(After Murakami - with apologies)
The table went on for ever - like Daytona beach. The child was eye level with it, curling her hair with one finger and sucking on a lollipop, looking at the present wrapped in paper in the centre, on a plate. The chtz chtz chtz of her ipod drowned out her father’s words.
The table went on for ever - like Daytona beach. The child was eye level with it, curling her hair with one finger and sucking on a lollipop, looking at the present wrapped in paper in the centre, on a plate. The chtz chtz chtz of her ipod drowned out her father’s words.
“Do you want some of this honey?”
She pulled the headphone pad from one ear - “What is it?”
“My business contacts from England brought it over and...”
“What’s it made of?”
“There’s meat inside I think”
“Ewwwww” the child squealed and ran out of the room.
“Ewwwww” the child squealed and ran out of the room.
“Fuck knows how he got it through customs”
He smiled at his wife and lent towards her, kissed the top of her head and whispered “What the fuck is in it?” in her ear.
He smiled at his wife and lent towards her, kissed the top of her head and whispered “What the fuck is in it?” in her ear.
She bent forward and pulled over the package and read the label in good but rusty English -
“Ingredients: Pork 47%, Wheat flour, Lard, Water, Vegetable Oil. Pork Fat”
“What is Lard?”
“I dunno - something English I expect”
Her face wrinkled up in mock revulsion.
“I dunno - something English I expect”
Her face wrinkled up in mock revulsion.
He lit a a cigarette and looked out of the window on the Osaka Sunday lunchtime skyline - in the distance the city gleamed bright. He paused - listening to an entertaining moment of Artie Shaw’s artistry - a Sunday morning pre-requisite. He swore he’d told the Englishmen not to come to Osaka unless absolutely necessary but they were coming the next day and they would expect an opinion on their present.
“Well, we’re going have to at least try it” he said, a long slow exhale spoke volumes about his enthusiasm.
“Well, we’re going have to at least try it” he said, a long slow exhale spoke volumes about his enthusiasm.
“But honey...Pork fat!” she said, turning the object the right way up and read the rest of the label out loud.
“Dickinson and Morris”
“Since 1851” - she raised her eyebrows
“Dickinson and Morris”
“Since 1851” - she raised her eyebrows
“Dickinson and Morris of Melton Mow...mow?....bray”
“Mowbray - its a place near their head office in Leicester”
“Mowbray - its a place near their head office in Leicester”
“Great - Taste - Gold 2010” her puzzled expression was answered by a shrug from him.
“Melton Mowbray Pork Pie”
“So it is a pie made of pork and water and fat and lard!” she summed up.He went over to the CD player - put on another CD - George Shearing played standards in a classical style. He poured himself another drink and sat on the couch. She knelt next to him, rub his neck and he relaxed a little more. She whispered “will you have this to eat every day in England?”
“No, I will alternate it with McDonalds” he said, tracing her long hair round her face, onto her breast and pausing. She rubbed his belly pointedly, smiling as she looked at the pie and him alternately. He spanked her arse.
The girl ran in - raucous Katy Perry mixed with the mellifluous piano - she was breathless.
“Lard is cow fat” she announced “I looked it up on the internet”.
“Oh my God, pig, pig fat and cow fat - we can’t....”
“Oh my God, pig, pig fat and cow fat - we can’t....”
He pulled two bottles of beer from the ice box and pondered whether he needed an axe or a knife to break the pie open.
“If it gets too bad the beer will take the taste away”“What about me?” shouted the girl over her music
“Switch that noise off and we’ll see”
“Do I get beer?”
“Do I get beer?”
“No, you’re nine”
He took out a large knife and a chopping board and removed the packaging. She brought in three small plates.
The girl sat at the table, but lowered her head as though she were some giant swimming onto Daytona Beach. The pie was unveiled, disrobed, naked and bare to the world.
He stuck in the knife and was surprised how the pastry yielded. He cut the pie in two and the marbled innards revealed themselves.
He turned to the girl
The girl sat at the table, but lowered her head as though she were some giant swimming onto Daytona Beach. The pie was unveiled, disrobed, naked and bare to the world.
He stuck in the knife and was surprised how the pastry yielded. He cut the pie in two and the marbled innards revealed themselves.
He turned to the girl
“Get all the Tsukemono (pickles) you can find in the fridge - cucumber and ginger - I know we have that.”
She was a little transfixed by the bifurcated pie.
He cut one half in half again and then into three slices the size of his pocket book.
