Paul McCarthy
I daresay the members of the Gourmet Club loved the pleasures of the table not a whit less than they loved those of the bedroom. They were a collection of idlers with no occupations apart from gambling, buying women, and eating fine food. Whenever they discovered some novel flavor, they took as much pride and pleasure in it as if they’d found a beautiful woman for themselves. If they found a cook able to produce such flavors, a genius of a cook, they might employ him in their homes at wages equal to what they would spend to monopolize the favors of a first-class geisha. It was their conviction that “if there were genius in the arts, then of course there must be genius in cookery as well.” For in their view, cooking was an art, capable of yielding artistic effects that—at least so far as they were concerned—put poetry, music, and painting in the shade. Not only after a splendid meal, but even at the moment when they all gathered around a table piled high with delicious things, they felt the same kind of excitement, the same rapture one feels on hearing the finest orchestral music. It took them to such giddy heights that it seemed only natural they should think that these epicurean pleasures were as much of the spirit as of the flesh. But the devil, it seems, is as powerful as God, for when any of the sensual pleasures (and not only those of the table) are taken to their furthest point, there is a danger of losing oneself entirely in them . . .
Thus, as a result of their gormandizing, each and every one of them was afflicted year-round with a large potbelly. And it was not only their bellies, of course: their bodies brimmed with excess fat, and their cheeks and thighs were as plump and oily as the pig’s flesh used in making pork belly cooked in soy sauce. Three of them were diabetics, and almost all the club members suffered from gastric dilatation. Some had come close to dying from appendicitis. Still, partly out of petty vanity and partly out of strict fidelity to the epicureanism to which they were so devoted, none of them was worried about illness. Or, if perhaps one of them did feel some inward fear, nobody was so craven as to quit the club on that account.
“We’ll all be dead of stomach cancer one of these days,” they used to tell each other, laughing. They were rather like ducks that are kept in darkness and stuffed with rich food so that their flesh will become tender and succulent. The point at which their bellies became absolutely crammed with food would presumably be when their lives came to an end. Until then they would live on, never knowing when to stop eating, with belches continually erupting from their heavy-laden stomachs.
There were only five members of this society of eccentrics. Whenever they were free—and since they were unemployed, this meant virtually every day—they would gather at someone’s house or on the second floor of some club and spend their afternoons mostly in gambling. From traditional Japanese card games like boar-deer-butterfly to bridge, napoleon, poker, twenty-one, and five hundred, they played an endless variety of betting games, at which they were all equally adept, good players to a man. Then when night came, the money they’d won would be pooled and used to finance that evening’s feast. Sometimes it would be held at a member’s house and sometimes at a restaurant in town. But they soon grew tired of the famous restaurants in central Tokyo: the Mikawaya in Akasaka, the Kinsui in Hamachō, the Okitsu in Azabu, the Jishōken in Tabata, the Shimamura, Ōtokiwa, Kotokiwa, Hasshin, and Naniwaya in Nihombashi. They’d eaten their way through all these fine Japanese-style restaurants any number of times and no longer had any interest in them. “What’ll we eat tonight?” was their sole matter of concern from the moment they opened their eyes in the morning. And even as they gambled away the afternoon, they were all thinking about the evening’s menu.
“I want my fill of some good soft-shelled turtle soup tonight,” someone would moan during a lull in the card game, and immediately fierce gluttony would run like electricity through the little group, none of whom had yet been able to come up with a good idea for that night. All would agree to this at once, with the greatest enthusiasm, and their eyes and faces would take on a curious shine, which hadn’t been there when they were merely playing cards—a wild, degraded look, like that of the hungry ghosts of Buddhist lore.
“Turtle? Eat our fill of turtle soup? But I wonder if we can get really good turtle at a Tokyo restaurant . . .” another man would mutter anxiously to himself. This was mumbled so low as to be barely audible, yet it served to diminish the ardor of the company that had flared just a moment before. Even the way they played their cards lost something of its energy.
Then someone else might suddenly suggest, “You know, we’ll never find it in Tokyo. I say we leave for Kyoto by the night train and go to the Maruya in Kamishichiken-machi. That way we can have turtle for lunch tomorrow!”
“Good idea! We’ll go to Kyoto—or anywhere, for that matter! Once you’ve set your heart on eating something, you’ve just got to have it!”
Their relief was patently visible, and redoubled appetites were felt rumbling up from the pits of their stomachs. So, impelled by their desire for turtle, they endured being shaken about on the night train for Kyoto; and the next evening they headed back to Tokyo with ample bellies abrim with turtle soup, comfortably swaying to the motion of the return journey.
They grew more and more capricious, going off to Osaka to have sea bream and hot tea-over-rice, or to Shimonoseki for blowfish. Longing for the taste of Akita sandfish, they made expeditions to the snow-blown towns of the north country. And eventually their tongues lost all taste for the usual “fine cuisine”; lick and slurp as they might, they could no longer discover the excitement and joy in eating that they demanded. They were of course sick to death of Japanese food, and as for Western food, they knew they could never find the real thing unless they actually went abroad. There remained Chinese food—that rich cuisine said to be the most developed and varied in the world; but to them even that had become as tasteless and boring as a glass of water.
Now, since they were the sort who would worry more about satisfying their stomachs than about a gravely ill parent, it goes without saying that their anxiety and ill-humor had reached quite a pitch. They scoured all the eateries of Tokyo, hoping to impress their fellow members by discovering some wondrous new flavor. They were like curio collectors rummaging about in dubious secondhand shops on the off chance of making an unusual find. One of them tried some bean-jam cakes at a night stall somewhere on the Ginza and, proclaiming them the most delicious item to be found in present-day Tokyo, displayed his discovery to the other members with the greatest pride. Another bragged that a vendor who came every night around midnight to the geisha-house area in Karasumori sold the best Chinese dumplings in the world. But when the rest of the group, led on by such reports, actually tried these plebeian delights, they found that the discoverer’s taste buds had usually been the victim of his overheated imagination. To tell the truth, they all seemed to be getting a bit funny in the head lately, driven by their gluttony. Someone who laughed at another’s discovery would himself get terrifically excited about some slightly unusual flavor he’d come across, regardless of whether it was good or bad.
“No matter what we eat, it’s all the same—no improvement. It looks like we’ll have to find ourselves a really first-class chef and create some completely new dishes.”
“Find a chef of genius or else offer prize money to anyone who can invent a really amazing dish.”
“But we’re not going to give prizes for bean-jam cakes or Chinese dumplings, no matter how good they might be. We need something rich and striking, suited to a big banquet.”
“In other words, we need a kind of orchestral cuisine!”
This is the sort of conversation they held. I trust by now the reader will have formed a good idea of just what kind of group this Gourmet Club was, and in what kind of situation the members found themselves. I felt a preface of sorts was necessary before telling the story that follows.
Count G. was the most moneyed and idlest member of the club; he was also the youngest, possessed of a sharp wit, a wild imagination, and the sturdiest stomach of all. Since there were only five members in all, there was no need for a formal president, but the club’s usual meeting place was on the upper floor of Count G.’s mansion, and since this served as their headquarters, the Count naturally became a kind of manager, occupying a position very like that of president. It goes without saying, then, that when it came to hunting down some rare delicacy and feasting on it, he took twice as many pains and devoted twice as much nervous energy to the task as any of the other members. And they, of course, all placed their highest hopes of such discoveries on the Count, always the most creative of the group. If anyone was to win the prize money, surely it would be he. And if this meant his introducing them to some splendid new culinary achievement and awakening their jaded taste buds to some blissful new experience, something subtle and profound, they would be only too happy to pay it. This, in their heart of hearts, was what they all ultimately wanted.
“A symphony of foods! An orchestral cuisine!”
