The Digested Twenty-first Century (32 page)

‘That’s an unusual name,’ she said.

‘Every fictional PI has a silly name. Mine just happens to be an anagram of JK Rowling. Not many people know that.’ Cormoran smiled like a person who had just heard something funny. ‘What’s yours, by the way?’

‘Robin. It’s an anagram of borin’.’

‘My father is the ageing pop star Jonny Rokeby, and my mother was a supergroupie who died of a heroin overdose. But I don’t want to talk about that, as the memories are still as painful as the leg of mine that was blown off in Afghanistan.’

‘I will never mention that again,’ said Robin as sincerely as one of the most sincere people you can imagine. ‘What would you like me to do now?’

‘Nothing much. I haven’t had any work for at least six months.’

Just then, a stranger blustered his way into the office like a spring squall on a blustery day. ‘I’m John Bristow,’ he said eventually. ‘My adopted sister was Lula Landry. The police are calling her death suicide, but I think it was murder. I want you to investigate.’

‘Why me?’ Cormoran asked as existentially as Jean-Paul Sartre.

‘Because, though you may not remember, 30 years ago you were friends with my adopted brother who died by riding his bike over a cliff when he was 10.’

‘That all makes perfect sense,’ Cormoran said, as grimly as one of the Brothers Grimm.

‘This is so exciting,’ cried Robin. ‘Where do we start?’

‘There are two types of detective fiction,’ Cormoran explained. ‘In one, the writer keeps the action flowing and the pages turning. In the other, the detective just wanders around aimlessly talking to every character in the book before announcing who the killer is.’

‘Great, shall I get my gun?’

‘We’re the second type actually, Robin. Now could you arrange for me to talk to Lula’s junkie boyfriend, a black rapper, a film producer, members of her family, a dress designer called Guy whose name is pronounced Ghee, a homeless depressive named Rochelle, and a mysterious African who may be the victim’s real father?’

The days passed slowly but slowly, as Cormoran’s extensive
knowledge of the London transport system allowed him to navigate his way across the city in search of his quarry.

‘I can’t ‘elp you wiv nuffink,’ said Rochelle, the homeless depressive. ‘I think you’ll find you just have,’ Cormoran said, as knowingly as the Dalai Lama.

Then, on page 320, something finally happened. ‘Something has finally happened!’ Robin exclaimed.

‘There’s a maniac on the loose!’ said Cormoran.

‘It doesn’t feel like it.’

‘London is in the same amount of danger that would result from the traffic lights at the Old Street roundabout failing for five minutes!’

‘Hooray!’ yelled Robin. ‘You’ve solved the murder. Isn’t it odd that the killer is always the one you suspect the least? There’s just one thing I don’t get. Isn’t it a coincidence that JK Rowling’s cover was blown before the book went into paperback, meaning the publisher could maximise hardback sales when people were going on holiday?’

‘Some things must remain a mystery,’ said Cormoran mysteriously.

Digested read, digested:
The golden goose’s calling.

Yo, motherfuckers. I’m sitting in the bush with Charlie, deep in the Mekong Delta, drinking hooch. My hosts, VC war heroes, pass me the duck. I chomp through its bill, before cracking open the skull and scooping the brains out...

When you’ve just had a big score with an obnoxious and over-testosteroned account of your life, your publishers tend to fall for any dumbass plan. So when I told them I wanted to go round the world eating all sorts of scary food in a search for the perfect meal, they just said, ‘Where do we sign?’

Y’know, most of us in the west have lost contact with the food we eat. It comes merchandised and homogenised. The same goes for chefs. Cooking isn’t about knocking up a few wussy monkfish terrines out of fillets that have been delivered to the kitchen door; it’s about badass guys going deep into their souls and looking their ingredients in the eye.

Which is why I am in Portugal, outside the barn while Jose and Francisco restrain several hundredweight of screaming pig. I unsheathe my knife, bury it deep into the neck and draw it firmly towards me. The pig looks at me in surprise and fury. I lick the blood from my arms, make another incision and rip out the guts. The women pan-fry the spleen. It’s indescribably good.

