Logan Lott
April 16, 2012
ENGL 461
Five Star Cuisine
This is my chance to impress.
Anton journeyed to this five star Manhattan suite to sample five star cuisine amongst five star guests. A decade he had spent vying for this spot amongst the top food critics in the city. And here he was.
A pair of men with ivory white gloves opened ivory white doors to reveal the party in full swing. The slicing notes of a violin coursed through the ocean of soft banter. A thirty year old glass of Sauvignon Blanc found its way into his hand. This vineyard’s keepers had a surgeon’s precision in selecting these varietals. Dry, like one would expect of a sauvignon blanc. Its boquet, floral yet demure. Its aftertaste smacking of ripe melon and lemon zest. Swirling the glass, he scanned the crowd with hungry eyes.
“Anton! Over here!” Across the piano, the esteemed Mr. Gregoire Pascell waved him over.
A round of hors d’ourves awaited. Anton knew he was expected to sample the Michelin starred fare yet he had not expected it so early in the evening. Gregoire Pascal was not a man to be kept waiting, however. Behind a tissue-thin facade of a benevolent father figure, lied a supreme power that only could be possessed by New York’s reigning, top food critic.
“We’ve been waiting for you to try these, Anton.”
A silk-gloved waiter lifted the ornate silver lid from a sterling serving tray. The odor was powerful, authoritative really . . . familiar. Can’t readily tell whether the dish is meat or vegetable.
“Well, go on. Try it.”
A toothpick from a silk glove stabbed a chunk from the platter and rested onto a lavender serviette. Was that a hair? No. Anton plopped it into his mouth and sealed his lips around the chosen nugget. Something of a curried exterior. Crunchy on the . . .
The notes of the violin reached its top octave and screeched through the air.
“BLAGH!!! This tastes like shit!”
“Well, that’s because it is. You see, we at the Pathfinder club believe that the next wave of gourmet food trends lies in feces.”
“AAAAGH”
“Pull yourself together.”
“WHAT KIND OF FECES?!”
“Why, human, of course. This one is an Ethipoian/Somalian blend. We found that last year’s drought in the region had naturally dry-aged the feces, giving it a leathery texture and a silty mouthfeel. The aftertaste is quite smoky.”
“IT’S SHIT!” Anton blurted as he leaned against a window sill, his insides writhing. A translucent brown mixture of mucus and saliva and human feces dripped from his face. “HOW CAN YOU EAT THIS?!”
“Anton, when you come to terms with it, it’s clearly the most acquired taste of all. In mastering it, you master the challenges of the culinary world! Here, try this one.”
The esteemed Gregoire Pascal extended a toothpick to his crouched compatriot. Tan globules dripped onto the eggshell carpet on its way to Anton’s quivering grasp.
“As you can tell, this particular variety is quite pungent. It comes from the eastern rainforest region of the Congo. The civil war there has really affected the last few years’ crop. You might notice a recurring theme here, Anton. We are devouring the shit of the people who are at the utmost of human suffering.”
The esteemed gentleman was right.
Anton could taste it now. Plums, raisins, barley, pumpkin seeds, green pepper, tobacco, walnut, bratwurst, black cherry, cocoa butter.
“My trouble, Anton, is trying to pair them with a suitable wine. What do you think for this one? I was thinking a pinot noir.”
Anton vomited.
“Waiter, shovel that up, will you?. It could come in handy.”