“Aren’t you going to cook it?” asked the girl
“I think its already been cooked, look at the centre, I think that’s the meat”
He cut one half in half again and then into three slices the size of his pocket book.
“Aren’t you going to cook it?” asked the girl
“I think its already been cooked, look at the centre, I think that’s the meat”
The girl looked dubious and took a reluctant sniff when he passed her a slice. The woman looked even less convinced.
“And the English eat this all the time?”
“Morning noon and night in some places” he responded
“The women of Leicester and Melton Mowbray must be huge!”
“Yeah they are all giants! OK here we go, we’ll all try a taste after three. 1 - 2 - 3”
The girl chewed for a moment and spat it out, her mother chewed it for a long time and swallowed but immediately took three huge swigs from her beer. He chewed carefully swallowed and tentatively took a drink of beer.
“Hmmm, that’s not too bad as he took a mouthful of mixed pickles - very ermmm what’s the word.....umami”
“It was horrible - so greasy and left this horrid peppery taste on my tongue and its not cooked inside - the pastry’s all white. And the meat is hard to chew and there are hard bits in it...” she paused, “can I have some beer?”
“No, you’re nine! Anyway your cousin will be here any minute to take you to your dance class - go get ready.”
“Hmmm, that’s not too bad as he took a mouthful of mixed pickles - very ermmm what’s the word.....umami”
“It was horrible - so greasy and left this horrid peppery taste on my tongue and its not cooked inside - the pastry’s all white. And the meat is hard to chew and there are hard bits in it...” she paused, “can I have some beer?”
“No, you’re nine! Anyway your cousin will be here any minute to take you to your dance class - go get ready.”
The doorbell rang a few moments later and the girl flew out the door, bag in hand, a rushed version of the morning’s events gabbled to an unsuspecting cousin and her mother.
“So what did you think?”
“Its awful”
“Really, I thought it wasn’t too bad - salty, greasy but like fast food, not haute cuisine”
“No, really its dreadful - if that’s the best England can offer they can keep it” she said
“Really, I thought it wasn’t too bad - salty, greasy but like fast food, not haute cuisine”
“No, really its dreadful - if that’s the best England can offer they can keep it” she said
She wandered around the room, restless, she sidled up behind him as he read a book on the couch and massaged his neck. He was unresponsive. She went back to the table. Prodded the pie with a knife - she found scooped out and tasted off the end of the knife the clear jelly.
“Salty” she muttered
He was undisturbed
She cut herself another slice and tasted it again. Salt and pepper in the mix, another slice and she found the pickles cut the fat taste. She took him another slice and he picked at it as he read. In fifteen minutes, they were eating into the second half of the pie.
With the final two slices: each the size of a paperback. She brought his plate to him. She ruffled his hair to get his attention, tickled him, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her onto the sofa. They played, they struggled, she squealed, they kissed: things got heated.
In an hour the pie had gone. The plate was on the floor as were pastry crumbs, knocked off when they had made love on the table. The bookmark lost from its place, the book under the table, sweep across the room in a rush to clear the sofa. George Shearing playing on a never ending loop but no longer against the sound of lovemaking. A chair knocked over in the midst, an empty bottle of massage oil, a belt no longer restraining, clothes scattered: some torn. The Osaka early afternoon sun filtered through a blind onto their silky skin in embrace.
He got up, put on some blues, went back to the naked woman on the sofa and slide next to her. He smoked, she caressed him.
She cut herself another slice and tasted it again. Salt and pepper in the mix, another slice and she found the pickles cut the fat taste. She took him another slice and he picked at it as he read. In fifteen minutes, they were eating into the second half of the pie.
With the final two slices: each the size of a paperback. She brought his plate to him. She ruffled his hair to get his attention, tickled him, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her onto the sofa. They played, they struggled, she squealed, they kissed: things got heated.
In an hour the pie had gone. The plate was on the floor as were pastry crumbs, knocked off when they had made love on the table. The bookmark lost from its place, the book under the table, sweep across the room in a rush to clear the sofa. George Shearing playing on a never ending loop but no longer against the sound of lovemaking. A chair knocked over in the midst, an empty bottle of massage oil, a belt no longer restraining, clothes scattered: some torn. The Osaka early afternoon sun filtered through a blind onto their silky skin in embrace.
He got up, put on some blues, went back to the naked woman on the sofa and slide next to her. He smoked, she caressed him.
“What should I tell them about the pie?”
“Fucking amazing - for all the wrong reasons”
“Fucking amazing - for all the wrong reasons”
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