These words kept coming to the Count’s mind. Food whose flavors would make the flesh melt and raise the soul to heaven. Food like music that, once heard, would make men dance madly, dance themselves to death. Food one just had to eat, and the more one ate the more the unbearably delicious flavors would entwine themselves around the tongue until at last one’s stomach burst. If only he could create such food, thought the Count, he would become a great artist. And even if he couldn’t, all sorts of wild fantasies of food floated up and disappeared endlessly within the mind of this highly imaginative individual. Asleep or awake, he saw only dreams of food . . .
Out of the darkness, he saw puffs of white steam rise temptingly. Something smelled awfully good. A smell like lightly scorched mochi. A smell like roasting duck. The smell of pork fat. The smell of leeks and garlic and onions. A smell like beef hotpot. Smells strong and fragrant and sweet, all mixed together, rising from the midst of the steam. Looking steadily into the darkness, he could see five or six objects hovering in the steam-filled air. One was a soft white block of something—pork fat? devil’s-tongue?—that trembled in the air. With every movement a thick, honeylike liquid dripped, dripped, dripped onto the ground. Where it fell, it formed a brown-colored little mound with a syrupy sheen . . .
To the left was the finest, largest shellfish—perhaps a kind of clam—that the Count had ever seen. The upper half shell kept opening and closing. Then, as it opened fully, he could see a strange mollusk, neither clam nor oyster, alive and wriggling inside. It was black and hard looking toward the top, while the bottom was slimy white, phlegmlike. As he watched, odd-looking wrinkles began to appear on the surface of that viscous white substance. At first they were like the wrinkles on a dried plum; then gradually they deepened, until finally the entire mollusk became hard, like a piece of paper that has been chewed on and spat out. Then from both sides of the thing small bubbles, like the ones that crabs emit, began to boil up, and soon the whole shellfish was covered with bubbles, welling up like cotton balls erupting from their pods, and the mollusk itself vanished from sight . . . Ah yes, it’s being boiled, thought Count G. to himself. Just then there came to his nostrils a whiff of clam hotpot, or rather something many times more delicious. One by one the bubbles began to burst and form a liquid that looked like melted soap. The liquid ran along the shell’s edges and dripped onto the ground, giving off warm steam. In the shell itself, alongside the now solidified mollusk, to left and right there suddenly appeared two round objects, like mochi cakes offered on an altar. They looked much softer than mochi, though, and quivered slightly, like fine-grained tofu submerged in water . . . Those must be the adductors, the Count reflected. Then the objects gradually turned a brownish color, and small cracks began to appear here and there on their surfaces.
Finally the various foods collected there all at once began to roll about. The ground on which they rested suddenly thrust itself up from below—it had gone unnoticed until now because of its size, but what had seemed to be the ground was in fact a giant tongue, and all those foods were jumbled together in an immense mouth. Soon upper and lower rows of teeth began slowly to converge, like mountain ranges pushing up from the depths of the earth and downward from the sky. They started to crush the foods that rested on the tongue, and the mashed foods turned into a fluid like pus from an abscess, a kind of sludge upon the tongue’s surface. The tongue licked the four walls of the oral cavity with relish, undulating like a stingray. From time to time, with a great spasm it would thrust the liquid mass down toward the throat. Still, small shreds of food had been crushed into the spaces between the teeth or to the bottom of deep cracks that had eaten into their surfaces. These shreds were layered one on top of another, tangled and stuck together. Then a giant toothpick appeared and, having dug out the shreds of food one by one, deposited them on the tongue. The food that had just been swallowed came rushing back into the mouth in the form of a great belch. The tongue once again became slimy with fluid. Again and again the food was swallowed, only to be brought back up with the inevitable belch . . .
The Count awoke to the sound of burps erupting deep in his gullet: clearly, he’d had too much of that abalone soup at the Chinese restaurant this evening.
It happened one evening after some ten nights of dreams like the one just described. After yet another dull club dinner, the members were having a smoke, looks of boredom on their faces. Leaving them behind, the Count slipped out for a stroll. His aim, however, was not to help his digestion. No—he regarded the dreams he’d been having lately as a sort of oracle and was sure he was on the verge of making a breakthrough of some kind. He had a premonition that it might happen this very night.
It was almost nine o’clock on a cold winter’s night when the Count fled the clubroom in his own mansion in the Surugadai section of the city. He wore an olive-colored fedora and a camel’s hair coat with a thick astrakhan collar. As he strolled along with his ivory-knobbed ebony walking stick in hand, trying to hold back the usual burps from within, he wended his way down the slope toward Imagawakōji. It was quite a busy thoroughfare, but needless to say the Count didn’t spare a glance at the fancy goods and sundries stores or bookshops that lined the street, nor at the faces of the passersby or their clothes. On the other hand, if he passed even the humblest little eatery, let alone a more imposing place, his nose became as keen as a starving dog’s. As all Tokyoites probably know, if you go two or three blocks down Imagawakōji from Surugadai, you come to the No. 1 Chinese Restaurant on the right side of the street. Stopping in front of it, the Count’s nostrils began to twitch. (He possessed a very keen nose and could generally judge the level of a restaurant’s cuisine with a sniff or two.) After a moment, though, he started briskly off in the direction of Kudan, swinging his stick, a look of resignation on his face.
He had just cut through a narrow lane and was about to enter a dark, lonely neighborhood near the moat when two Chinese men with toothpicks in their mouths came toward him, brushing his shoulder as they passed. Since, as we have noted, the Count was intent only on food and didn’t even glance at any pedestrians, he would normally have paid no attention to the two men; but at the instant they passed, a whiff of shao-hsing rice wine reached his nostrils. He turned and glanced at the others’ faces.
Well now, these two fellows have just been eating Chinese food, so maybe there’s a new restaurant somewhere nearby, thought the Count, cocking his head to one side. Just then the sound of a Chinese violin being played somewhere far off came drifting to his ears—a sound with overtones of sadness and yearning in the night’s darkness.
The Count stood listening intently for a while there in the darkness by the moat near Ushigafuchi Park. The sound came not from Kudanzaka, with its bright lights glittering in the distance, but from deep in the back alleyways of one of the dead-quiet, unfrequented neighborhoods toward Hitotsubashi. Yes, that was where it came from, trembling in the freezing air of the winter night, a high-pitched, intermittent sound, sharp as the creaking of a well sweep, thin as drawn wire—echoing, as if about to die away. When at last that screechy sound had reached its peak, it suddenly stopped, like a burst balloon, and immediately there was the sound of clapping—there must have been an audience of ten at least. The sudden applause was closer by than he’d expected.
They’re having a banquet, and it’s Chinese food. But where can it be?
The applause continued for some time. It would die down, and then someone would start to clap again, and in response the applause would burst forth again, with a sound like the flapping of pigeons’ wings. It came like the swell of waves, retreating and then surging forward against the shore. And, like a bird twittering, half choked by the sea spray, from among the oncoming waves of applause could be heard the sound of the violin starting a new melody. The Count’s feet took him in the direction of the sound for two or three short blocks; he walked along the wall of a large house located a little before the approach to Hitotsubashi Bridge, then turned left and came to the end of a small lane. There, in the midst of many closed and abandoned shops, was a three-story wooden house in Western style, its lights shining brightly. Clearly, the violin and people clapping were on the third floor of this house; in the room beyond the balcony, with its tightly shut glass doors, a crowd must be gathered around a table in the very midst of a banquet.
