Gerald Durrell - Fillets of Plaice

“Hush, children,” I said, “let’s go back onto the veranda and, raising our voices above the mating cries of the hippos, let us discuss the most important thing.”

We trooped back onto the veranda, refilled our glasses and sat for a brief moment listening to the lovely sounds of the African forest at night. Fireflies as green as emeralds were flashing past us, cicadas and crickets were playing complicated Bach melodies, and occasionally there would be a belch, a grunt or a roar from the hippos at the bottom of the gorge.

“If I’ve understood your devious, heathen, Protestant mind correctly,” said McGrade, draining his glass and putting it on the table in the obvious expectation that somebody would refill it for him, “I take it that what you consider to be the most important thing is the dinner in the evening.”

“Yes,” said Martin and I simultaneously.

In an outpost as remote as Mamfe when anybody as exalted as the D.C. came, it was automatic that all the white residents were invited to dinner.

“This is where I thought Mary would come into her own,” I said.

“Oh yes,” said Mary, “now here I can be of some help. Do you think four or five courses?”

“Holy Mary,” said McGrade, “with that indolent Protestant in charge of the stores, how the hell do you think we are going to get enough for five courses?”

“Leaving aside the rather offensive Catholic attack upon me,” said Robin, “I must admit that as the river is at its lowest ebb and the boat hasn’t managed to get through, I am rather short of supplies. However, if McGrade is going to come to this dinner, I suggest we simply give him a plate of boiled sweet potatoes, which is, I believe, the diet on which most Irish Catholics are reared.”

“Are you suggesting, then, that I am obese?” said McGrade.

“No, just obscene,” said Robin.

I banged my bottle on the table. “I call the convention to order,” I said. “We do not at this juncture want to discuss the physical attributes or failings of anyone. We are discussing a menu.”

“Well,” said Mary, “I think we ought to start with an entry.”

“In France,” said Robin, “they generally describe it as an entrée, which can be taken both ways, if you see what I mean.”

“No, no,” said Mary, “what I mean is that we ought to start off with something succulent to... to titillate the palate.”

“Dear God,” said McGrade, “I’ve been here now three years and I haven’t had anything titillated, least of all my palate.”

“But if you’re going to have candelabras and things,” said Mary, “you’ve got to have the food to go with it.”

“Love of my life,” said McGrade, “I agree with you entirely. But as there isn’t the food here, I don’t see really how you can go about producing five courses when that inefficient bastard from the United Africa Company has got his boat grounded and has probably only got a couple of tins of baked beans.”

I could see that the situation was getting out of hand so I banged again with my bottle. There was another chorus of “Yes, sah” from the kitchen and more beer was produced.

“Let’s settle on three courses,” I said, “and let’s make them as simple as possible.”

“Well, the first one,” said Mary excitedly, “could be a soufflé.”

“Jesus can’t do soufflés,” said Martin.”

“Who?” said Mary, astonished.

“Jesus, my cook,” Martin explained.

“I never knew that your cook was called Jesus,” said McGrade. “Why didn’t you let the world know he’d risen again?”

“Well, he’s risen in the most extraordinary shape,” said Robin, “as a nine-foot-six Hausa with heavily indented tribal marks on his cheeks, looking as though he’s ready for the grave, and cooking appallingly.”

“That’s what I meant,” said Martin, “so we can’t have soufflés.”

“Oh,” said Mary, disappointed, “I’d be willing to do them but I don’t suppose I ought to be in the kitchen when the D.C.’s here.”

“Certainly not,” said Martin firmly.

“What about a spot of venison?” said Robin, looking at me interrogatively.

“Although I wish to help Martin,” I said, “I have no intention of killing off any of my baby duiker in order to give the D.C. venison.”

“How about poached eggs on toast?” suggested McGrade, who was now on his fifth bottle of beer and not really concentrating on the important matter at hand.

“I don’t think somehow that that’s really posh enough,” said Mary. “You know, D.C.’s like to be cosseted.”

“I tell you what,” I said, “have you ever tried smoked porcupine?”

“No,” they all said in unison.

“Well, it’s delicious if it’s done properly. And I have a hunter who’s constantly bringing me porcupines which he hopes that I will buy from him. As they have been caught in those awful steel snares that they use, the porcupines are always too badly damaged. I buy them and put them out of their misery and feed the meat to my animals. However, occasionally I send a bunch of them down to an old boy I know called Joseph — this is beginning to resemble an ecclesiastical conference — and he smokes the porcupine over special wood and herbs which he refuses to reveal to me. The result is quite delicious.”

“You Protestant swine,” said McGrade, “you’ve been concealing this from us.”

“Only because there’s not enough porcupine to go around,” I said. “However, I had two brought in to-day that had been so badly savaged by the trap that I had to kill them. I was going to feed them to my animals but in view of this dire emergency I could send them down to Joseph and have them smoked and we could then have them on toast for what Mary so prettily calls the entry.”

“I’m becoming more and more convinced,” said McGrade, “that you’ve got real Irish blood in you. I think it’s a masterly idea.”

“But you can’t give the D.C. porcupine,” said Mary in horror.

“Mary dear,” I said, “you don’t tell him its porcupine. You tell him it’s venison. It’s so subtly smoked that anybody who’s got a palate like a D.C. could not possibly tell the difference.”

Martin now checked his notebook.

“Well,” he said, “what are we going to have for afters?”

“I do wish you wouldn’t keep using that vulgar phrase,” said Robin, “it takes me straight back to Worthing, where I had the misfortune of being brought up. What you mean is ‘what are we going to have for the next two courses?’ ”

“Well, that’s what he said,” said Mary. “I do wish you wouldn’t keep picking on him. We’re here to help him.”

Robin raised his glass in solemn salute to Mary.

“Saint Mary, I am devoted to you for many reasons, the principal one being that I want to plumb, before we part company, the depths of your ignorance.”

“Really, you men are so stupid,” said Mary crossly. “I thought we were supposed to be discussing what else we were going to eat.”

“Can we work on the assumption,” said McGrade, “that he will probably die after the smoked porcupine and so it’s not worth considering the other two courses?”

“No, no,” said Martin, taking him literally, “we must have something else to follow.”

“A wake,” said McGrade, “there’s nothing like a good Irish wake for getting everybody in a mood of frivolity.”

“Now, look. Shut up and listen to me,” I said. “We start with some smoked porcupine. I then suggest groundnut chop.”

Everybody groaned.

“But we always have groundnut chop,” said Robin, “it’s the one thing we all live on. It’s our staple diet.”

“No, no,” said Martin excitedly, “that’s the reason I bought Jesus’s hat.”