The Dinner at Casa de la Fiesta

I had more stories to tell when the table was filled by a dish holding an enormous pig. We went on to express astonishment at such speed, and took our oath that not even a fowl could have been properly cooked in the time, especially as the pig seemed to us to be much bigger than the boar had been a little while earlier. I looked at it more and more closely and then said, “What, what, has this pig been gutted? I swear it has not. The cook, send the cook up here to us.” Poor Michael came and stood by the table and said he had forgotten to gut it. “What? Forgotten?” I shouted. “You would think a fellow had only forgotten to season it with pepper and cumin. Off with his shirt!” In a moment Michael was stripped and stood dolefully between two executioners. But Stephanie was set to beg me off and said: “These things will happen; do let him go; if he does it again none of us will say a word for him.” Meagan was stiff and stern as could be; she could not restrain herself, leaned over and said in Stephanie’s ear: “This must be a most wretched chef; how could anyone forget to gut a pig? On my oath I would not forgive him if he had let a fish go like that.” But not I, my face softened into smiles. “Well,” I said “if your memory is so bad, clean him here in front of us.” Michael put on his shirt, seized a knife, and carved the pig’s belly in various places with a shaking hand. At once the slits widened under the pressure from within, and sausages and black puddings tumbled out. At this we burst out into spontaneous applause and Michael shouted, “Thank God!”

The Tasting of February 2006

I sat there in the spotlight with only one thing to say. “Can I get up again?” Bryce’s eyes creaked to an eerie halt facing me. No words. Not a mutter of approval, just an old dusty gaze. “Retreat into the wine. The wine is good, wouldn’t hurt anybody.” The thought for once was right. The Henschke drank like sweet opulent fruit being crushed by scantily clad Arabian women just for me. Ah sweet delight. Through the distortion in my glass, I could tell Elizabeth was looking towards me but why? Had I said something moments before that required a follow up or was this just one of her caring bi-hourly checkups to make sure I hadn’t disintegrated into a smoldering gelatin. The smell of roast pork permeated in the air and, to boot, Michael had rapped that thing in some mutant prosciutto. Bastards’ trying to kill me. I really had to get up but the gate keeper to my right did not give off vibrations of approval. Perhaps he’s better now. I turn my head only to land within inches of that heart freezing bloodshot gaze. Jesus. I am a sweltering lump of fear. Beyond him is rest, release, food and wine in opulence but there is no hope here. I start to mutter the words that would surely put me in my grave: “Might I get by dear sir?” or “What the hell is that?” and scamper over his lap before he turns back to see what happened… No no, I will stay here with my friend Marcel Deiss. He is a good friend. Good ole’ Barar brought that guy to the table and he is the sweet, succulent dream that is gewürztraminer. If only life would sip this smoothly. I wonder for a moment how my dear little compatriot, Meay is doing. I turn to find her happily suckling the Deiss with appropriate enthusiasm. Turn my physical needs to something obtainable. Treat the situation as a challenge rather than a hindrance. That’s how the Junkies get by. Food. One of Michael’s more delicate dishes was an edamame spread with cute little rice flat things to scoop his goodness up with. *@&^$*%@ it’s across the table! I would have to get up to obtain it’s subtly spicy flavors. Don’t think about it. I think about it.