23.
On the other side of the one-way
window, in a hot sterile white room with a drain in its centre, a mass of naked
men throbbed and vibrated. Through the small speaker, Matilda could hear their
moans and grunts. Sweat sheened on their bodies. Bodily fluids dribbled off
them. They adopted all imaginable positions. Some near unimaginable.
Contortions beguiling usual human flexibility. They worked in pairs, teams,
singularly. There was a mechanical precision to their act. An intensity saturated
in a performative pleasure slowly starting to get real despite themselves. Wet
slapping sounds. Moisture hitting the floor.
Matilda
turned to one of her chef de parties. ‘Add two more,’ she said.
The
chef nodded and flicked a switch on a control panel nearby.
A
door in the white room slid open. Two men stumbled out, blinking. Erections at
the ready. With little hesitation they added themselves to the group. Welcomed
by their comrades. Pulled into the pile. Finding their own partners. Or groups.
‘And
turn up the heat. One degree,’ said Matilda.
The
liquids being secreted in the room circled the drain in its centre. Dribbled
in. Then pumped into a beaker next to Matilda in the control room. It was half
full. A cloudy, viscous film. She pulled a teaspoon from one of the pockets of
her deep red chef’s jacket. Dipped it into the beaker. Stirred a little. Brought
it to her lips and slurped gently.
Her
eyes were closed. Thoughtful. She let it wash around her mouth, her tongue, the
back of her throat. Measuring for saltiness. Sweetness. Bitterness. Sourness.
Umami. Matilda let the flavours carry her. Tug at the memory synapses in her
brain. What did it remind her of? Where did these flavours take her?
Was it the
sea? The front beach in Sorrento? Or further west? Barwon Heads? Waves rolling
over fish scales and seagull droppings speckled with fried chips.
No. It wasn’t
the sea at all. It was earthier. Less tangy and mouth filling. Not as dehydrating.
It was the
minerality of a rock in the Grampians. A dribble of rain falling off a saltbush
onto pure granite touched lightly by soil and clay moments after a humid, mid-summer
storm. A delicate flavour: a salty sweet savouriness, edged by the suggestion
of bitterness.
But also, an
unfortunate sour plasticity. A used condom left nearby by lazy lovers whose
taste had been carried by the rain over the rock. Leaving a distasteful
residue.
Matilda spat
into a bucket. Leaned over to a microphone. ‘Faster,’ she said. ‘Harder.’
The men in
the white room followed her command. The gyrations picked up pace. Rising and
falling. Moving like a knife slicing through vegetables for a mirepoix. Exact
but mostly unfussed about size and shape, concerned mostly with reaching the
finish. Getting to the actual cooking. Liquid continued to dribble into the beaker.
The carrots
had to be perfect. Matilda wanted to bring out their gentle earthy tones and
soft bitterness through gentle caramelisation. Show off their naturally sweet
fruitiness. Match them with the tender fat meat of braised flamingo shanks. The
star attraction for her gala dinner at ChefComp. Serve with a subtle lemon vinaigrette
of hydroponic garlic and aged Dijon mustard made by an extinct order of knights
– a little acid to cut the richness.
Matilda had
discovered that the earthy salt and sugar emitted in the sweat and fluids of
people engaged in sexual activity matched delightfully with carrots. Fucking
juice contained the right level of sugar to create the kind of soft, crusted browning
she sought, while the salt was both savoury and understated enough to not
overpower the natural taste of the carrot. And all that delicious funk underneath
it – it did something she did not have the gastronomic vocabulary to describe.
But she knew how genius tasted.
She had
experimented widely to build the right profile and balance.
Firstly,
couples on their own, or even in ménage e trois, didn’t produce enough
seasoning. Even in temperature-controlled rooms with the heating all the way
up.
Orgies, then,
were the way to go.
Secondly,
although heterosexual sex parties worked well, Matilda had found that female
emissions were generally too perfumed. Tending to overpower the husky mustiness
and musk she had found to be pivotal to the taste of her carrots. This, also,
ruled out lesbians. (Although, they would likely go exceptionally well with
some poached peaches – maybe, nectarines – for dessert. A future recipe, but
one worth returning to.)
Thirdly, and
finally, it needed to be men. Lots of men. In hot muggy spaces. Matilda
supervised their cleaning and arousal levels. Assigned them their performance
enhancers – organic stimulants and aphrodisiacs she had also tested, making
sure none of these unfortunate (but required) additives inhibited the natural
taste she desired.
Then, with
her mise en place set, she set them at it. Orchestrating the act from her
control room. Never directing positions or groupings. Only pace. Ferocity.
Temperature. Adjusting the gas and stirring, so to speak. Seeking that ideal
flavour.
She watched
them go at it. Reaching crescendos and plateaus. Her precious seasoning drooling
off them. There was no rest. Not till Matilda said it was done. Knew it was
ready to serve.
The dinner would
be a masterpiece. The talk of Melbourne. An avant-garde tribute to classical
Roman cuisine. Her arrival to the heavenly gourmet domain of Apicius. His flesh
and blood as dinner. As tribute.
Matilda pulled
out her phone and checked the message from Nicko again.
im on the
knife. church dont it anymore. some girl has it. she’s with a knife sharpener. might
be a guy i know from working down in south melbourne. following up with a few
old chefs n friends. don’t worry, we’ll have it soon.
She tasted
the mixture again. Leaned into the mic. ‘Slow,’ she said and watched the feral
sexual aggression in front of her pull back, find some passion in a mess of
oiled, hot, closed-eye bodies. Roiling and rolling. Bubbling now to a gentle
simmer. Time to integrate flavour.
She
fantasized about what she could with the knife of Apicius.
No comments:
Post a Comment