I take my brother to France to look for the oysters and foie gras of my youth. I only find memories of my dead father. That’s not what being a chef is all about. Cut to Mexico. The restaurant owner’s 10-year-old pet iguana hoves into view. Big mistake. Its meat is tough and the claws are inedible; this is more like it.

I’m a sucker for sushi, but my main reason for being in Japan was
to eat fugu, the puffer fish whose deadly nerve toxins in the liver kill scores of devotees a year. I watched Mr Yoshida prepare the fish. He was too clean, too careful. Not even the hint of a psychotropic high. Fuck that.

So off to Nam for fried birds’ heads and monkey steaks. But even this wasn’t really hard. I needed to be in Cambodia, driving along the heavily-mined highway to Pailin, Kalashnikov on my knee and with skulls the only road signs. The restaurant owner brought in a live cobra and slit its throat in front of me. He wrenched out the heart and placed it, still beating, on my plate. ‘Make you strong,’ he said. I do feel strong. I have my machete. I’m in the bamboo plantation. And there’s the giant panda.

Digested read, digested:
Colonel Kurtz Bourdain goes deep into the heart of darkness and returns the sole survivor of the culinary bloodbath.

My name is Gordon Ramsay and I’m here to help. Simplicity has always been at the heart of my cooking and I’m going to show you how you too can become a star in the kitchen by learning how to boil an egg properly... Oi, sonny, who the fuck are you? Get out of here. Who? You’re my son? Fuck. I didn’t recognise you.

Look Gordon, we’ve got your kids in for the shoot to give you a cosier image, so do try to make it look like you spend time with your family.

There’s nothing quite like a proper breakfast to start the day. I’m never at home myself, but I encourage the family to vary their breakfasts and make the most of seasonal fruit. So here’s some easy-to-make recipes involving scallops, new potatoes and fresh cherry compote.

Fantastic Gordon. OK, let’s move on to the next chapter. Gordon, do you have to wear that pin-striped jacket? It really doesn’t...

Do you want to make something of it, you fuckwit?

No, No. You look absolutely splendid as you are.

Eating together as a family is important to me... Fuck this. We’re doing this fucking bollocks about how I love to eat Sunday roast with the family and they’ve all bleeding well fucked off.

It’s OK, Gordon. I’ve given them a break, but we can get some lovely photos of you looking moody with some fish at the market.

Jesus. Right. Here’s some fucking fillet of red mullet and here’s some fucking roasted pork belly. Satisfied?

Er, perhaps you could try it with just a little more charm...

When I’m relaxing at home in the summer, I invariably fire up the barbecue. Who writes this shit? Do you really think I’ve got the fucking time to sit around at home and fire up a fucking barbie when I’ve got restaurants to run, Michelin stars to protect and telly projects on the go?

I know, Gordon, but we’re selling a lifestyle here. The punters need to think you’re basically just like them.

Are you fucking mad? Do you really think I’ve worked my fucking guts out so I can have a fucking Corsa?

Please, Gordon.

OK. Let’s just get this thing done. Right. Here’s some seared tiger prawns and here’s a lemon tart. Let’s move on to party food. When Tana and I throw a party we never quite know how many we are catering for – not something you lot have to deal with, I know, but fucking get over it – so finger food and champagne cocktails are an easy option. What else? You want something posh? I’ll fucking give you posh. The secret of a good halibut bourguignon is mastering the cuisson. Romance as well? We should all make time in our lives for romance. But I don’t. Will that do?

Wonderful Gordon. Lights to fade and closing credits.

Alright lads let’s hear it. Delia’s going down, she’s going down, Delia’s going...

Digested read, digested:
Gordo sells his sole.

Italy is that long thin country dangling in the Mediterranean and ever since I was a kid I’ve been obsessed with it. So when I was feeling
completely burnt out this year after giving school dinners a makeover, I thought what better way to relax than to go there on my own with a camper van and a film crew to make a TV series and write a book.

I feel at home the moment I arrive in Italy because I love the sense of humour. It’s great to arrive in a town and hear the old men stand around and joke, ‘Who is this Oliver James?’ But most of all I love the food. It’s so localised, it’s villagional. So without any more ado, let’s get cooking.

Antipasti are the first course and vary considerably. It’s good to get a mix of flavours. You can try bruschetta and my own favourite, fritto di salvia e alici. All you need is a tin of anchovies and you’re away. How simple is that?