Count G. had no knowledge of or interest in music, particularly Chinese music, but as he stood beneath the balcony listening to the sound of the violin, its eerie melody stimulated his appetite, just as if it had been the smell of food cooking. The colors and textures of all the Chinese foods he knew came into his mind one after the other in time to the music. When the music quickened, the strings emitting a harsh sound like a young girl singing at the top of her lungs, it made the Count think of the bright red color and sharp, strong flavor of dragonfish guts. And when suddenly the melody became full, rounded, and plaintive like a voice that is thick with tears, he thought of a rich broth of braised sea cucumbers, so full flavored that each mouthful permeates one’s taste buds to their very roots. And when the final hail of applause came, he saw at once in his mind’s eye all the many marvelously flavored varieties of Chinese cuisine, until finally even the empty soup bowls, fish bones, china spoons and cups, and even the grease-stained tablecloth appeared clearly before him.
Count G. licked his lips several times and swallowed the saliva that had accumulated in his mouth, but the need to eat that surged from the pit of his stomach became quite unbearable. He thought he knew every Chinese restaurant in Tokyo, and yet here was this one—how long had it been here? At any rate, it must have been some karma that had allowed him, drawn by the sound of the Chinese violin, to discover it tonight. And if so, the food had to be worth trying at least once. Besides, he had a strong hunch that he would find in there some treat he’d never had before . . . As he thought of this, his belly, which had felt quite replete until a few minutes before, suddenly drew itself in and gave him such a pang of hunger that the skin over the stomach was stretched tight. To his surprise, the Count’s whole body now began to tremble, like a warrior of old standing at the head of his army before leading a charge.
The Count tried to open the door and go in but was disappointed to find that it was shut tight, seemingly locked from inside. Moreover, having put his hand on the doorknob of what he’d assumed was a restaurant, he noticed only now that there was a sign hung by the door with the words “Chechiang Hall” on it. The sign was made of plain, weather-worn wood, and the black writing looked as if it had been exposed to a lot of rain. The name of the hall was inscribed in these rather faded but large, bold characters in a typically Chinese hand. Since the Count was thinking of nothing but food, it was no wonder he hadn’t noticed the signboard; yet had he paid some heed to the outward appearance of the building, he should have known in advance that it was not a restaurant. If it had been a Chinese restaurant like those in Kanda or Yokohama’s Chinatown, he would have seen hunks of pork, whole roast chickens, jellyfish, and smoked meats hanging in front of the place, and the door of course would have been wide open. But, as just mentioned, the ground-floor door facing the street was closed, as were the windows. And since in addition the door was not glass but a painted louver shutter, it was impossible to see anything inside. Only the third floor was lively with sound; the windows of the second floor were completely dark. There was only one dim light at the edge of the eaves just above the entrance, shedding its uncertain light on the signboard and its inscription. There was also a bell on the side of the door opposite the signboard, with the words “Night Bell” written in English and “Those on business should ring here” in Japanese on a white piece of paper about the size of a calling card. However, no matter how much the Count might long for the food to be obtained inside, he hadn’t the courage to ring the bell. This Chechiang Hall must be a club for Chinese residents of Japan originally from that province. He couldn’t just burst in and ask to be made a party to their feast. Such were his thoughts as he stood there, his face pressed tenaciously against the metal door.
The kitchen, it seemed, was near the entrance, and from the cracks around the metal door a warm fragrance escaped, like steam rising from those wooden steamers used in making dim-sum snacks. It occurred to the Count that his face probably resembled that of a cat crouching on the kitchen floor, intent on snatching the fish being prepared by the sink. If he could, he would gladly have turned into a cat and crept into the house and licked the used plates and bowls one after the other. But there was no point now in lamenting the fact that he had not been born a cat. “Tsk,” he said regretfully, then wetly licked his lips and moved away from the door with obvious reluctance.
Isn’t there some way I can manage to try the food here? Standing there with the sounds of the violin and applause raining down on him from the upper floor, he found it hard to give up and began walking back and forth along the lane. The truth was, from the moment he realized it was not a restaurant, his desire to sample the food there had burned all the more fiercely. This wasn’t only out of eagerness to impress the other club members by discovering an unexpectedly interesting place in such an unlikely part of town. It was knowing that this was a club for Chinese from Chechiang Province, that there they were, enjoying real Chinese food as they listened to that intoxicating music, exactly following the customs of their native land—it was this that piqued his interest. As he would have been the first to admit, he’d never tasted real Chinese cooking. He had often experienced the dubious Chinese fare to be found in restaurants all over Tokyo and Yokohama; but that was usually based on poor ingredients cooked in a semi-Japanese style. According to people who had traveled there, the food one was served in China was of a different order altogether, and he’d long suspected that such authentic Chinese food was precisely the ideal cuisine the members of the Gourmet Club were dreaming of. So if this Chechiang Hall was, as he supposed, a place where a purely Chinese style of life prevailed, it might be the grail he’d been seeking. On top of the tables there on the upper floor he imagined rows of the sort of masterworks he’d been struggling to create for years—a dazzling artistry of tastes, shedding its brilliance on the scene. To the accompaniment of the Chinese violin, a full orchestra of flavors, resonant with luxury and pleasure, would be sounding forth, swaying the very souls of the guests who filled the room. The Count knew that in all China the Chechiang area was the richest in ingredients for a fine cuisine. Whenever he heard the word Chechiang, he recalled it as a mystic realm of scenic beauty on the banks of the Western Lake, famed in the poetry of Po Lo-t’ien and Su Tung-p’o. And also as the best place for Sungari sea bass and pork belly cooked in soy à la Tung-p’o.
He had been standing under the eaves for around thirty minutes, allowing his taste buds to come to full bloom there, when he sensed someone heavily descending the stairway from the second floor. Soon a Chinese fellow emerged unsteadily from the doorway. He must have been very drunk, for as he came out he staggered and bumped against the Count’s shoulder. “Aah!” he cried, which was followed by what must have been a few words of apology in Chinese. Then, apparently realizing the other person was Japanese, he shifted languages, saying very distinctly “Excuse me.” He was a stout man of close to thirty, wearing the cap of a Tokyo Imperial University student; though he had duly apologized, he stared at the stranger for some moments with an air of intense suspicion at finding him in such a place.
“No, no, it’s I who should apologize. You see, I’m very fond of Chinese food; and the smells coming from inside were so good that I forgot myself and have just been standing here enjoying them!” This naively candid statement that came so readily to the Count’s lips made a great hit with his hearer. Ordinarily, he would never have been up to doing this, but no doubt his sincerity—his profound seriousness when it came to gastronomical matters—had moved Heaven itself. His way of saying it must have been rather amusing, for the student’s plump belly began to shake with approving laughter.
“No, really, eating good food is my greatest pleasure in life, and everyone knows Chinese food is the best in the world!”
“Ha-ha-ha,” the Chinese continued good-naturedly.
“And you know, I’ve been to every single Chinese restaurant in Tokyo; but what I’ve actually been wanting to try is some genuine Chinese food, not restaurant food but the sort served in a place like this, for Chinese people only. So, what about it? I know it seems awfully forward of me, but I wonder if you couldn’t let me join your party tonight and try some of the food here. Let me introduce myself . . . ,” he said, producing a calling card from a small case.
This dialogue seemed to have drawn the attention of the guests on the upper floor. Five or six men came down one after another and surrounded the Count. Others just opened the door halfway and stuck their heads out to have a look. In the dark lane, the area under the eaves was suddenly flooded with light from inside the building, and the impressive figure of the Count, in his heavy overcoat, with his plump red cheeks, stood out clearly. Amusingly, the numerous Chinese who surrounded him all displayed the same sort of bulging cheeks, which glistened in the light as they grinned at him.
“Fine, fine! Please come in. We’ll give you a proper Chinese dinner!” someone called out shrilly, sticking his head out of one of the third-floor windows. A burst of laughter and applause rose from among his companions both above and below.
“The food here is extremely good—very different from what you get at an ordinary restaurant. You’ll be delighted!” said another man from among those surrounding the Count in a tempting voice.
