The Gourmet by Subroto Mukerji

8/2/2019 The Gourmet by Subroto Mukerji

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The Gourmet

Pierre Courbertin was restless and more than a little annoyed. He was waitingfor Majboot Singh and he was also beginning to feel hungry, and while hehardly liked to be kept waiting, he had a far greater aversion to hunger. Menlike him were not meant to feel hungry. Hunger was a degrading experience,

a debasing, humiliating fact of life that was the destiny of the poor anddowntrodden, the under-nourished masses, the toilers and the sweaty-collared.

It was a close relative of overwork and malnutrition, poverty and exploitation,a constant companion of cheerless lives that looked forward to nothing aseagerly as the blessed release of death. It was not something that was to befelt by the idle rich of the world. But he could feel the onset of the first pangsof hunger now, and it was decidedly unsettling.

Courbertin was of the wealthy upper classes that have more money than theyknow what to do with. In sorting out his life priorities, after he had inherited

the family business of global shipping, aircraft manufacture and the chain ofExport-Import Houses that ran themselves under professional management,he had decided that he would devote the rest of his life to exploringnot thehigher reaches of financebut the highest realms of gastronomic experience.Since that day, he lived but to eat selectively, eat exclusively, eatluxuriouslyeat like few men before him had ever eaten.

He had tried all the gustatory avenues available to the sybarite; none of thehedonistic solutions to ennui had appealed to him more than the intenselypersonal pleasure of sampling exceptionally good non-vegetarian food. Anoutstanding dish, well cooked and served, had the power to arouse himspiritually, to inspire him to a passionate contemplation of lifesimmeasurable bounties.

His predilectionsand his insatiable appetite for gustatory adventureshadtaken him far beyond the traditional eating-places of the rich, where eachitem on a menu could feed a poor family for a year, dishes that cost a kingsransom and yet left him ever more dissatisfied.

His awesome wealth, his encyclopedic knowledge of the worlds cuisines andhis unwavering food fixation had made him one of the most famous gourmetsof all time, a lover of extreme cuisine for whom larks tongues in honey werepedestrian stuff. His opinions carried weight, and his observations couldmake or mar the reputation of many a CordonBlu chef. A good dinner wasto him as meditation was to a monk: it stimulated his inner person and gavehim a glimpse of Higher Possibilities.

He roamed far from well-trodden paths, discarding the usual continentalconurbations such as Paris, Vienna and London and traveling to distant lands,sometimes enduring unconscionable hardships in search of more and yetever more exotic dishes to tantalize his taste buds. To satisfy his craving fornovel cooking had become as an obsession with him.

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He was humanas he grudgingly admitted to himself in rare moments ofintrospection that he allowed to happen in the secret recesses of his mindand he knew that such fanatical pursuit of culinary delights was somehow ascorrupting as the honest hunger of the underprivileged, but he hastily swepthis misgivings under whatever table he was dining at and concentrated on

testing his palate against the worlds rarest dishes.

His obsession had taken him to Alaska for the Artic Char, Salmon, and Kingcrabs the Inuit peoples lived off; he had tried Reindeer and evenduring abrief famineeaten wolf meat. He had devoured the steaming brains of Lion-tailed Macaques, spooning it out of the skulls after they had been boiled inbrine and their bony crowns had been neatly sliced off with a machete toexpose the oyster-like contents.

He had feasted on Llama stew, broiled Andean Condor, roasted Canadagoose, minced Kodiak bear, Puma pies, juicy Lion steaks, Koala cutlets,Kangaroo kabobs, parboiled Pandas, Dugong sausages, sweet and sour

Anaconda in mushroom sauce, Vampire bats stuffed with apple dumplingsand boiled in maple syrup, filleted Piranha fried in butter, and even Platypuspatties. He would have tried Yeti if he could lay his hands on a specimen.

He had made many discoveries in the process of sampling African Bush meatfrom Okapi sirloin to grilled gazelle liverbut he leaned earnestly towardsBushmaster fillets fried in raw olive oil, undeterred by the fact that the snakewas one of the most venomous reptiles in the world. He had tasted of Ostrich,Aardvark, Baboon, Mandrill, Opossum, Crocodile, Rhinoceros, Hippopotamus,Black Mamba, Wildebeest, Zebra, Wart Hog, Gorilla, Chimpanzee and Giraffe,to name but a few.

