Chef P.'s Surprise

This is a long story. What comes first is the preamble:

People who feed The Great Plotnik know not to put anything in front of him that contains liver or liver products, no matter if you hang a fancy French name on it like Pâté. Once, in Paris, Le Gran Plotnique brought a restaurant owner to the point of tears over refusing to sample his Pâté d'Maison.


No matter how hard Plotnique tried to explain that, yes, he was sure the restaurant owner's Pâté d'Maison would be the very best in all the world, but it was only that Plotnique did not care for Pâté d'Maison and would rather NOT sample it, in the end the restaurant owner put his fat foot down and insisted that no one had EVER left his (Unknown French Swear Word) restaurant without sampling his Pâté d'Maison and all THOSE people had told him his Pâté d'Maison was the BEST Pâté d'Maison they had ever eaten. Therefore, he signalled for the Garçon to bring a plate of Pâté d'Maison to Plotnique and Ducqnique's table, and if Plotnique did not think this particular Pâté d'Maison was the best Pâté d'Maison in the long history of force feeding geese until they puke so their fattened livers can then be turned into disgusting, jiggly poop being held under Plotnique's nose, well then Plotnique would not have to pay one penny for it.

The Pâté arrived and the owner and the three waiters crowded around Plotnique, a look of expectant pride bubbling just under their red-faced black moustached countenances, as he was forced to stick his fork in to the bubonic, billious bilge, raise it to, and then into his mouth. They four men smiled as one, tilting their heads back a fraction, as if to give themselves slightly more space for the huge Gallic shouts of approval that were imminent, as Plotnique would have to admit, surely, that THIS Pâté D'Maison was unlike any OTHER Pâté D'Maison, not only here, in Paris, on the Rue Mouffetard, but also in all of la belle France and other French departments the world over, including Martinique, Mauritius and the lamentedly lost but once grand colony of l'Algeire.

God, it tasted awful. Plotnique was now faced with the choice of swallowing the putrid, rancid, dogshit smelling garbage tasting speck of mucilaginous moo that was in his mouth, and delighting his hosts and host country, or thhpppaaaa ing it into all four of their fat, red faces, one at a fucking time, thpa thpa thpa and thpaa! In the bargain he would bring shame upon his country, his city, his sex and his wife and possibly get Duck and himself killed, but it might be worth it.

Ah no. He swallowed. The Gang of Four waited. Plotnique grabbed the bottle of mineral water.

A waiter removed it from his hand, smiling, poured a quantity into Plotnique's glass, smiling, and handed it to him, smiling. Plotnique drank until that French Goose Crap was out of his mouth, and then stood and nodded his head...and smiled.

"Aha! Aha!" they shouted, slapping each other on the back, shaking each other's hands wildly. They began yapping at each other in words Plot could not understand, but the gist was surely that their Pâté de Maison had conquered yet another American Heathen Pig Dog, and that perhaps Marcel could call Armand to tell Pierre to whip up another ten thousand pounds of Pâté.

There is a reason you are hearing this story today, and here she is:



Chef Pickle-Nik knows perfectly well that Plotnik hates liver. They have had this discussion many times. In her heart, Pickle is always true to her Inner Fried Chicken, but she has acquired this Gallic overlay that makes it difficult for her to comprehend how a perfectly normal Head of a Minor Western Religion would not coo in ecstacy for rabbit livers, pig livers, horse livers, squab livers or freaking mastodon livers, but there it is. The girl can't help it.

So, when Plotnik and Ducknik arrived at Tuesday's Grand Luncheon at the Winery, prepared totally by Chef Pickle-Nik, Plot walked surreptitiously to the table and checked the printed menu under the napkin, just to make sure. And on that very fancy, tastefully printed menu, HERE IS WHAT HE FOUND:

First Course: AHI TUNA AND LIVER TARTARE.

Second Course: LIBERTY DUCK BREAST WITH CHANTERELLES AND HERBED DUCK LIVER.

Third Course: LIVER SORBET AND VANILLA BEAN ICE CREAM.

For one, no, three seconds, she had him. The first two courses were possible. The Liver Sorbet gave it away -- but Plot still ran to the next table over to see if liver sorbet was on their menu too: it was rhubarb sorbet. Relieved, Plot and Duck started to laugh, and they laughed into yesterday and now into today and they're still laughing over Chef P.'s Surprise.