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Authors: James Runcie
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possible from my formerlove. A slight was clearly intended for I found myself situated between two elderly crones of indeterminate age, both of whom appeared to be profoundly deaf.
Isabella sat like a princess, coldly beautiful in a green silk dress, her eyes half hidden behind a golden fan, dividing her attentions between a bibulous and somewhat swarthy soldier, and a pale young man who looked as if he might have played the lute.
This made me all the more determined upon my revenge.
The banquet had been announced as a celebration of the bounty from the New World, and the guests were treated to a selection of the delicacies I had first tasted in Mexico: watermelons, guinea fowl, partridge, quails and maize cakes; cherries, prickly pears, pineapples and mangoes. The diners were bemused by the rich array on offer, talking of each dish in turn, relieved that there should be some subject on which they could speak to strangers, yet unwilling to reveal their true opinions in this polite and withheld society. I listened to my deaf companions pronounce upon the achievements of their children and the possibilities they had spurned in earlier parts of their lives: loves, dowries, travel and ambition – all thwarted – until the turkey finally arrived upon the table.
Here at last was the food which I had prepared, its sauce as rich and as dark as molasses.
I watched Isabella take her first taste of the meat. She seemed to avoid the sauce, pushing the turkey gently away with the tines of her fork. I fixed all my concentration upon her, as if she should eat by the sheer force of my will; and, as she eventually placed the turkey and the mole in her mouth, her face contorted into the strangest of expressions,moving from tentative fear, through momentary disgust, to an aftertaste of unbounded pleasure.
The room was hushed at last. Every guest was beguiled by the taste of the sauce – at first smooth and reassuring, then fiery, and at last explosive in the mouth, softened by the sweet flavour of the turkey beneath. It was, one man pronounced, the original ambrosia, a dish so alluring that all delicacies he had previously enjoyed were dismissibly ordinary. The guests fell to, unable to speak, concentrating only upon their food, as if the sauce was nothing less than the lost elixir of silence and delight.
Minutes passed, and still it seemed that Isabella’s guests could do nothing but relish the chocolate which now coated their tongues, bidding them on to speechless joy.
At last, and still silent, the guests reached for wine and water, fearful indeed that such familiar flavours might corrupt their palates. The speed of eating slowed, as if they wished to conserve and revere every mouthful. The room was filled with pleasure. Perhaps Isabella had some dim memory of the taste, for she sat as if reminded of a dream.
At last she gestured to a servant, and whispered in his ear.
He mouthed the word ‘Mole’ . When Isabella asked to be told of the ingredients, I fixed my gaze upon her, and waited to lip-read from the servant the word ‘Chocolatl’ .
Instantly she looked up and her eyes found mine in a fury.
She threw down her napkin, but the swarthy man next to her stayed her hand, as if all who attended this banquet had mysteriously been given the gift of gentleness andcourtesy. The pale lutenist murmured in surprise, unable to believe that there could be anything not to her liking.
Isabella paused, lost in thought for a moment, and returned to the meal.
I had won my victory. All that could be heard in the banquet hall were contented sighs until, one by one, the guests finished eating.
Isabella’s father then called for Sylvana, the cook.
As she entered the room, the guests at the banquet burst into spontaneous applause.
‘We will have this meal, exactly as we have enjoyed it, on the same day, every year, for the rest of our lives,’ called Isabella’s father.
‘Every year? Every week!’ shouted Gonzalo de Sandoval,
Isabella sat like a princess, coldly beautiful in a green silk dress, her eyes half hidden behind a golden fan, dividing her attentions between a bibulous and somewhat swarthy soldier, and a pale young man who looked as if he might have played the lute.
This made me all the more determined upon my revenge.
The banquet had been announced as a celebration of the bounty from the New World, and the guests were treated to a selection of the delicacies I had first tasted in Mexico: watermelons, guinea fowl, partridge, quails and maize cakes; cherries, prickly pears, pineapples and mangoes. The diners were bemused by the rich array on offer, talking of each dish in turn, relieved that there should be some subject on which they could speak to strangers, yet unwilling to reveal their true opinions in this polite and withheld society. I listened to my deaf companions pronounce upon the achievements of their children and the possibilities they had spurned in earlier parts of their lives: loves, dowries, travel and ambition – all thwarted – until the turkey finally arrived upon the table.
Here at last was the food which I had prepared, its sauce as rich and as dark as molasses.
I watched Isabella take her first taste of the meat. She seemed to avoid the sauce, pushing the turkey gently away with the tines of her fork. I fixed all my concentration upon her, as if she should eat by the sheer force of my will; and, as she eventually placed the turkey and the mole in her mouth, her face contorted into the strangest of expressions,moving from tentative fear, through momentary disgust, to an aftertaste of unbounded pleasure.
The room was hushed at last. Every guest was beguiled by the taste of the sauce – at first smooth and reassuring, then fiery, and at last explosive in the mouth, softened by the sweet flavour of the turkey beneath. It was, one man pronounced, the original ambrosia, a dish so alluring that all delicacies he had previously enjoyed were dismissibly ordinary. The guests fell to, unable to speak, concentrating only upon their food, as if the sauce was nothing less than the lost elixir of silence and delight.
Minutes passed, and still it seemed that Isabella’s guests could do nothing but relish the chocolate which now coated their tongues, bidding them on to speechless joy.
At last, and still silent, the guests reached for wine and water, fearful indeed that such familiar flavours might corrupt their palates. The speed of eating slowed, as if they wished to conserve and revere every mouthful. The room was filled with pleasure. Perhaps Isabella had some dim memory of the taste, for she sat as if reminded of a dream.
At last she gestured to a servant, and whispered in his ear.
He mouthed the word ‘Mole’ . When Isabella asked to be told of the ingredients, I fixed my gaze upon her, and waited to lip-read from the servant the word ‘Chocolatl’ .
Instantly she looked up and her eyes found mine in a fury.
She threw down her napkin, but the swarthy man next to her stayed her hand, as if all who attended this banquet had mysteriously been given the gift of gentleness andcourtesy. The pale lutenist murmured in surprise, unable to believe that there could be anything not to her liking.
Isabella paused, lost in thought for a moment, and returned to the meal.
I had won my victory. All that could be heard in the banquet hall were contented sighs until, one by one, the guests finished eating.
Isabella’s father then called for Sylvana, the cook.
As she entered the room, the guests at the banquet burst into spontaneous applause.
‘We will have this meal, exactly as we have enjoyed it, on the same day, every year, for the rest of our lives,’ called Isabella’s father.
‘Every year? Every week!’ shouted Gonzalo de Sandoval,
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