Catatouille

Catatouille

Imagine the scene: A table in the corner of a busy restaurant in the posh end of Stoke Newington. A middle-aged couple are hoping for a thrilling night of hot quinoa and spinach action. They’ve ordered a bottle of vintage Paris Saint-Germain and asked the violinist to play something by Vermicelli. What could possibly go wrong?

 

MUSIC: An unaccompanied house musician performs romantic violin music from a small stage.

 

SOUND: The muffled chatter of diners at other tables.

 

WAITER: Are we ready to order yet, sir?

 

KEN:  (SNAPPING ABRUPTLY) No, I’m afraid we’re not.

 

WAITER: Not to worry sir. I’ll come back in a few moments when you’ve had time to make up your minds.

 

BARBIE: Ask him Ken!

 

KEN: Actually...

 

WAITER: Yes?

 

KEN: Well my wife and I were wondering...

 

BARBIE: We were wondering why there doesn’t appear to be any vegetarian dishes on the menu.

 

KEN: ...on the menu.

 

WAITER: I’m sorry. We don’t really tend to cater for herbivorous diners.

 

KEN: But the sign...

 

BARBIE: The sign above the door says, that no animals are harmed in the preparation of your dishes.

 

KEN: ...your dishes.

I do wish you’d let me finish Barbie.

 

WAITER: Oh, I am sorry. I’m afraid that sign is a little misleading.

 

KEN: Mis...

 

BARBIE: ...leading?

 

KEN: Barbie!

 

BARBIE: Shush Ken!

In what way misleading?

 

WAITER: Well it would be safe to assume, I suppose, that the words do suggest that the food prepared by our excellent team of highly skilled chefs does not contain meat.

 

BARBIE: Agreed!

 

KEN: I’ll do the agreeing if you don’t mind, Barbie.

 

BARBIE: No you won’t Ken. Shut up!

 

WAITER: And although that is not strictly true . . .

 

BARBIE: How much meat is used?

 

WAITER: A lot.

 

KEN: So your sign is lies, all lies.

 

BARBIE: Stop talking such claptrap Ken and let me handle this.

 

WAITER: Madam?

 

BARBIE: So your sign is lies, all lies.

 

WAITER: No, it’s true madam. Our dishes are all specially prepared with as much thought put into the welfare of our fluffy little friends as there is put into tantalising the palates of our dear customers.

 

KEN: Okay, I’ll have an eight-ounce sirloin steak.

 

WAITER: Certainly sir. And how would you like it cooked?

 

KEN: I suppose I’ll have to have it done rare, with its head and hooves attached and still mooing if you’re not going to harm it.

 

BARBIE: Don’t be so facetious Ken.

 

KEN: Well how can anybody cook a steak without killing a cow?

 

WAITER: We didn’t kill it?

 

KEN: What?

 

BARBIE: I’ve told you Ken, leave this to me.

What?

 

WAITER: We didn’t kill the cow. She died peacefully in her sleep.

 

BARBIE: Don’t be ridiculous.

 

WAITER: She had been ill for some time. She died in her sleep with her family and friends surrounding her bed in an all night vigil. It was such a moving moment.

 

KEN: Well what about the roast chicken then? Did it slip away quietly in the wee hours too?

 

BARBIE: Ken, one more comment like that and you’ll slip away quietly in the wee hours.

So tell me, waiter, how did the chicken manage to get himself on the menu without suffering pain?

 

WAITER: Herself, madam. She was called Charlotte.

 

BARBIE: Okay. I’m trying to keep calm here.

 

KEN: Perhaps I should deal with this dear.

 

BARBIE: (SHOUTING) I’m trying to keep calm here!

How did Charlotte manage to arrive in your kitchen and get stuffed without there being any pain involved for the poor bird?

 

KEN: Get stuffed?

 

BARBIE: You get stuffed!

 

MUSIC: Stops suddenly.

 

SOUND: Other diners stop talking to listen.

 

KEN: I think you’d better answer my wife's question waiter. She has that sage and onion look in her eyes!

 

MUSIC: Violinist re-continues.

 

SOUND: The muffled chatter of diners at other tables resumes.

 

WAITER: Charlotte donated her body to research.

 

KEN: Research?