“Come on, then, don’t hang back! Go up and eat your fill!” Everyone in the group spoke drunkenly and half in fun, their breath carrying the strong smell of rice wine. The Count, feeling somewhat dazed, as if all this might be a dream, trooped in along with the rest. In the room just inside the metal door, which had looked pitch-dark from outside, a light whose shade had glass bead tassels hanging from it shone brightly. A shelf to the right held green plums, jujubes, longans, and mandarin oranges, as well as various canned goods. Beside the shelf hung chunks of pork loin and pigs’ legs with the skin still on. The bristles had been carefully shaved off, and the skin was as soft, white, and luscious as any woman’s. On the facing wall beyond the shelf was a lithograph of a beautiful Chinese woman. Nearby, a small window had been set into the wall, and through it great gusts of smoke and cooking smells came flooding into the small room, making the air thick. No doubt the kitchen was just beyond, as the Count had imagined. But he had time for only a glance at all this as he was guided to the steep staircase near the front door and immediately led up to the second floor. This floor was very oddly arranged. Having climbed the staircase, one came to a narrow corridor with a white wall along one side and a partition of blue-painted wood along the other. The partition was less than six feet in height, some two to three feet lower than the ceiling, and must have been about seventeen or eighteen feet long. Every six feet or so there was a small, low door. Just inside each of the three doors hung a drab, dirty-looking curtain of white cotton, as if one were backstage in a cheap theater. When the Count reached this floor, the curtain of the middle door moved and parted as a young woman stuck her head out. With her round, chubby face (almost uncannily white), her large eyes, and snub nose, she resembled a little Pekinese. Frowning, she stared at the Count suspiciously; then, showing a flash of gold tooth, she screwed her lips up, spat a watermelon seed onto the floor, and drew her head back inside the curtain.
Why would they divide up such a small space into rooms like this? And what is that woman behind the curtain up to? The Count barely had time to frame such questions to himself before he was led further up the staircase, to the third floor.
Meanwhile the smoke from the downstairs kitchen climbed the staircase, narrow as a chimney, just behind the Count. It rose to the very ceiling of the third-floor room to which he was now guided. He had been so thoroughly “smoked” as he ascended the stairs that he felt as if his body had been roasted à la Chinoise. But the room he entered was filled not only with the fumes from the kitchen but also with tobacco smoke, perfume, steam, carbon dioxide, and various other smells all jumbled together. The atmosphere was so heavy, with a sort of gray haze to it, that one couldn’t clearly distinguish people’s faces. The first things the Count noticed, after being brought in so suddenly from the dark, quiet lane outside, were this hazy atmosphere and the strangely humid closeness of the place.
A man who had come forward from among the group that had guided him there shouted, purposely using Japanese, “Gentlemen, I wish to introduce to you all Count G.!”
The Count came to himself and removed his hat and coat, which were immediately snatched from him by five or six hands on either side and carried off somewhere. Then one of the men took him by the hand and led him in front of one of the tables. By now he could see that he was in one very large room, which had not been divided into cubicles like the second floor. Two big round tables stood in the center, with perhaps fifteen or more diners seated at each one, all making an assault on a great big beauty of a bowl placed in the middle, all plying their spoons, thrusting with their chopsticks, vying with one another to gorge themselves on the food inside it. The Count was only able to steal a glance or two, but it seemed that one of the bowls contained a soup so thick and heavy that it looked like melted clay, in which rested (and there could be no doubt of it) an unborn piglet, boiled whole. It preserved the original form of the animal, but what emerged from beneath the skin was something soft and spongy, rather like boiled fishcake and quite unlike cooked pork. Moreover, both the skin and its contents had apparently been boiled so long they were as soft as jelly, so that merely by inserting a spoon one came away with a mouthful, just as if one had used a sharp carving knife. As the Count watched, spoons were thrust in from every side, and the original form of the piglet disappeared chunk by chunk, from the outside inward, as if by magic.
The bowl on the other table clearly contained swallow’s nest soup. People kept reaching in with their chopsticks and scooping up pieces of bird’s nest as slippery as jelly noodles. What was unusual was the pure white soup in which the swallow’s nest was steeping. The Count had never seen any liquid so white as this in all his experience of Chinese food, apart from the medicinal “apricot water” concoction; but he’d heard that if one went to China one might be served a kind of “milk soup,” and he wondered if this wasn’t it.
It was not, however, to one of these two tables that the Count was being directed. For along both facing walls there were raised platforms, like those to be found in the meditation hall at a Zen temple. Here, too, a number of people were sitting around small sandalwood tables placed here and there. Some were sitting directly on the floor, others on damask mats; some were smoking brass water pipes, others sipping tea from cups made in Ching-te-chen. All were sunk in an impassive silence, gazing absently at the busy goings-on at the central tables with weary eyes in slack, sleepy faces. And yet not one of them looked ill, or seedy, or shabby. All were fine-looking men, well built, with healthy faces; only they seemed abstracted, as if some inner focus had been lost.
Aha, this bunch have just finished stuffing themselves, and they’re taking a break. Judging by their sleepy look, they must have overeaten quite a bit.
Actually, that “sleepy look” filled the Count with envy. Those swollen stomachs must be crammed with delicious things, bones and guts all turned to mush, just like the whole boiled piglet’s fetus in the soup. Yes, if one broke the skin of their bellies, what would flow out would not be blood or intestines but Chinese foods all stewed together, as in those bowls set on the tables. To judge from the sated, listless expressions on their faces, they might go on sitting there, calmly at their ease, even if their bellies were burst open.
The Count and the other Gourmet Club members had also eaten their way to a point beyond satiation any number of times, but he felt that he had never yet known the grand satisfaction that was evident on the faces of these assembled men.
He passed before them, but they merely glanced at him; no one showed either a trace of suspicion or a sign of welcome at the intrusion of this unfamiliar guest. No doubt it would have seemed just too bothersome to them even to wonder what this Japanese was doing here.
Eventually, the person leading him stopped in front of a gentleman who sat leaning against the wall in a corner to the left. This fellow, too, of course, had eaten his fill and more, and sat smoking, his eyes wide open in a vacant, invalid’s stare. Being fat, he looked younger than his years, but he must have been close to forty and was apparently the most senior member of the dining club. While the others were mostly in Western dress, he alone was wearing a black satin Chinese robe with a squirrel fur lining.
What drew the Count’s attention, however, was not so much the appearance of the man as the presence to his left and right of two beautiful women. One was wearing an overrobe with broad, deep green vertical stripes against a celadon-colored background, with short trousers to match. Over silk stockings of pale pink she wore on her dainty feet purple sateen slippers exquisitely embroidered in silver thread. She sat in a chair with her right foot crossed over her left knee, and the foot was so small and charming it looked like one of those little accessory cases that girls often carry in the breast of their kimonos. Her lustrous black hair, parted in the middle at the front, fell like a reed blind to her eyebrows. From her earlobes, which could be glimpsed like little acorns behind her tresses, hung earrings of jade, swaying and shining with a soft green light. It must have been she who was playing the music that the Count had heard a while ago. With the Chinese violin on her lap, held by her braceleted left hand, she looked like an image of the goddess Benzaiten. The woman’s face was as smooth and pale as jade, and her large, dark, slightly protuberant eyes and full red upper lip, turned slightly upward toward her nose, had a certain enigmatic fascination about them. But most appealing of all were her teeth. Occasionally she would take a toothpick to the space on one side of her upper right canine, revealing her gums and clicking her upper and lower teeth together a bit as she did so—it must have been in order to display this dazzling set of teeth.
