The Feast Problem (2)

The porridge crew, myself, Alun, Gaving Hestfuhrer and the mainland knnning took our seats. Igor, the boatman’s hunchback assistant had kindly agreed to help out with the service that day, assumedly in the hope of sneaking some feasty remnants for himself.

“The first course,” Igor said, walking over to the CD player. A horrendous wailing din began. Igor started to leave the room at great speed.

“What’s happening, Igor?” I said. “What is this racket?”

“The first course, master. The Sound of the sea.”

“I saw that on the menu,” I said. “I assumed it was an assortment of fish dishes.”

“Oh, no master, nothing so bland. It’s recordings of octopuses, whales, squid, dolphins and angry halibut. It’s known as mood food, an appetiser.”

“Mood food,” I repeated.  “And how long does this last?”

“Just the right amount of time, master. Otherwise the whole meal will be spoiled.”

The porridge party said nothing. Gaving Hestfuhrer, on the other hand, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “This is amazing,” he said. “A genuine sound platter, squid screaming, whales wailing, dolphins’ dulcet tones and howling halibut. I’ve heard nothing like it since John Peel died.”

Eventually the racket ended and Igor lurched in, pushing a trolley of steaming hot plates.

“The second course,” Igor said.

“What is it?” Alun asked.

“My brain,” Igor said, “my brain, my brain,” he clutched his head in obvious agony. Eventually the disturbance passed and Igor let go of his own head. “So sorry,” Igor said, “I get that from time to time.”

“No problem at all Igor,” Alun said. “So what is the second course?”

“It’s a hedgehog sandwich.”

“A hedgehog sandwich?” I said.

“Yes master,” Igor said. “These are freshly flattened hedgehogs, served in a Bronte Bap, made from 43 separate wheats, with cheese made from hedgehog milk, turnip fries and sliced red onion.”

“This is amazing,” said Gaving. “A proper feast. What do you think your majesty?”

“Mother used to love her hedgehog sandwich,” the knnning said. “Though she ended up feeding most of it to her corgis.”

After the course ended, Igor took away the plates, and then returned, with the posse of schoolboys, armed with catapults.

“The next course, masters,” Igor announced. “Snail comets.”

At this point the schoolboys set the snails on fire and started flinging them across the room with their catapults.”

“This is amazing,” said Gaving Hestfurer. “These aren’t just any burning snails, I recognise the recipe. Snails soaked in gin and brandy for three days, so that they are spectacularly flammable, then lighted and flung across the room by young urchins with catapults.”

“It seems unnecessarily cruel,” I said. “It’s fair enough burning animals if we’re going to eat them, but it must be extremely painful way to die purely for the spectacle of fiery flying gastropods.”

“Not at all,” said Gaving enthusiastically. “The snails are given special fire-proof jackets to ensure that no snails are harmed.”

“We have this every night at home” said the knnning, “Just before the pizza course.”

Eventually the snail fireworks were over. Igor extinguished the fires and showed us that the snails were indeed unharmed, just a bit sozzled by the three-day soaking in gin and brandy.

“I hope you are enjoying your meals, masters,” Igor said. “I hope you are ready for something to drink.”

“Excellent,” said Gavin. “What could possibly accompany a meal of this calibre?”

Igor opened a bottle of dark, unlabelled wine and started lurching round the table, pouring a glass for each diner.

Gaving was the first to taste the beverage. “My, this is amazing. This is rice wine, but not just any rice wine. Is this …?”

“Yes master,” Igor said. “This is monkfoot wine. We have employed six belgian monks to spend a week treading the rice for this wine.”

“Astonishing, you can taste the weary submission of the rice where it has given up to the constant pounding of mouldy belgian monkfeet. I’ve tasted nothing like it, it’s an astonishing accompaniment to an amazing meal.”

The porridge party maintained their silence, showing not a glimmer of a reaction.

“You must agree?” he said, turning to Eric, who was seated next to him.

“The bees are working hard today,” Eric said. “I saw one next to a sunflower positively sweating with the effort.”  A brilliant ad lib to avoid commenting on the meal, but it left Gaving somewhat flummoxed.

