A MEAl fIT foR A KInG BY RIcARdo fERnAndEZ I made the acquaintance of Thomas Moore while on holiday in northern Spain some years ago. From our initial meeting, I recognized that esprit de corps of a fellow gourmand. We kept on running into one another quite unintentionally during the entirety of my trip at a myriad of diff erent eateries, and by the by, came to know one another fairly well. Thomas dressed very much like a cliché tourist. He was nearly as wide as he was tall but he moved with the swiftness of a man half his age and weight. Over drinks the evening before I returned home, we agreed to keep in touch and exchanged email addresses. I thought at the time I had seen the last of the portly man. Thomas turned out to be a voracious corespondent. For every letter received he returned three. It was during this time I discovered that he was a very well known chef with a score of books, penned in his hand, on the subject of gastronomy. And a television show to boot! He was known throughout the free world as being the leading expert in sausages. I will not deny that after my discovery of his fame, I was taken aback and slightly envious. However, Thomas’ manner quickly removed those sentiments because of how genuine he acted. Nearly three years had passed from our fi rst meeting. I received an invitation from Thomas to visit him at his estate in the north of the country. I responded, including the train ticket so as to prevent me from any form of refusal. The trip up was quite dull and I spent most of the journey reading up on the unique cheeses of the northern peninsula. By the time I reached my stop, I was completely famished. Thomas’ driver, Rupert, met me at the station. Thankfully he’d had the foresight to have a light lunch waiting for me in the car. The estate was several miles from the main road; it had beautiful views of the mountains and of a deep, refl ective lake. Once I arrived, I found that Thomas, the driver and myself were the only people for several miles. Thomas explained that an excess of company would ruin the gastronomical delights he had planned for the weekend to come. If it were any other man I would certainly have been concerned of any nefarious intentions, but this was Thomas Moore. He was my friend and a well-known philanthrope. All of my thoughts were on the many feasts to come and I was confi dent in the benign nature of my host. After a short rest, Rupert conducted me through several rooms fi lled with long-dead hunting trophies and tasteful antiques into a well lit room. Seated at the table in the center of the room was Thomas. His excitement for the meal about to be served was palpable. As I took my seat opposite his, I found I too could hardly contain my anticipation for the ensuing supper. Thomas explained, as Rupert poured the wine and laid a small plate of cheese in front of each of us, that he had been consumed by the pairing of every item on this weekend’s menu. Most of his waking hours had been spent ensuring perfection. With that, we began to dine. I was instantly in heaven. Never in my worldly days had I sampled such wonderful things! With each course, I was further pushed into the realm of ecstasy. All the while Thomas kept repeating, “Just wait for the main course. It will all be revealed then. Just wait.” Time seemed to be standing still, but not. Darkness had come but it was light here again. I had not slept, but I didn’t feel sleepy at all. All I wanted was to continue eating. And I did. Finally the main course arrived. I can’t tell you whether it was the shock of having a fully-glazed and broiled person presented to the table or that Thomas himself had begun to carve into her. The trance was over. All I could say was, “Is that a honey or sugar glaze?” The entire menu had been products of the human body: the cheese from breast milk, the paté from her liver, et cetera. Over the course of the last two days, I had, through the madness of Thomas, partaken in the most awful of taboos! I shook and shook, the room spun and for a moment and I was sure of the retch about to come up. But then I realized that Thomas was celebrating the body. That he had to have held this person in the highest reverence to go through such trouble as to prepare every part of her in the fi nest ways possible! Thomas was a genius. He had removed the stigma of cannibalism from my mind! We spent the rest of the afternoon feasting on the remainder of this lady until fi nally I felt tired and went to bed. The following day before Rupert drove me to the station. I went for a walk with Thomas along the grounds of the estate. After a bit, I fi nally plucked the nerve to ask a question, “Thomas who did we eat yesterday?” After a short pause he answered, “My wife, my dear Mr. Stuart. My wife.”
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