It wasn’t cod, you donkey. It was halibut.
The s’more. The most offensive assault on the human palate ever contrived.
So once again – thank you for dining with us tonight. You represent the ruin of my art and my life, and now you get to be a part of it. Part of what I hope is my… masterpiece. And now our final dessert course is a playful twist on a comfort food classic: The s’more. The most offensive assault on the human palate ever contrived. Unethically sourced chocolate and gelatinised sugar water imprisoned by industrial-grade graham cracker. It’s everything wrong with us, and yet we associate it with innocence. With childhood. Mom and dad. But what transforms this fucking monstrosity is fire. The purifying flame. It nourishes us, warms us, reinvents us, forges and destroys us. We must embrace the flame. We must be cleansed. Made clean. Like martyrs or heretics, we can be subsumed… and made anew. I love you all!
Over the next few hours you will ingest fat, salt, sugar, protein, bacteria, fungi, various plants and animals, and, at times, entire ecosystems. But I have to beg of you one thing. It’s just one. Do not eat. Taste. Savor. Relish. Consider every morsel that you place inside your mouth. Be mindful. But do not eat. Our menu is too precious for that. And look around you. Here we are on this island. Accept. Accept all of it. And forgive. And on that note… food!
Ask yourselves, this entire evening, why didn’t you all try harder to fight back? To get out of here? Honestly, you probably could have. Something to think about.
As Dr. King said: “We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor. It must be demanded by the oppressed.”
Shallots for the great foodie the phenomenal Mr food. Everybody gather round. You must learn from Tyler. This is a new dicing method that we have been woefully ignorant. What next?
Butter, leeks and shallots sautéed in butter. I bear witness to a revolution in cuisine.
Yes he did and he questioned my menu. He would even request substitutions despite the fact that there are no substitutions at Hawthorn! Fallen angel please.
We must be cleansed. Made clean. Like martyrs or heretics, we can be subsumed and made anew.
We are but a frightened nanosecond. Nature is timeless. Enjoy!
Bread has existed in some form for over 12,000 years, especially amongst the poor. Flour and water. What could be simpler? Even today, grain represents 65% of all agriculture. Fruits and vegetables only 6%. Ancient Greek peasants dipped their stale, measly bread in wine for breakfast. And how did Jesus teach us to pray if not to beg for our daily bread?
It is, and has always been, the food of the common man. But you, my dear guests, are not the common man. And so tonight… you get no bread.
Our first course is called The Island. On your plate are plants from around the island, placed on rocks from the shore, covered in barely frozen, filtered seawater which will flavor the dish as it melts.
It’s perfectly all right. Yes, they are those very same scallops. Now, here is what you must remember about this dish. We, the people on this island, are not important. The island and the nutrients it provides exist in their most perfect state without us gathering them or manipulating them, or digesting them. What happens inside this room is meaningless compared to what happens outside in nature, in the soil, in the water, in the air. We are but a frightened nanosecond. Nature is timeless. Enjoy.
It’s just that I find it all very moving. It’s all so beautiful. I just… It’s almost too beautiful to eat.
The next course is called Memory. And that is what it’s meant to evoke. A memory. So, let me tell you a memory of mine. When I was growing up, a child in Waterloo, Iowa, Tuesday was taco night.
And this, here, this lady here. This is my mother. As you can see, she’s rather drunk. This is not unusual. When I was seven years old, one Tuesday, my father came home quite drunk. Really drunk. Also, not unusual. My mother grew angry and screamed at him, at which point, he proceeded to wrap a telephone cord around her neck and pull it tight. I wept. I screamed, I begged him to stop. To make him stop, I finally had to stab him in the thigh with kitchen scissors. You remember that, Mother, don’t you? Now, I suppose I should’ve stabbed him in the throat that evening. But we’re not so smart when we’re young. It was, as you can imagine, as a very memorable taco night.