At some time or the other, the meat of hundreds of the worlds fauna hadlined his stomach. Now it all seemed to be coming together; an answer lurkedsomewhere within his subconscious, the answer to the Final Question: Whatwas the Best Meal in the World? Secretly, and to his utter surprise, he foundhimself leaning ever closer towards the flesh of the primates. But he wasntsure enough to make a pronouncement just yet. It always seemed as if thevery next dish could hold the answer.

Yet for all his fame as a titillator of taste buds, no one in his right mind couldhave accused Courbertin of gluttony. He was not a dainty nibbler, as was thegourmet of myth, but he was not a gormandizer, either. He was the epitomeof the accomplished epicure. He ate heartily and wellhis well-rounded formwas walking testimony to thatbut to compare him with the over-indulgentpatricians of Rome in its final years of decline, who had built vomitoriums tofacilitate their passion for incessant gorging, would have been have been anact of gross injustice. He was too rich to be greedy; a little too fanatical in hisquest, perhaps, but his innocent enthusiasm saved him from decadence.

He felt appetite was elevating (as opposed to hunger, which was humiliating),and he saw nothing excessive in pursuing its fulfilment. A keen appetite, he

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felt, was something to be proud ofit was a sign of good mental and physicalhealthespecially when summoned up over a dish cooked to perfection. Itsharpened the anticipation, whetted the mind, and goaded the taste budsinto delivering a fair verdict. Le bon appetit instigated by the aroma of goodfood was like the Code Napoleon: it promoted impartiality even as itpresumed that the defendant was guilty until proven innocent. No dish,

lovingly prepared to perfection by an inspired cook, ever failed to beexonerated of all charges. On rare occasions, encomiums and eulogiesaccompanied the verdict.

The proclamations of Pierre Courbertinscathing or generouswent straightinto the food columns of international cuisine magazines, and were moresought-after than knighthoods by restaurateurs. Yet, for all his fascinationwith fastidious fooding, Courbertin was a shy sybarite, a man who chose toapproach the table in as much anonymity as was possible for one of theearths leading connoisseurs.

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So as he waited for Majboot Singh in the foyer of the posh hotel in New Delhi,his presence failed to elicit little more than the occasional curious glance. Herecalled with keen anticipationas he pulled back his cuff to peek discreetlyat his Rolexhow the burly sardarji with the huge turquoise ring on his littlefinger (little was a misnomer, if ever there was one, thought Courbertin: thesaid finger was the size of a decent frankfurter, and well-suited to theturquoise that was the size of a pigeons egg) had promised him theadventure to end all adventures.

Courbertin had met Majboot Singh at a reception given by the King ofMorocco in the Htel de Paradiso, in Paris. The large, bearded, and turbaned

Indian towered above the crowd like a Punjabi Paul Bunyan. They introducedthemselves as they sat down next to each other. It turned out that Singh wasan exporter of Indian handicrafts, a business that took him all over the world.

Like all his opportunistic and extroverted clansmen, he was fond of the goodthings of life, for sardarjis are the earthiest of the earths earthy. They neverallow their minds to soar to empyrean heights, even if such a feat were at allpossible. One can hardly rely on them for intellectual prowess, but they areuncommonly useful to have on ones side when it comes to a mix-up at adock-front bar. Firmly rooted to the soil, they see little need to over-exercisetheir mental muscles, endowed as they are with hearty appetites andexceptional physiques. Its hardly surprising that although theres no such

thing as a sardarji philosopher, there is no dearth of sardarji sofa-fillers.

They are unabashed hedonists, and Majboots refreshing candour appealed tothe retiring Frenchman, who began to take a lively interest in hiscompanions remarks on the courses as they came and went. When he haddone with checking out the women at the table (all the time twirling hismoustache appreciatively), the Sikh turned to the subject of his other petfascinationthe menu. The Frenchman was pleasantly surprised to find thatdespite his rough-hewn exterior, the brawny man from the Punjab was a true-

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blue epicure, a man who knew the foods (and, it must be confessed, thestrong spirits) of the world.

Majboot Singh was one-up on Courbertin in that he had tried Fuguand livedto tell the tale of its delicate, orange-scented flavour. It is never possible topredict with any degree of certainty the toxicity or otherwise of a Fugu, a fish

found in Japanese waters and reputed to be the tastiest in the world. It canalso turn out to be the most toxic.