The other woman had a slightly long face, but she, too, was very beautiful. Perhaps because she was wearing a dark brown dress with an embroidered peony design and a pearl brooch at the collar, the whiteness of her skin stood out all the more. She, too, was showing off her teeth, holding a toothpick and vigorously employing it with the fingers of her right hand, on one of which was a golden ring with five or six tiny bells dangling from it.
When the Count was brought before them, the two women turned aside, pretending not to notice him, and seemed to exchange meaningful glances with the gentleman who sat between them.
“This is Mr. Chen, our president,” said the man who had led the Count by the hand, by way of introduction. He then proceeded to say something in very fast Chinese accompanied by a variety of gestures. The president made no reply either positive or negative, but sat silently listening, just blinking his eyes and looking as if he were about to yawn.
At last, though, he smiled briefly and spoke: “So you are Count G.? I see. Everyone here is drunk, you know, which explains their bad manners. If you like Chinese food, we’ll be glad to offer you some. But the food here now isn’t very good. And besides, the kitchen has closed for the night. I’m very sorry, but I suggest you come again, to our next party.” His response was quite clearly reluctant.
“No, no, you needn’t prepare anything special for me! I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’d be most grateful if you’d just let me try some of tonight’s leftovers. Do you think that might be possible?”
If the man had shown a slightly more amiable, accommodating attitude, the Count would gladly have been more insistent still, adopting the wheedling tones of a beggar if necessary. Having caught sight of what was on those tables, he could hardly leave the place without at least a spoonful or two for himself.
“Ah, but you see what gluttons they all are—I’m afraid there’ll be no leftovers. Anyway, it would be too rude to offer you our leavings. As president, I could never allow such a thing.”
As he spoke, a frown of displeasure began to deepen on his brow, and he said several sharp words to the person standing alongside the Count. He emphasized this with a mocking glance and a thrust of his chin in the Count’s direction, which seemed to mean “Get this Japanese out of here, now!” The other man looked crestfallen and apparently tried to say something in extenuation, but the president just sat there haughtily, blowing bursts of air through his nostrils, and showed no sign of giving in.
The Count ventured a brief glance over his shoulder and saw two waiters in the process of bringing two new bowls to the center tables, holding them high in the air. In the round, shallow china bowls, which were as big as basins, was an amber-colored soup that gave off puffs of steam as it sloshed about, almost overflowing the edge. One of the bowls contained a large piece of something that had been boiled to a dark, liverish color and appeared to be slimy, like a slug. It was still boiling away, there in its shallow “bath.” When it was at last placed in the middle of the table, one of the diners stood up and raised a cup of shao-hsing wine, whereupon those sitting with him also rose and, all together, drained their cups. The minute they’d finished drinking, they grasped their spoons, took up their chopsticks, and fell upon the bowls of broth. The Count, watching breathlessly, felt as if he were about to choke from frustration.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m awfully sorry. The president just won’t permit it . . .” Scratching his head, the Chinese who had received the scolding reluctantly guided the Count toward the exit. “It was all our fault—we were drunk and dragged you up here. The president isn’t a bad man, but he can be difficult at times.”
“Oh no, I’m the one who’s causing all the trouble. But I wonder why he won’t give permission. Having actually seen this splendid dinner with my own eyes, I really do regret not being able to take part . . . Is it absolutely necessary to have his permission?”
“Yes, since he’s in charge of everything to do with this hall . . .” As he said this, the man looked around to see if anyone was listening, but the two of them were already in the corridor, near the head of the stairs. “I think it’s because he’s suspicious of you. It isn’t true that the kitchen’s closed. Look—they’re still at it down there, as you can see.” And indeed the same puffs of fragrant smoke were rising from below. The sound of something being fried in a pan mingled with the sound of oil spattering—it was as lively as firecrackers going off. Along both sides of the corridor, the walls were still covered with a mass of dark coats, the guests showing no sign of leaving anytime soon.
“So the president thinks I’m a dubious character, eh? Well, it’s only natural. Here I come wandering into this back lane without any particular business and lurk about in front of the hall. No wonder he finds me suspicious. Why, I find it odd myself! However, I do have my reasons, which are hard to understand without some explanation. You see, we’ve formed this Gourmet Club. . . .”
“What? What kind of club is it?” He bent his head to one side, looking puzzled.
“Gourmet, a Gourmet Club—a ‘Gastronomers’ Club’ they would call it in English.”
“Oh really? I see, I see,” said the other, nodding with a friendly smile.
“In other words, it’s a club devoted to eating fine food. All the members are people who can’t live a day without eating something really good. But lately we’ve run out of things to try, and we don’t know what to do. We split up every day and hunt throughout Tokyo for something a bit special, but there’s nothing new or unusual to be had anywhere. Today, too, I was on the prowl when I happened to find this place—I thought it was an ordinary Chinese restaurant when I came down the lane. So you see, I’m really not a suspicious character at all. The person on the card I gave you is indeed me. It’s just that when it comes to food I lose control of myself, forget all common sense!”
The Chinese looked hard at the Count’s face for a while as the latter went on making earnest excuses. “Is he mad?” perhaps he was thinking to himself. Tall and good looking, with shiny pink cheeks probably due to drink, he was an honest-looking fellow of around thirty.
“I personally am not the least suspicious of you, sir,” he said. “We—by which I mean all of us gathered upstairs tonight—can understand your feelings perfectly. We don’t call ourselves a ‘Gourmet Club,’ but in fact we get together here for exactly the same purpose: to eat delicious food. Like you, we’re all keen ‘gastronomers.’” At this point, he suddenly gave the Count’s hand a good hard squeeze; then, with a significant look playing in his eyes, he went on: “I’ve spent two or three years in both America and Europe, and I learned that, no matter where you go in the world, you’ll find nothing to match our Chinese cooking. I can’t praise it too highly. And it’s not because I’m Chinese. As a true ‘gastronomer,’ I believe you’ll agree with me on this point—in fact, I’m sure of it. You told me about your club; and so, as proof that I really do trust you, I’ll tell you about our club—about this hall. They serve some highly original things here. What you saw there on the tables, that was just the beginning, the prologue to our dinner. The real feast is still to come.”
He gazed quizzically at the Count’s face, as if to see what reaction his words had produced, though he must have known they were bound to tantalize him.
“Is that true? Or are you having a little joke at my expense?” By now there was a wild look in the Count’s eyes, like a hound on the scent of its prey. “If it is true, then I want to ask you one more favor. It’s just too cruel to let me hear that much and then send me away like this! Please explain to your president once again that I am not a suspicious character. And if that doesn’t clear up his doubts, then test me to see if I’m a gourmet or not, right in front of him. Chinese food or whatever, I will identify the flavor of each and every dish to be found up to now in Japan. Then he’ll realize what a fanatic I am about food. Incidentally, I find it rather odd that he should dislike us Japanese so much. You said it was a dining club, but I wonder if it might not be a political meeting of some kind!”
“A political meeting? Not at all.” The Chinese laughed, flatly dismissing the suggestion. “But as a club” (and here he suddenly became serious, speaking slowly and spacing his words)—“I can say this because I have the utmost confidence in you, and in your title—as a club we are far more particular about who may join than any political group would be. The special dishes that are served in this hall are completely different from ordinary cooking. The ways of preparing them are kept an absolute secret from all nonmembers . . . The group here tonight is composed of mostly Chechiang people, but coming from Chechiang doesn’t guarantee admission by any means. It all depends on the president: the menu, the arrangements for the meeting place, the day set for the banquet, the expenses—everything is subject to his decision. This club is, in fact, his club, you might say . . .”
“Then, just what kind of person is this president of yours? Why does he have so much power?”
“He’s a very strange man. He’s admirable in many ways, but a bit stupid in others.” The Chinese seemed to hesitate for a moment, mumbling to himself. Since the dining room was very noisy, their little chat, fortunately, would pass unnoticed.