I’m really excited about this chapter on street food because most cookbooks steer clear of them. Perhaps it’s because the writers don’t know the Italian for Westler’s. I have to be honest. Some street food is well dodgy and you’ll notice that I haven’t washed my hands for the pictures in order to give you the true Neapolitan flavour. You can try something poncey like polenta fritta croccante con rosmarino e sale, but for my money nothing beats a pizza di Dominos.

What on earth can I say about pasta that hasn’t already been said? Not much, really, but I’ll say it anyway. Always use real egg dough rather than Heinz spaghetti hoops and you won’t go far wrong. And I just know you’re going to love this chapter on risottos because I haven’t bothered with any authentic Italian recipes and have invented my own. Chopped parsley in a white risotto with roasted mushrooms: yum. Sod the Italians if they don’t like it.

Italian salads can be a bit ropey, to be honest, so I’ll mention the insalata tipica delle sagre before moving on to fish. If I’ve learnt anything from the Italians about fish – which I’m not sure I have – it’s that less is more. You don’t need variety; just something simple and fresh. Like turbot. Or – at a push – octopus.

Italy is a land of hunters and they never forget that meat comes from animals. Even rabbit. That’s why I’m showing you a picture of a dead sheep. You can cook it how you want, but it’s nice on a kebab. Italian farmers have a very special relationship with pigs. They bring them up as if they were their own children and then kill them. There’s a lesson there for all of us, so think twice before buying some factory-reared meat from wankers back home.

I don’t normally bother with dolci unless it’s for a special occasion, but everyone who’s been to Pizza Express loves a good tiramisu. All you need is some sponge fingers, mascarpone, vin santo and some chocolate and Roberto is your zio.

And that’s it. Thanks to Jools and my beautiful girls and the million other lovely people I spent time on my own with. Big love.

Digested read, digested:
The digested feed.

Breakfast is a meal apart. It isn’t like the other organised consumptions of food in which I partake. It is a meal for which I am sometimes obliged to pay with my own money. Today, the blonde is lying abed and there is no one on hand to serve me at home, so I head to The Wolseley – conveniently close to my Savile Row tailor – to break my fast.

Piccadilly is chilly and dark as my chauffeur pulls up outside. I step over the human detritus of the night before, and allow the doorman to take my cashmere coat as I am welcomed into the timeless grandeur of the seemingly fin-de-siècle dining hall. The jolly Nigerian cleaner bows courteously.

At the front desk the maître d’hotel is going through his reservation list. The names come with a code, abbreviations to note ‘regular’, ‘very regular’ or ‘smug twat’. He shows me to my regular table, shielding me from the glare of the arrivistes who are seated nearest to the entrance.

Hidden away in the kitchen, the tourier, a Malian, or possibly Bangladeshi immigrant, has been turning the dough for the croissants for 12 hours or more. It’s a thankless task, but Viennoiserie is all about attitude. I take a bite out of my croissant and let its texture dissolve on my tongue, before leaving the rest unfinished on my plate; it will be a welcome morsel for the Brazilian plongeur

There are few things quite as xenophobic as breakfast. Apart from me. So the Wolseley must cater for all tastes. Even Americans. I peruse the menu and order Eggs Benedict, the Marilyn Monroe of brunch. Hollandaise sauce is considered tricky to make, but it’s actually a simple mixture of physics and thermodynamics that even an Italian chef can make.

The perfectly fried egg

•   Crack one Duchy free-range egg into frying pan with knob of butter.

•   Have a tantrum and send it back if not completely satisfied.

Nothing, though, can compare to the glory of the Full English. Foreigners may look askance as the waiters bring a cacophony of piggy-ness to my table, as few of them have the stamina or resolve for bacon, sausage and black pudding at this early hour. And it is true that, once the Full English has been consumed, you can be often overtaken by the need to go back to bed again. This is not a problem that unduly concerns me as I seldom have anything to do before lunch anyway.

There are 13 varieties of coffee at the Wolseley. This abundance of choice may be more than sufficient to satisfy the palates of City artisans and denizens of the media demi-monde, yet I still insist on summoning the Jamaican barista to check that the Blue Mountain beans have been harvested from the eastern flank of his private estate.