No Fugu eater really knows, as he puts the first morsel in his mouth, whetherhe will bite into ecstasy or eternity. Why, just last year, chow-savvy Lee KewChen, the uncrowned king of the Fugu eaters, had keeled over at afashionable restaurant in Hong Kong and died in convulsions within secondsof ingesting his first mouthful of Fugu. It had been his twenty-secondencounter, and his last.

Majboot Singh had survived to tell the tale of his first (andhe wasdeterminedhis final) foray into the ranks of the Fugu worshippers. He

intended to live long and eat wisely, if too well. Not for him the dramaticgamble of going at Fugu one time too many, the gastronomical equivalent ofRussian roulette. Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, the celebrated French gastronomeof an earlier century, had described gastronomy as the intelligentknowledge of whatever concerns man's nourishment. Majboot called it theintelligent mans way to nourishing entertainment. Once was quite enough,even for the self-indulgent sardarji.

Courbertin had journeyed all the way to dusty Delhi because Majboot hadpromised him the ultimate epicurean experience. He would never have takenthe promise seriously had it come from anyone else, but the knowledgeableIndian was another matter. A month later, after receiving the all clear fromDelhi, Courbertin had flown down to meet Majboot and take him up on hispromise.

Lurking at the back of the Indians offer was the hint of a business deal, butCourbertin didnt mind. It went with the territory, this culinary courtship forcommercial considerations. It took him all over the globe. If it meant he gotto partake of Olympian fare as well, all the better. The true gourmet is alwaysa realist. He knows there is no such thing as a free lunch. There are alwaysstrings attached.

The titanic bulk of the sardarji lumbered into the foyer. Courbertin saw thathe was clad in T-shirt and jeans. The casual dress accentuated his enormousframe. His huge paunch sagged over the fashionably wide leather belt, andhis brawny arms bulged with muscle. A massive chest balanced an equallywide, muscular back. Legs like tree trunks did extreme things to the jeans hewore, a size 56 at least.

Courbertin felt enervated by the waves of energy and power that emanatedfrom the man. He reminded the Frenchman of prime beef on the hoof.Courbertin himself was but of medium height, well fleshed out to be sure but

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somewhat the worse for wear (at fifty-one) and prone to sciatica. He couldhardly be described as being in the prime of life, especially when juxtaposedwith the vital and ebullient Indian who was striding delightedly towards him,grinning fiercely from behind the profusion of whiskers that obscured most ofhis face.

They shook hands enthusiastically and set off immediately, but not beforeMajboot made a sheepish confession. He had never sampled the slated dish,either. But he had it on the word of a good friend that, on certain days in theyear, the restaurant in question served MuttonMahakarma, the rarest andtastiest delicacy in the world. It was always a supper event, and today beingone of the appointed days, they were merely going to reconnoitre the eateryand make their advance payment and reservations for a table at eighttonight.

Seated in the poorly sprung and noisy auto-rickshaw alongside Majboot,hanging on for dear life to the grab rail, Courbertin wondered what hed lethimself in for this time. He had weathered many hardships in his quest for the

best of the worlds cuisines, but this one was near the top of the list. The dinand confusion of Delhis chaotic traffic belaboured his eardrums. Malodorousvapors tortured his olfactory system, and his eyes watered at the noxiousfumes from auto engines.

The sardarji, to his envy, seemed quite immune to the provocation aroundhim. Blissfully unaware of the acute distress of his companion, he urged theauto driver to greater speed with taps on his shoulders, shouting directionsover the bedlam in his native Punjabi tongue.

The auto twisted and gyrated violently through some of the narrowest lanesCourbertin had ever negotiated in a vehicle, till it finally stopped before asmall, faceless single-storied structure squeezed between two taller buildingsfrom whose balconies young ladies, in various (and garish) shades of make-up and matching attire, waved uninhibitedly to the two men who alightedfrom the three-wheeler. The Frenchmans heart sank within his breast evenas his burgeoning appetite expired in the squalid surroundings.