“What do you mean by ‘a bit stupid’?” When the Count urged him on like this, it was apparent from the look on the man’s face that he regretted having gone so far. Then, clearly wondering whether he should speak further or not, he continued with some reluctance.
“Well, you see, he loves good food, to the point where it makes him act like a fool or a madman at times. And it’s not just eating that he likes: he’s also very good at preparing food. Now Chinese cooking involves a great variety of ingredients, but when he has a hand in it, there’s nothing that can’t be used. All kinds of vegetables, fruits, meat, fish, and birds, of course—everything, in fact, from the human down to the insect world—can serve as an ingredient. As you know, from ancient times we Chinese have eaten swallow’s nests. We’ve eaten shark fins, bear paws, deer hoof sinews. But our president was the first to show us how to eat tree bark and bird droppings and human saliva. And various ways of boiling and roasting were discovered by him. As a result, where we might have had a little over ten types of soup before, now we have sixty or seventy. Another amazing innovation was in the things used to hold the food. Plates and bowls and jars and spoons made of china, porcelain, and metal—the president made it clear to us that these weren’t the only possible kinds of tableware. And the food needn’t always be placed inside a dish; it can also be smeared all over the outside. Or it can be spewed out over the dish, like a fountain. And there could even be times when you might not be able to tell which is the food and which the container! Without going that far, you can’t really claim to know what the finest cuisine is—that’s our president’s opinion.”
“. . . Having told you this much, I’m sure you can form a general idea of the kind of things he devises for us. And you should be able to understand why we’re so selective about who can join our group and attend our dinners. Because if this sort of cooking ever became popular, it would lead to worse things than if smoking opium became the rage, you see?”
“Well, let me ask again then: is the menu that’s about to be served tonight typical of its kind?”
“Yes, you might say so.” The Chinese, coughing as if choking on his cigar smoke, gave a slight nod.
“I understand. I can imagine what’s involved from your description. With a dining club like yours, it’s only natural that you should be even more strictly selective than a secret political society. To tell the truth, my own epicurean ideal has always been similar to your president’s, the big difference being that he—to his great credit—seems to know how to attain it. But, even given the strict selection criteria, I wonder why, if he’s so intent on maintaining secrecy, he doesn’t limit the number of members more. If it’s just a matter of eating, why shouldn’t he limit it to one person—himself?”
“No, he has his reasons there too. He believes that you can’t bring out the best in an elaborate meal without having a really large number of people present—it has to be done that way. So, while he’s very particular in choosing the participants, he also insists on assembling plenty of them, as you can see tonight . . .”
“I agree with him on that as well. My own club has only five members, and when I compare that with tonight’s gathering, I can see on how much greater a scale your president does things. I suppose it’s because I’m so keen on good cooking, but I’m forever dreaming about it, and coming here tonight is just like a waking dream to me. Day and night I’ve been longing to encounter a man like that—the ultimate connoisseur. You said a few moments ago that you trusted me completely, and I’m sure you’ve spoken so freely because you do trust me. Certainly you know by now how serious I am. So, couldn’t you go just one step further and try recommending me to your president one more time? If he still absolutely refuses, then, even if I can’t sit at the table and eat, mightn’t it be possible for me to hide in the shadows somewhere and at least see what the meal is like?”
Count G. spoke so passionately that it was hard to believe it was a discussion about something as commonplace as food.
“What can we do? . . .” The Chinese seemed to have sobered up completely. He stood there perplexed, lost in thought, with his arms folded across his chest. Then, tossing the cigar he’d been smoking on the floor, he raised his head, apparently having come to some decision. “I’ve already done my best to be helpful . . . but you seem to have set your heart on it, so I don’t want to disappoint you. But there’s no hope of getting the president’s permission, however good the recommendation. For all I know, he may think you’re from the police. It would be better to say nothing to him and just have a quiet look for yourself.”
He looked down the corridor to make sure there was no one watching, then suddenly extended a hand and gave a strong push to the wooden door against which he’d been leaning as he spoke. A section of the door, which was covered with overcoats, easily and soundlessly opened inward, and the two of them were drawn into the shadowy interior. The room they found themselves in was tightly sealed on all four sides with plain, rough wood paneling. There were two tired-looking couches, one on each side, with tea tables on which were placed ashtrays and matches at the head of each couch. Apart from that there was nothing, no decorations or other furnishings. A strange odor filled the room.
“What is this room used for? It has a very odd smell.”
“Don’t you recognize it? It’s opium,” said the Chinese calmly, with an unpleasant little laugh. His appearance had changed, as if he were another person, perhaps due to the shadow across half his face, cast by the dim light of a lamp with a green shade set in one corner of the room. Even his eyes, which up to now had seemed friendly and sincere, had a languid, dissolute look to them—the look of a ruined race.
“I see. It’s a place for smoking opium, is it?”
“Yes. You’re probably the first Japanese who’s ever been in here. Even the Japanese employees don’t know it exists.” He seemed completely relaxed, entirely trusting. He sat down on one of the couches and then, as if it were his custom, sprawled there, his voice taking on the low, lifeless tone of someone in an opium haze. “Ahh, the smell’s quite strong! Somebody must have been smoking here a little while ago. Look—there’s a little hole in the paneling. If you peek through, you can see everything that’s going on in the dining room. People come in here to look at the scene next door and then slowly float off into dreamland.”
The author owes it to the reader to describe all that went on at the banquet in the next room, as viewed by Count G. through the hole in the wall of the opium den. Yet, just as the organizer of that event felt it necessary to make a strict selection of the participants, so, too, I would need to be strict in my choice of reader. And since that is impossible, I regret to say that I cannot record the naked facts of what went on that night. So let me just report the extent to which the Count’s long-cherished dreams were satisfied, and afterward how much progress he was able to make in the talent and creativity he brought to culinary events—and all because of what he saw that night. In fact, shortly after that episode, he won the highest praise and loudest applause ever given by the members of his club, who acknowledged him as a great epicurean, indeed a genius of fine cuisine. Not knowing the facts of the case, they all, without exception, wondered from whom the Count had inherited the gift of this type of cooking or how he had managed to discover it overnight. The astute nobleman, however, mindful of the promise he’d made to the Chinese, not only kept the existence of the Chechiang Hall a complete secret but stoutly asserted that the new cuisine was the result of his own creative impulses.
“I haven’t learned it from anyone, it’s all due to inspiration!” he insisted with an air of innocence.
Every night in the upper-floor dining room of the Gourmet Club a truly amazing banquet was held under the auspices of the Count. The dishes that appeared on the table for the most part resembled Chinese food, yet in some respects they were unprecedented. And, as the first banquet was followed by the second, and that by the third, the types of food and methods of preparation grew richer and richer, more and more complex. Let me list here the menu for the first night, in the order in which the dishes appeared: Swallow’s Nest Soup; Chicken Gruel with Shark Fins; Hoof Sinews with Sea Cucumbers; Whole Roast Duck; Assorted Fried Meats; “Dragon Playing with Spheres” (steamed snake with quail eggs); Ham with Chinese Cabbage; Sliced Yams in Hot Sugared Syrup; “Petals of Jade Orchids” (dried bamboo shoots); “Paired Winter Bamboo Shoots.”
Seeing a list like this, there will be those who come to the hasty conclusion that this is fairly standard Chinese food. And to be sure, these names for dishes are commonplace in that cuisine. The club members, too, when they first read the menu, all thought to themselves, “What? More Chinese stuff?” But their discontent lasted only till the moment when the dishes were brought forward. For what was at last set before them was for the most part utterly different from what they’d imagined from reading the menu, not only in taste but even in outward form.
