he began the interview by telling us that during World War II, his father had said to him, ‘Whatever happens, you must save the cellar of La Tour d’Argent.’ Months later when Claude heard that the Germans had reached Paris, he went AWOL from his army barracks and raced back to his beloved restaurant. ‘It was my duty,’ he explained.

  So, in the dead of night, Claude and a friend bricked up half the cellar, and when the enemy arrived to claim their booty, the crème de la crème was hidden from them and their philistine Germanic palates. And Claude went back to war.

  Still, I suspect the Huns had a great time getting rid of what they found, and I was left thinking had I checked for a fake wall in the Packers’ boardroom all those years ago, I might have spent a few years drinking some nice Penfolds Grange 55, or even a 52, instead of my regular flagon of red.

  Monsieur Terrail was on a roll, telling of the history of his restaurant, the famous clients, and his nightly visits to La Tour. Every night without fail, he said, he chatted to every guest, and in no time he would have them worshipping him. The women all wanting to bed him, the men wanting to be him. But even though he speaks to every guest every night, sometimes he desists, as, ‘If I see zee young man looking into zee young girl’s eyes, saying I lerv you, I do not walk up and say, ’ow was zee fish?’

  Claude and his charm were the icing on the cake of a great story. After my faux pas with Chef Sénéchal, I had no way of knowing ’ow zee fish was. So to make up for my missed opportunity I pinched an ashtray on my way out. A souvenir, a small reminder of how close I went to experiencing something enjoyed by kings, presidents and rock stars, all of whom have signed the restaurant’s hall of fame wall.

  Included on that wall at floor level, half an inch above the carpet, was an illegible signature captioned, ‘Malcom Freser Australian Prime Minister’. The
signatures above waist height, all spelled correctly, included Henry Kissinger and Mick Jagger.

  •

  That night, having spent an entire day in the world’s best restaurant, but still starving, Ray and I went in search of fodder and fun. We started with oysters and beers, then oysters and gin, then oysters and wine, a few more oysters, some substantial food, and substantially more wine.

  Then off to Montmartre to check out the nightlife and trace the steps of Monet, Picasso, Dali and of course Vincent. I’m sure there were times when their steps were equally as uneasy as ours, but in the state I was in I felt as if I was trapped in a Picasso or worse, a Dali, and as I looked up, I saw Starry Night clear as a bell. Vincent wasn’t insane or on drugs, he’d just had five dozen oysters and copious amounts of alcohol. How good is Paris.

  At four in the morning, we cabbed it back to the Left Bank to find more beer, but there was none to be found, so we decided we’d walk across Pont Neuf, the new bridge, built in 1607. Such a beautiful bridge, over such a beautiful river, and we were feeling beautiful. All this beauty naturally called for a swim. We took off all our clothes, left them in a neat pile and climbed up onto the bridge railing. I thought, How much fun is this going to be! We were both good swimmers so we planned to allow the current to leisurely carry us 50 metres or so, then, when the fun had worn off we’d swim back, retrieve our clothes and head back to our exorbitantly expensive hotel, refreshed and sober.

  Standing side by side on the bridge, the decision as to who would jump first took a bit of time. I said, ‘I’ll go first, but you’re really going to do this aren’t you, Ray?’

  ‘Yep, sure,’ he said. I hesitated, starting to feel a bit apprehensive, but put it down to the oysters, when suddenly we were surrounded by gendarmes, screaming at us in French. If my French had been a little better, I would have asked if they had towels in their car but they didn’t look the swimming type. In fact, they looked like cops the world over: mean and menacing and totally lacking in joie de vivre.