Igor lurched out of the room and returned with a platter of beetroot and four professional darts players, one of each gender.

The beetroot was placed on a shelf and the darts players took turns to spear the beetroot with their darts.

“Such precision,” the Gnnnuardian food critic said. “Every single dart is hitting the beetroot.”

“But what is this?” the knnning asked. “I’ve never had a meal where darts professionals throw darts at raw beetroot.”

“Why, this is Aerated beetroot. The holes created by the tungsten release gushes of air into the beetroot, which creates a unique flavour.”

After the darts players had completed the preparation Igor lurched back into the room, placed the beetroot on their platters and distributed them to the diners.

“How on earth will they follow this?” Gaving asked the porridge party member to his right. “Hedgehog Sandwiches, Monkfoot wine, Snail Comets, Aerated Beetroot.”

“Tut,” said Kingtut, “the sound of tapdancing yaks kept me awake last night. I hate yak tapdancing season, don’t you.” 

Luckily the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Igor, wheeling in a trolley of custardy pies.  Taking the first pie, he thrust it into the face of the Gnnnuardian food correspondent. He proceeded to circle the table thrusting pies into each of the diners’ faces, while Gaving enthused about the experience.

“Why this isn’t just any pie in the face,” he announced to anyone who would listen to him. “These are stoats-milk-cream-custard-pies. I haven’t been pied like this for ten years. El Posho had a chef who had mastered the pie-face experience.”

“I say,” said the Knnning after being pied, “This is rather jolly isn’t it.”

“Not just jolly, this is the perfect blend of stoat custard flavour and nineteenth century humour, it merges tradition, modern cuisine and mustelid-milk-pudding. Don’t you agree?” he said to Alun, who was busy removing pie from his face.

Unable to think of a response that failed to refer to the food, he burst into song, rising to his feet and giving a hearty rendition of Happy Talk (the Captain Sensible version), the island’s national anthem.

At this point Igor lurched back into the room, with a trolley of grails containing jelly and ice cream.  He was followed by the monks. As he placed each jelly in front of a diner the monks began to bless the dish.

“What on earth is this?” said the knnning?

“This is Holy Grail custard jelly with mustard ice-cream,” Gaving explained. “The monks bless the grails to make them authentic holy grails.”

When we had all eaten our holy jelly and ice-cream, Igor lurched in to clear the plates and was joined by the six Belgian monks, carrying jugs of beer.

“A special treat for the final course,” said Igor. “The belgian monks have brewed a special ale for the occasion, Happy Island ale.”

“Hurrah,” said Gaving. “Nothing like a…” he paused to take a sip of the beer, “fifteen percent Belgian ale.”

The feast was finally over, and everyone took there leave.

“Well, I must be off,” said Gaving Hestfuhrer. “It was an amazing feast, but I want to be well out of the way when you start on the washing up.  This will make a page-turning chapter for my coffee table book. Who knew that islanders ate so well.”

“I must be off as well,” said the knnning. “I have an entire knnningdom to patronise. But I must say, I was so pleased to see that my subjects lives are almost identical to my own.”

“I expect you’ll be leaving as well,” I said to Babette.”

“Me?” she said surprised. “Why on earth would I leave. Where would I go?”

“I assumed you’d go back to the mainland. Now you’re a millionaire.”

“I don’t have any money,” she said.

“But the lottery,” I said.

“Oh that. I spent it all on the feast. A meal for eleven at El Posho costs £1 million.”

And so the island returned to normal, with the only fare of substance being the daily porridge party. It was as if nothing had changed. Although …

“I’ve used my best oats for today’s porridge,” said Eric the next day. “An austere existence is all very well, but it needn’t be at the expense of flavour.”

“It’s very good porridge,” said Kingtut. “You can really taste the oats.”

“And this is my best well water,” said Steve, "Cool, clear, but with the subtle flavour of well water.”

“Fantastic,” said Jeff, “There’s nothing like fresh, flavoursome water to accompany a meal.”