For example, the Chicken Gruel with Shark Fins was neither a gruel made from an ordinary chicken nor one that contained the fins of sharks. A huge silver bowl was filled to the brim with a wonderfully hot broth—thick, opaque as yōkan sweet-bean jelly, and heavy as melted lead. Stimulated by the heady aroma emanating from the bowl, the guests plunged their spoons greedily into the broth. But when they put it into their mouths, to their surprise only a sweet winelike flavor diffused itself; no taste of shark fins or chicken gruel was apparent.
“What’s this supposed to be? And what’s so damn good about it? It’s just sickeningly sweet, that’s all!” one of the more quick-tempered members said. But no sooner were the words spoken than the look on his face began gradually to change, as if he’d just thought of something very strange indeed, or even actually discovered it; and his eyes suddenly opened wide in a shocked stare. For he found that the sweetness of which he’d just been complaining was now giving way to hints of chicken gruel and shark fins gently permeating his tongue.
The sweet broth had certainly been swallowed, but its effects had by no means ended with that. The winelike sweetness that had spread throughout his mouth had indeed grown gradually fainter but still lingered at the base of the tongue. Then all at once the broth that had just been swallowed came surging back into the oral cavity in the form of a belch. And, wondrously, the taste of chicken gruel and fish fins accompanied the belch. No sooner did it combine with the sweetness that still remained on the tongue than an indescribably fine flavor emerged. Wine and chicken and shark fins met together in the mouth and fermented, the effect now being something close to shiokara salted fish guts. As the number of belches increased from one to two to three, the flavors grew richer and more pungent.
“Well, how about it? It’s not just sickeningly sweet now, is it?” The Count surveyed the faces of the men around him and allowed himself a satisfied smirk. “You mustn’t think you’re meant to enjoy the sweet taste of the broth. What I want you to taste is the belch that comes afterward. You eat the sweet soup so as to enjoy the belch. The first thing to do for people like us who are always overeating is to eliminate the unpleasantness of belching. Food that leaves you with an unpleasant sensation after eating can’t be called true haute cuisine, no matter how good the initial flavor may be. No—a dish in which the more you eat of it the more delectable the belches that follow become—that’s the sort of food we can fill our stomachs with and never get tired of! What you’ve just been eating isn’t all that unusual, but I think I can recommend it to you with confidence on that point.”
“Well, I am impressed. After a triumph like this, you certainly are entitled to the prize money.” The man who’d just been attacking the Count was now the first to compliment him, and the rest of the group were even more effusive in their praise.
“Couldn’t we perhaps get you to tell us how you managed to create such a marvelous dish? We’ll always be wondering how on earth such a belch could result from that too-sweet broth of yours.”
“No, that’s one thing I’m afraid I can’t do. If my discovery were a simple matter of cooking, I might well feel obliged to pass it on, as one member of the Gourmet Club to another. But it’s not so much cookery as magic. Gastronomical magic! And accordingly I prefer to keep the method of preparation secret, as is my right. So I leave it to your imaginations, gentlemen.” The Count smiled at them pityingly.
However, the “gastronomical magic” was not limited to what I have just described. Each of the various dishes on the menu assaulted the club members’ taste buds from an unexpected direction, and all were the product of utterly different tastes and conceptions. “Taste buds,” did I say? That might not do justice to the case. Actually, the members were able truly to savor the various dishes only after having employed every one of the senses with which they were endowed. They did not merely taste the cuisine with their tongues: they had to taste it with their eyes, their noses, their ears, and at times their skin. At the risk of exaggerating, every part of them had to become a tongue.
The Ham with Chinese Cabbage in particular might be said to be the best example of this. Chinese cabbage is a vegetable similar to ordinary cabbage, with a thick white stem. But at first taste this dish, like the others, did not have the flavors of ham or a vegetable, and it was the last to appear, after all the other main dishes on the menu had been served. Before it was brought out, the members were required first to move five or six feet away from the table and then to stand scattered apart around the room. With the windows and doors carefully sealed so that not even a particle of light could seep in from any aperture, however small, all the lights were suddenly turned off. The interior of the room was made so pitch-dark that one couldn’t see even an inch ahead. In that soundless, dead-quiet darkness the members were made to stand in absolute silence for some thirty minutes.
The reader must try to imagine their feelings then. They had eaten too much. Even if they weren’t afflicted with any nasty burping, their stomachs were swollen with food. Their limbs were weighed down with the heavy lethargy that comes from overfullness. Their nervous systems were numbed, and they felt drowsy, almost on the verge of sleep. Now, suddenly plunged into darkness and made to stand for so long, their nerves, which had begun to go dull, became acute again. The thought “What will come next? What will we be fed in the dark like this?” rose strongly within them, bringing a good deal of tension with it. The stove, of course, had been turned off to exclude all light, and the place was getting colder; all sleepiness had vanished without a trace. Their eyes, in the darkness in which nothing could be seen, strained to open wider. In short, they were in a state of heightened awareness before they could even taste the next dish.
Just when such feelings had reached their highest pitch, they heard the sound of someone’s footsteps stealthily approaching from one corner of the room. It was clear from the sensuous swish of silk that it was not one of the people who’d been in the room before. Judging by the light, graceful sound of slippers, it must have been a woman. They couldn’t tell how she had entered the room, or from where, but this person silently paced from one end of the room to the other, like a wild animal in a cage, passing just in front of the club members as she did so, five or six times. This went on for perhaps two or three minutes. Soon the footsteps, which had moved to the right side of the room, came to a stop in front of one of the members who had been made to stand there . . . I shall call this man “A.” and try to explain what happened next from A.’s point of view. Until it was their turn, nothing happened to anyone else for a while.
A. felt sure that the person whose footsteps had just stopped in front of him was indeed, as he’d imagined, a woman. The reason was that the smells of hair oil and powder and perfume peculiar to women were now unmistakable. With her standing directly opposite him, her face all but rubbing against his own, A. found these smells almost suffocating as they enveloped him. The room’s darkness was so thick that he couldn’t see her, even so; he only knew of her presence by relying on senses other than sight. Her soft hair brushed his forehead. Her warm breath caressed his neck. Meanwhile, the woman’s cool but soft palms stroked A.’s cheeks two or three times, up and down, up and down—the effect was uncanny.
Judging from the fleshiness of her palms and the suppleness of her fingers, A. was sure that it was a young woman. However it wasn’t clear to him just why those hands were rubbing his face. First they pressed against his right and left temples and rubbed them, then both palms were placed over his eyelids and began to stroke softly downward, repeatedly, as if to wear his eyeballs away. Next, they moved gradually to his cheeks and began to rub either side of his nose. There seemed to be several rings on both the right and left hands, for he could feel the coldness of things small, hard, and metallic . . . As A. yielded to this facial massage, he felt a refreshing physiological pleasure, as after a full cosmetic treatment, seeping into the very core of his brain.
That sense of pleasure was greatly heightened by the still more delicate operation that took place immediately afterward. Having given A.’s face a thorough rubbing, those hands at last grasped his lips, stretching and releasing them like a rubber band. For a time the hands would rest on his chin and firmly rub his cheeks just over where the back teeth were. Then the fingertips would softly tap along the rims of his upper and lower lips, tapping their way all around. The fingers would move to the edges of his mouth and little by little induce his saliva to emerge, spreading it all over, until at last his lips were drenched with his own spittle. Over and over the fingertips rubbed themselves wetly along the crease of his still-closed lips. Although he had as yet eaten nothing, his lips felt as if his cheeks were already bulging with some substance that made his saliva come dribbling out like this. Naturally his appetite was aroused. The greedy saliva, which urged him to gormandize, welled up endlessly from behind his back teeth, filling his entire mouth . . .