 

BARBIE: Research into what?

 

WAITER: Research into developing more palatable chicken dishes. Her mother had met a tragic end as the main ingredient of a bag of Bernard Matthews’ Mini Kievs and Charlotte was determined to put things right for her.

 

KEN: (SNIFFLING) That’s so sad.

 

BARBIE: Pathetic!

 

KEN: Well I see there is a nut roast here on the second page.

 

BARBIE: Sounds vegetarian to me. I’ll have that please waiter and be quick. I’m starving.

 

WAITER: Perhaps I should warn you madam. The nut roast, strictly speaking, isn’t a vegetarian dish.

 

KEN: But it’s a nut roast.

 

WAITER: But it does contain meat, sir.

 

BARBIE: How can nuts not be vegetarian?

 

WAITER: When they’re cats’ nuts madam.

 

KEN: (SPLURTING WINE FROM HIS MOUTH IN SHOCK) Cat’s nuts?

 

BARBIE: Disgusting!

 

KEN: I know.

 

BARBIE: I meant you’re disgusting Ken. Not being able to control your mouth when it’s full of wine.

But cat’s nuts?

 

WAITER: Well the restaurateur is a great cat lover and it breaks his heart to see unwanted strays of the feline species breeding uncontrollably to produce yet more strays doomed, in turn, to a life of neglect, hunger and scavenging.

 

BARBIE: So you cut them up?

 

WAITER: Castration is the word madam. In the long run it’s an act of kindness to the cats and it’s an operation performed using only sterilised surgical instruments and freshly picked garden herbs.

 

BARBIE: (IN A RAISED VOICE) But you’re chopping the bollocks off poor little pussy cats!

 

MUSIC: Stops suddenly for a moment and then re-continues.

 

WAITER: Well, it may be more delicate to refer to them as testicles madam. But testicle roast doesn’t sound right, does it? A tad unappetising.

 

BARBIE: You don’t sound all that right to me either.

 

KEN: You’re nuts!

 

WAITER: My nuts? Oh, they’re in the pâté.

 

KEN: How could he say that?

 

BARBIE: Why don’t you ask him?

 

KEN: But . . .

 

BARBIE: Have I got to do everything?

What are your testicles doing in the pâté waiter?

 

WAITER: They’re marinating in a medium dry white wine to be combined with a mixture of oatmeal, roasted pulses, garlic and freshly chopped marjoram, bound together with egg yolk and cream.

 

BARBIE: I meant... sigh... why are they in the pâté?

 

WAITER: Ah, I see. Almost the same reason as with the cats. On a waiter’s meagre income I can’t afford to have children and rather than let those delicate gonads just dangle about doing nothing I thought I’d put them to some good use. Such succulent sweetmeats, and thankfully they didn’t need to be tenderised with a mallet.

Ready to order now sir? Madam?

 

BARBIE: Have you got anything at all on your menu that contains vegetable matter?

 

WAITER: Yes.

 

KEN: Do tell.

 

BARBIE: Don’t interrupt Ken. Sometimes I wish you weren’t with me.

Tell us then waiter. This elusive but scrumptious vegetable consumable that adorns your pan. What is it?

 

WAITER: Medallions of pork in a creamy mustard sauce. They’re delicious madam.

 

BARBIE: Did you say pork?

 

WAITER: I did indeed.

 

BARBIE: In a vegetarian dish?

 

WAITER: That’s right madam.

 

BARBIE: But isn’t that a contradiction of terms?

 

WAITER: Not really.

 

BARBIE: Go on then. Let’s hear it.

 

WAITER: Well, a few months before he died, the pig was in a terrible car accident and suffered horrific head injuries, just above the snout mainly. He was kept alive in a coma for weeks on a life support machine. In the end the vets said that they had to switch it off because there was nothing else they could do for him and he’d never be anything more than a vegetable if he lived.

 

BARBIE: Put your coat on Ken. We’re going.

 

KEN: Yes dear.

 

MUSIC: The violinist makes, with his instrument, the noise of a suffering moggy and fades out.

 

SOUND: Fades out.

 

WAITER: Shrugs.

 

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Image:

From my personal album this is Charlotte’s mother, before the Kiev tragedy.