the beginning of cooking

In the beginning there were two chefs, beatific Mithaecus and grumpy Apicius, and the world was their kitchen.

They grilled over volcanoes. They roasted, baked and braised in deep caves. They sous vide in the warm currents of the open sea. They steamed in the rainforest. They dehydrated in the dessert. They cured in the clean cool air of the mountains. They began great wildfires in the great forests to smoke their produce. In the running rivers they cleaned, and in the snow and artic fridge they kept their ingredients fresh.

Nothing ever fouled for they cooked everything and loved everything they cooked. They cherished all fruits and vegetables, from the abundant potato they used in many dishes, to the rare and unusual kiwano they could only use for complicated desserts. They adored seafood and cooked all manner of fish, cephalopods, crustaceans, shellfish and whales. Apicius was an accomplished sushi chef whose viperfish sashimi was a spectacle of knife skills and wasabi. They revered meat. It mattered not if was white or red, chicken, cow, pig, marsupial, or predator, if they could grill, braise, bake, tartare, or fry it they would cook it. Mithaecus was so fond of unicorn—whose horn was the perfect spice for slow roasting its succulent belly—that he mistakenly farmed them from existence.

When humans were baked accidentally into existence from blood stock, turnip and thyme in the caves of Afghanistan, they were in awe of the two chefs, whom they believed to be gods. The humans begged to dine at the chefs’ magnificent table of oak and steel. The two chefs agreed they were gods, but they were reluctant to feed the humans, fearing that their secrets and sacred recipes may be stolen or, worse, tampered with.

The humans were not so easily turned away and with enormous intent proceeded to flatter and stroke the egos of Mithaecus and Apicius, telling them that they were the greatest chefs who had ever lived and that their seasoning was always perfect. After fifteen minutes, perhaps less, the two chefs, whose already gargantuan egos had grown universe sized, agreed to host the humans to a feast.

Mithaecus and Apicius devised a menu of their finest dishes, a dégustation of nine courses that traversed the globe. There were oysters served direct from the sea, with condiments of pearl tapioca, black cod roe and orange peels marinated in oil freshly squeezed from the plumpest of all olives. A soup of iguana and leek, served chilled with Antarctic ice chipped off its largest, purest glacier. A dish Mithaecus simply called The Salad: a lettuce leaf plucked directly from, and garnished with, the darkly silty dirt it was grown in. Red Rose potato fondant topped delicately with black truffles and the crispy skins of the pigs who dug them up. Foie gras from geese trained to be willingly fed the rich corn, Mongolian peppercorns and red wine that marinated their livers, served on a bed of deconstructed sour dough made from a centuries old starter yeast. Confit penguin egg resting in a nest of dehydrated noodles enrichened with a dollop Apicius’s homemade patisserie butter and lightened with a leaf of sparingly braised cavalo nero. A medley of sautéed deep sea fish—lanternfish, bristlemouth, cookiecutter shark and eelpout—presented on a steel grate above a bowl of smouldering sequoia chips, which imparted a rich smoky flavour to the robust seafood. The masterful elecowpigturduken en croute: a chicken stuffed into a duck stuffed into a turkey stuffed into a suckling pig stuffed into a cow stuffed into an elephant wrapped in pastry, served with sliced radish. For dessert, a pavlova so light that it levitated an inch above the plate, shedding its perfectly desiccated coconut and sugar as any breeze or breath would make it quiver. And to finish, a selection of semi-hard cheeses made from antelope and mountain goat milk, with an aphrodisiac charged quince paste on the side.

The two chefs slaved over their feast, day through night, summer through winter. Their creativity flowed like the carefully crafted sauces they left to gently simmer and thicken above hot springs. Their masterpiece was coming together. And from the ranks of the humans Mithaecus and Apicius recruited only the smartest and most nimble to serve their food and pair it with fine wine and spirits. They named them Waiters, for they waited so patiently on the chefs to cook, and they were prophets to the other humans, standard bearers of all food and beverage knowledge.

Finally, the feast was ready. The table was set with golden cutlery, crystal glassware and stone plates. Perfectly shaped baguettes rested in linen lined wire baskets, scattered between ramekins of hand crafted olive oil and butter. And the humans arrived and were sat with their aperitif of Campari mixed with naturally carbonated soda water, fresh from the Himalayas. Shortly afterwards the first course was sent. The applause was rapturous, but for one human whose face was contorted.

‘Pray tell,’ he shouted above the din of oyster forks and clattering glassware, ‘is there an alternative for those amongst us who do not partake in the consumption of animals or animal derived products?’

And Apicius, enraged, emerged from his celestial kitchen and bellowed, ‘begone!’ and the first vegan was banished and all those who believed themselves gluten free held their tongues.

The feast continued. All the courses were met with sighs and cries and pure enjoyment. It was a spectacle of savouring and devouring, of nursing each mouthful, letting every bite and chew coat their palates. Tears of happiness and delight streamed down the faces of the humans for they knew nothing so delicious as what they were served by the two chefs. The Waiters poured many fine beverages and the diners revelled in the matches, growing intoxicated with alcohol and wonder. The applause echoed long into the night, the sound of which bounced off empty plates, walls and full bellies. And this is what happiness sounds like.

At the conclusion of the feast, Mithaecus and Apicius emerged and bowed before the humans who rose to their feet to honour their gods, clapping and cheering with great gusto. The faces of the chefs betrayed the exhaustion the grandeur of the service had left them, but pride played all too clearly in the lines of their faces and burnt eyebrows.

From the loud crowd, a voice yelled, ‘show us! Show us how you did it!’ and more voices joined until it became a chorus begging the chefs.

Apicius, always the more distrustful and arrogant of the chefs, shook his head, telling the humans that this was his and Mithaecus’s skill and it could not be trusted with mortals, particularly as some among their number showed inclinations of not eating certain foods. He scowled at the memory of the vegan. All food is good and must be eaten, he preached, otherwise we wilfully absent our tastebuds to wonders and such a thing is an atrocity.

Mithaecus, always the more forgiving of the two chefs, who had also taken on a Waiter as his mistress, disputed Apicius and wondered why not share his gifts. Of course, all food is good and must be eaten, but should we not give over our knowledge to these poor selective mortals so that they may make the best of their horribly chosen situation? If we teach them to cook, perchance something tasty will come of their limitations.

Apicius was furious. Mithaecus suggested betraying their culinary talents, but he could see the human crowd swooning and knew the fight was lost. The humans would eventually, one way or the other, have access to their skills whether he wanted it or not. Dismayed, he retreated to his celestial kitchen from which, to this day, he still prepares and serves beautiful feasts to those willing to eat all before them. No dietary requirements allowed.

To all chefs, Apicius he gave his fury.

Mithaecus became the world’s first celebrity chef and took to wearing suspenders.

To all chefs, Mithaecus gave the desire to cook in a television studio and sleep with the wait staff.