A. was unable to help himself: the drool was about to flow without any aid from those fingers. Just then the woman’s fingertips, which had been toying with his lips, were suddenly inserted inside. After rummaging about in the space between the inside of his lips and his gums, they gradually moved in the direction of his tongue. His saliva stickily enveloped those five fingers, transforming them into viscous things—fingers, or something else, it was hard to tell. What A. noticed then for the first time was how very soft and slippery they were: so tender it hardly seemed possible that they were part of a human body, no matter how long they might have been immersed in saliva. It ought to have been quite distressing to have five fingers thrust into one’s mouth, yet A. felt no such distress. Or, if perhaps he did feel a little, it was no more than if a large glutinous rice cake had been stuffed into his mouth. If by accident he had brought his teeth down on them, it seemed likely the fingers would have been cut into several pieces.
All at once A. felt that his saliva, which was sticking to that hand as well as to his tongue, had begun for some reason to have a peculiar taste. A sweetish flavor with an aromatic, salty undertaste was gradually emerging from within the spittle. How could saliva have a taste like this? Or, for that matter, how could a woman’s hand? A. moved his tongue around and lapped up the flavor. The more he licked and tasted, the more flavor emerged from somewhere or other. Finally he swallowed all the saliva in his mouth, but still a strange liquid welled up on the surface of his tongue, as if being squeezed from something drop by drop. By now A. had to admit the fact that it must be coming from between the woman’s fingers. Nothing apart from her hand had entered his mouth from outside. And that hand, with its five fingers, had been resting on his tongue, unmoving, for some time. The slick fluid that clung to those fingers had certainly seemed until now to be A.’s own saliva; yet from the fingers themselves as well, a sticky, saliva-like liquid was being slowly exuded, like an oily sweat.
But what could this slippery stuff be? It’s something I’ve tasted before. I know I’ve had this kind of thing before, somewhere. A. thought the matter over even as he licked away at the fingers with the tip of his tongue. Then it came to him: it was somehow similar to the smell of the ham used in Chinese cooking. Actually, he may well have been aware of that for some time, but the conjunction was so unexpected that he hadn’t been clearly conscious of it.
Yes, it definitely tastes like ham—and in particular Chinese-style ham. To confirm this judgment, A. concentrated his sense of taste still more fully in the tip of his tongue and kept licking and sucking persistently at those fingers. Strangely, the more pressure he applied with his tongue, the tenderer the fingers became, dissolving into shreds as leeks might, for example. Suddenly A. discovered that what had unmistakably been a human hand had somehow changed into the stem of a Chinese cabbage. No, perhaps changed isn’t quite the word, for though it had the taste and feel of bok choi, it still perfectly preserved the shape of human fingers. In fact the second and middle fingers were still sporting rings, just as before. And the palm was still firmly connected to the flesh of the wrist. It was impossible to tell where the bok choi left off and the woman’s hand began. It was, if you will, a kind of hybrid—“Bok Choi Fingers.”
That was not the only mysterious thing. While A. was puzzling over all this, the bok choi—or human hand, whichever it was—started to move about inside his mouth as if it were a second tongue. Each of the five fingers began to move: one thrust itself into a cavity in one of his back teeth, another twined itself around his tongue, while yet another wedged itself between his upper and lower teeth, as if eager to be bitten. Insofar as it “moved,” it was most certainly a human hand; but as it moved, it became increasingly clear that it was without question bok choi, composed of vegetable fiber. When A. gingerly bit into the tip of one, as if eating the head of an asparagus stem, it was immediately crushed, and the flesh of the crushed portion was transformed into real bok choi. Moreover, it was a tender sort of bok choi, like a well-boiled giant radish, sweeter and moister than anything he’d had before. Drawn on by the wondrous flavor, he bit down on each of the five fingertips, crushing them, and then swallowing. The fingers, however, not only lost nothing of their shape but continued to exude a liquid and twine the bok choi fibers around his teeth and tongue. Bite down and chew as he might, from the tips of the fingers there sprouted endless replacements—just as a long string of little flags might emerge from within the hands of some stage magician.
Around the time A. felt that even one more of these delicious stems would be too much, the fingertips changed again from vegetable to authentic human flesh, then made a clean sweep of the leftover bits in his mouth, sprinkled among his teeth some tingling stimulant like peppermint, and smartly withdrew.
This was the final main dish at the first night’s banquet. From the two examples given above, the reader should be able to imagine in a general way how very strange were the other things that appeared on the menu.
After the bok choi, the darkened hall was once again flooded with light; yet there was no trace or shadow of the woman to whom those mysterious hands must have belonged.
“With this, we bring tonight’s meeting of the Gourmet Club to an end,” said Count G. in a simple closing speech as he gazed at the amazed expressions on the faces of the assembled members. “I said earlier that tonight’s menu would be no ordinary one, but a magical one. Yet I want to make it perfectly clear that I haven’t resorted to magic merely out of eccentricity or as a means of disguising the fact that I couldn’t come up with a genuinely inventive meal. I honestly believe that there is no way to create a truly fine cuisine without using magic. The reason is that we already know the flavors of all the fine foods that can be tasted with the tongue alone. Within the limited range of what is called a ‘cuisine,’ there’s nothing more to be found that can satisfy us. As a result, in order to provide ourselves with other satisfying tastes, we must both greatly expand the range of that ‘cuisine’ and diversify as much as possible the senses we use in enjoying it. In order to fully develop our responses as gourmets, it is necessary for us first of all to focus our interest and curiosity fully on the thing to be eaten and only afterward enjoy the flavors themselves. The more intense our curiosity, the more the value of the thing will increase. If I make use of magic in my cookery, it’s because I want to excite such curiosity in all of you . . .”
The members looked dazed and left the room without a word in reply, feeling as though they’d been bewitched by a fox.
The second banquet was held in the same meeting place on the following evening. I will spare the reader a full listing of the menu, only noting the name of the most unusual dish and explaining its contents, to wit:
On the first night’s menu, the names of the dishes, if not their contents, were typical of purely Chinese cuisine, yet this was hardly the case tonight. One would have had no trouble recognizing Fried Meat, Korean Style as being Chinese, of course, as Korean Style in Chinese cooking refers to tempura: pork tempura, for example, is usually called Korean Pork. But if one interpreted something called Deep-Fried Woman, Korean Style in terms of Chinese food, it would have to mean literally “the flesh of a woman deep-fried as tempura.” So it takes no great imagination to picture the excitement it aroused when the members of the club discovered this item on that evening’s menu.
Now this dish was neither piled onto a plate nor poured into a bowl. It was wrapped in a single, very large towel from which puffs of steam rose, and was borne reverently on the shoulders of three waiters, who placed it in the center of the table. Inside the towel was a beautiful girl dressed like a Chinese fairy, lying there smiling brightly. The angelic garment that covered her whole body seemed at first glance to be made of delicately patterned white damask. In actual fact, however, it was made entirely of deep-fried tempura batter; and so, in the case of this dish, the members tasted only the “robe” that clung to the girl’s flesh.
■ ■ ■
The above account offers no more than a peek at one small part of Count G.’s strange repertoire. His cuisine was too widely varied for us to be able to infer the whole from one part. Moreover, since his imagination was inexhaustible, no matter how detailed an account I might give of his many banquets, it would be impossible to know it in its entirety. I must, then, content myself with listing the names of the most exotic dishes from among the menus of the next four dinners, and then lay aside my pen. The list is as follows
I trust that among my wise readers there will be those who can infer what kind of content is implied by the names of these dishes. At any rate, the dinners of the Gourmet Club continue to be held every night at Count G.’s mansion. To all appearances, the members no longer merely “taste” or “eat” fine cuisine but are “consumed” by it. And I, for one, believe that in the not too distant future this can only lead to one of two outcomes: either raving lunacy or death.