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.
