Eric Chevillard - Palafox

Two days later, Algernon received the recipes from Madame Fontechevade. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, we’ll slow things down to seconds (insects of the order siphonaptera that are about an eighth of an inch long, with rear hopping legs and a proboscis designed to suck up human blood, according to professor Pierpont’s definition) before ringed eternity, consisting of a succession of legless segments, seals the fate of seconds and our own. We recalled therefore this oriental legend in which the dead awaken and smile again, among other things, thanks to the virtues of the elixir with a base made from the ground horn prepared by their widows. Chancelade seemed distracted. All of a sudden he struck his forehead. Eureka, he cried while picking up his shako, we’ll fatten Palafox, force-feed him chickpeas, like filling him up with gold, his hypertrophied liver will be our ingot, a rare commodity, priceless, do you have a funnel? But the duration of the operation and the risks incurred by this or that person charged with holding Palafox still between his thighs was enough just thinking about it to dissuade us. Nonetheless, Chancelade was right about one thing: Palafox, already so charming and in addition worthy of admiration, would doubtless be, as much as for his qualities as a loyal companion, appreciated for his meat. The list of potential buyers is already approaching infinity, to which now we’re to add roasters and skinners? And why deal with the middlemen? Why not go straight to the consumer? We could slice him up ourselves, price out the parts, brain, sirloin, breast, sparerib, rump, collar, ribs, hocks, rack, filet, tongue, kidneys, tripe, haunches, bacon, sweet-breads, saddle, heart, flank, shoulder, spare ribs, to each his own, everyone gets some, and the head of household grants himself the gizzard his wife and kids coveted, quia nominor leo. But why resort to consumers? Algernon asked the question. The friends I invited to come cheer Palafox, since because of him I’ve had to cancel the spectacle I’d promised them, will console themselves by devouring him, which would make for a memorable feast. Madame Fontechevade has recipes passed down from her mother whose mother passed them down to her, etc., savory recipes dictated to her grandmother by her own father, one of these all-powerful master-chefs who transform the world into an edible pumpkin with a plain wooden spoon. She will be happy to send them our way, she has a big heart. Two days later, she did.

Pluck Palafox while he’s still warm, begins the letter from the general’s wife, without beating around the bush. Clip fins and tail. Put him on his back and cut into the underside of the rump. Remove the air bladder, the intestines and other viscera and make sure not to puncture the sac of venom. Roll him back over, cut the neck, scald the paws to remove the skin. Bone, dress, stuff with garlic bread, baste with lard and braise. Allow it to brown. Then add butter and diced onion to it and allow that to brown. Collect the soft roe in a bowl. When Palafox’s redness is gone, add salt and dust with flour. Add white wine and bouillon, an equal amount of cider, pick it up with thyme, horseradish, spices, ground pepper and a pinch of cayenne. Figure an hour and a half cooking time (stir regularly from right to left). Add pitted olives, sliced pickles, a teaspoon of mustard and twelve little quartered mushrooms. Return the casserole to full boil for ten minutes. Skim off the fat, bind with starch from the refrigerator. Turn it out of the pan, glaze it with the cooking liquid and the roe, sprinkle parsley, garnish with halved hard-boiled eggs and send to the table with tomato puree or boiled potatoes (serve a ravigote sauce on the side). Another suggestion, submerge Palafox alive in a pot of boiling water. Add shallots, bouquet garni, lemon zest, sweet pepper, saffron, chervil and a finger of Madeira. Beat with a whisk. Cover. Let it cook over a high flame for a good two hours. Then coarsely dice Palafox (carefully remove all the small bones), thicken the juice, marinate. When the pieces are golden, season with sweet peppers, shaved truffles, tarragon and ground nutmeg (optionally cinnamon and clove). Cover it all in small bards of lard. Serve with Creole rice. Or…. Madame Fontechevade lists a dozen such recipes. In the pan, on the spit, in the oven, braised, court-bouilloned, on coals or under embers, such that one would believe Palafox equally succulent grilled, breaded, minced, raw or spiced. Finally she recommends, should we wish to eat him later, that we first salt and then smoke the animal, you never know with this war, you just might find yourself very thankful to have stocked provisions. Start by curing the meat in a bath of spiced vinegar (7 oz) and crushed juniper berries (.7 oz), submerge it in a bucket of brine with a pinch of saltpeter for every pound of salt, do whatever else you can think of during the next three weeks, then take it out, drain it, hang it in your chimney and smoke it under beech or laurel, wait a few more days, take it out, rub it with ashes, wrap it in a thick cloth, dear friends, be well, be careful, cover yourselves when you get out of the bath.

Algernon exults, we’ll have to figure on a month if we prepare Palafox according to Madame Fontechevade’s recipe, and since the reception is going to take place in exactly one month, everything is going according to plan, our job will have been to adjust the various gears in this delicate chronometrical instrument, with patience and meticulousness, without throwing a wrench into the rhythm of the saga. Slaughter Palafox immediately. This morning, he slit the throat of Olympia’s parakeet, the little bloody ruffled body which he didn’t devour right away, that he toyed with for hours, of which he grew bored, to which he returned, the little green bird intriguing him much as ram’s testicles intrigue us when served in white sauce announced coldly by that mistress of the house however little inclined she is to salacious asides, we’ve all been there, what do you do? — what face to put on, what place setting to use, is this really edible? — and we decide to adopt the same behavior of the other guests before trying whatever it is, they seem neither surprised nor amused nor disgusted, use the fork, and it seems excellent, Palafox drove the cat away that had claimed the corpse but then Palafox ate the rest. Olympia, for her part, despite her resentment, refuses to wring his neck. Chancelade volunteers. Chancelade is still suffering from the wounds Palafox inflicted. He grabs a knife in his fist and heads towards Palafox, bound. Seeing Chancelade approaching, the animal changes color, reclothed in the livery of ferocious animals and venomous insects, alternating yellow and black stripes-a disarming defensive strategy — Chancelade blanches, how typical, and drops his weapon. Console yourself, Cambrelin says, with the knowledge that his drab flesh would have left you with little more than the aftertaste of silt and worms, a mouthful of bones, tough and riddled with nerves, adds Zeiger, somewhat fermented, adds Baruglio, and very toxic, concludes Pierpont, and anyway the flagellate protozoans are hell on your system, Palafox included, be consoled: he was inedible.

And then there’s the matter of our becoming attached to these creatures despite ourselves, it is possible, after so long, Palafox is like a member of the family by now, neither more nor less, he’s a part of the furniture, his death would bring sadness, and that sadness would be relayed by faint nostalgia on the second step of this spiral staircase leading to the dungeon of oblivion where he would be forgotten. And while abandoning him is very tempting, he would surely find us again, whether he had to cross oceans or deserts, he would make his way back to La Gloriette, mangy, scabby, skinny, he would roll around at our feet, he would lick our fingers, no, Chancelade, find another way.