As his eyes gradually adjusted to the dim lighting of the interior, however,Courbertins misgivings abated. A limited number of small, well spaced-outdining tables, covered with plain white tablecloths, waited patiently to seattwo to four diners each. The interior of the restaurant was lavish enough tobe called opulent. The lighting was tasteful: diffused, yet somehow focused insome obscure way as to enable the scanty photons of light to congeal inpuddles of discreet illumination around the tables.

The faint aroma of good cooking lingered in the air. The deep carpeting, thescenes of bygone feasts that adorned the walls, the dcor from an earlier ageof kings and conquerors who filled their huge palaces with the choicest thingsof the earthall served to enhance the ambience. The silent approval of asatisfied clientele seemed to hover benignly over the room.

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Courbertin returned to the present. A small, oily-looking man had emergedfrom the gloomy recesses behind the managers cabin to enquire as to theirbusiness. Majboot lapsed into rapid-fire Hindi that made no sense toCourbertin. The unctuous one seemed to be in a state of complete denial,with Majboot just as forcefully insistent, alternately twirling his moustacheand rubbing the gigantic turquoise on his little finger, as if for inspiration. A

thick wad of currency notes was seen to change hands.

At this juncture, the sebaceous one conceded defeat, and asked Majboot tofollow him inside. Courbertin had seen it all before, in the Orient: vociferousdenial of available reservations, followed by exchange of money, followed byseemingly reluctant acceptance, as if a favour had been granted. A table wasreserved for them for eight that evening. MuttonMahakarmawas on the billof fare.

They emerged into the bright sunshine, blinking their watering eyes. Thesuffocating heat, the dust, the awful smells and the pandemonium hit theEuropean like a sledgehammer. Courbertin rubbed his temples. He had seen

his appetite vanish, then revive in the inviting interior they had just left. Nowhe saw it depart again as suddenly as it had been resurrected, leaving in itswake a dull throbbing at the temples. The strain had proved too much for hisnervous system. He needed to lie down and rest in the cool, friendly darknessof his hotel room.

The massive Indian, made in Punjab and therefore far more durable,appeared totally unfazed. He saw the stricken Frenchman off at the rickshawstand, promising to pick him up at seven-fifteen that evening from the hotel.Strong as an ox and bursting with the juices and vitality of ten, wavingenergetically in the hot sun, he stood there like some vast outcropping ofnourishment in a sea of squalid deprivation.

Courbertin felt tired just looking at the beefy expanse of him. So incongruouswas the sardarjis sanguinary bulk in the midst of grinding poverty and nakedstarvation that Courbertin wonderedas his three-wheeled vehicle bore himswiftly homewardshow many million acre-feet of lush grass had gone intothe raising of the prime cattle that had thereafter featured in the assembly ofthe redoubtable Sardar Majboot Singh.

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Majboot Singh sent an elaborate note of apology stating that he had beencalled away to attend to a sudden crisis at his home in Amritsar, so PierreCourbertin had to be content to dine alone. He flew home the next eveningto retreat behind a silence so comprehensive that even the editors of foodmagazines couldnt penetrate it. France wondered. It was unthinkable thattheir leading expert on what Paris was (well, almost was) all about shouldshun his fellow men in so churlish a fashion.

Courbertin failed to respond to the outcry. It was as if he was preoccupiedwith something meatier than mere victuals. The more spiteful among his

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critics speculated whetherafter consuming the tongues of so many of Godscreaturesthe cat had finally managed to get his tongue. Even as the GoodLiving columnists and Talk Show hosts failed to entice him out of his self-imposed hibernation, the rumour mills were busy churning out theories toexplain the foppish Frenchmans inexplicable behaviour. Had he become aBuddhist? Could his over-strained palate have succumbed to the ravages of

some mysterious malady? Did he have carcinoma of the colon?

No one knew what had occasioned this abrupt makeover. Members of hisfaithful inner circle, however, were firmly of the opinion that the gourmet hadfound his Holy Grail and, having done so, had decided to call it a day,gastronomically speaking. Courbertin never issued any explanation, nor didhe ever emerge into the public eye again till his death, a year after his visit toIndia.

Then his valet sold his diary to Paris Matchand the incredible truth was atlast revealed. Courbertin had turned vegetarian after his return from India.Who could ever have guessed that he did so simply because he foundat the

bottom of a bowl of the fabled preparation that went by the name of MuttonMahakarmaan artifact as inconsequential as a turquoise ring?

~*~

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The Gourmet by Subroto Mukerji

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