The Last Time I Cooked for Ernest Hemingway

Last Suppers

The last time I cooked for Ernest Hemingway he was dressed as a girl and I had made up my mind to kill him. Not because he was dressed as a girl - that was something his mother had got him into and was one of his most redeeming habits. No, I was going to kill him because his wife had paid me to do so. 

I had been in two minds whether to take her up on her offer ($1000 cash) when the opportunity arose and it became too good to pass over. 

The whole thing happened by chance. I had been walking the Camino de Santiago, and arriving in Burguete, tired after the long trek over the Pyrenees, I almost fell into the town’s only bar. 

With a thirst that would have dried out the Flood, I ordered a beer. As I gulped it down, I noticed there was an atmosphere in the room. Hemingway and his wife were leaning against the bar. They had been there some time by the look of things. He was holding court. A good crowd of villagers surrounded them, all looking at him with a mixture of awe, incredulity and horror. 

The owner, a fat man with a big moustache, was in a sweat the whole night keeping glasses refreshed.

The writer was there to fish for trout in the Irati before going on to Pamplona for the Fiestas de San Fermin. Presumably he wanted to prove he had bigger balls than the bulls. Whatever his reason, he had decided to get blotto in preparation and his wife, I won’t say which one, was going along with his decision. I understood the thinking. I was planning the next day's pilgrimage and was going to get blotto as well.

At the end of the night, he went upstairs with the owner and after a brief and bizarre conversation with Hemingway’s wife, I went upstairs with her. In the dark of her bed, I came to understand what many had guessed at but few actually knew - she loathed her celebrity spouse. She hatched a plan, hot in my ear. But with the terms too fledgeling, I refused to let it fly.

The next morning the three of us breakfasted together and parted company in the haze of our hangovers. I carried on along El Camino.

Two days later I entered the city of Pamplona through its ramparts and headed to the centre of town. I checked into Gran Hotel La Perla around midday, bathed and then went out into the Plaza del Castillo. There was a buzz in the main square. Preparations for the bull running the next day were in full swing and spirits were flying high.

Finding myself in need of a drink, I entered the Cafe Iruña and ordered a vermouth. In the large ornate mirror, I saw a man with his back to me, spouting forth God knows what to a group of Americans. They were looking at him agog.

Hemingway.

Soon he turned away from his audience and came over to the bar where I stood. We reacquainted ourselves and began to drink refreshing brandies and soda. Soon after, his wife arrived behind a pair of large sunglasses. She joined us. The conversation jolted along its electric cable, jerking this way and that, interrupted frequently by admirers. It didn’t take long before I saw her mood darkening.

When Hemingway went to relieve himself, she grabbed my wrist and reopened negotiations. As he came back across the bar, she blurted, ‘Okay. One thousand,’ under her breath. We shook and the deal was done.

I ordered another round and went back to listening to him talking about his hunting trips. I say his. But really, they were hers, since she out-fished and out-shot him by some margin. But he was talking. And when he was talking, everything was his.

As the evening went along the drinks became stronger and more frequent. The conversation got louder. His wife kept catching my eye but things were getting blurry.

There was a brief hush throughout the bar when El Pito, the matador who was to perform in the Plaza de Toros the next afternoon, entered. Hemingway and the bullfighter exchanged a look. One celebrity bought the other a drink. I could see there was an understanding between the two.

The atmosphere in the bar tightened, along with the drinks.

Now the doors swung open again and Orson Welles and Charlie Chaplin barged their way into the bar, both roaring drunk. Hemingway immediately became belligerent and left in a fury, followed by El Pito. 

His wife grabbed my arm and pretty much dragged me out and up to my room. She told me later that Chaplin and Welles were also staying at La Perla. Hemingway wanted to be friends with them but they had scorned him by going off drinking together without him. Poor Ernest. He was a sensitive soul in the end.

 

The next morning, with a wink to me, she called her husband to smooth things over. She told him she had arranged a treat - that she had persuaded me (I don’t like to boast but I was pretty famous at that time too) to prepare his favourite dish in his room. He wanted to watch the bulls running in the street below from his balcony. And he would need sustenance before going down to test his mettle against them himself.

The kitchen kindly lent me what I needed - a sharp (oh, so very sharp) knife, a chopping board, a mixing bowl, a fork, salt and black pepper. Worcestershire sauce, tomato ketchup, Dijon mustard. A shallot, an egg and a three hundred gramme piece of bull entrecote.

I took the stuff up on a trolley and knocked on his door.

‘Brandy and soda?’ he asked, as a greeting.

‘Sure thing,’ I said. It wasn't really going to matter if I drank too much and screwed the dish up. He would be past caring and no one else would ever know.

He looked at his watch. Heat and noise from the street mingled together and blew in

through lace curtains. An hour till the bulls.

‘Plenty of time,’ he said.

Yep, I thought.

‘So, what have we got?’ he asked, handing me my drink.

I took a gulp and lifted the cloth from the entrecote. Ivory marbling crisscrossed the dark, hefty meat. He looked at it, smiled then scanned the other ingredients.

‘Tartare?’ he said, patting me on the back, his hairy forearm straining on the pretty cuff of his dress. ‘Goddammit, if that isn't my favourite. What are you waiting for?’

I took another gulp and began by cutting the flesh into thin slices. Then I cut the slices into strips. Turning the board, I cut the strips into little cubes. When it was all diced, I spent a few minutes chopping until it was nice and fine but still kept a little body.

I added the chopped shallot, a couple of splashes of the Lea & Perrins, a teaspoon of the Dijon and two of ketchup. Looking at him, I shook the tabasco over the meat. I was pleased to find he had the good sense to say stop before the tartare was ruined by his machismo.

I seasoned it and mixed it with the fork, almost whipping it. The heat and noise from below continued to rise. Sweat dripped from my brow.

I separated the egg and stirred in the yolk, whipping lightly again. I adjusted the seasoning and sauces and it was ready.

Hemingway offered me a sharpener. Neither of us needed it but I accepted anyway. I chinked glasses with him, looking him in the eye. I would be sorry to see him go. But needs must.

Taking a piece of melba toast left over from a previous job, I spread a good amount of the ruby mixture onto it and handed it to him. I studied him through my glass. His face radiated happiness. A good way to go.

He took another good forkful and then his ears pricked up. The bulls were coming. The commotion below in the street was unmistakable. The shouting bounced up the walls of the building. He drank down the last of his brandy, held out his glass for me to make another and went out onto the balcony. 

I put the glasses down and watched as he leaned over the railing, shouting along with the crowd, his dress billowing with the curtains. The hem was long and I would have plenty to work with.

He was yelling, looking up the street. I waited until the bulls were directly below and his head was pointing down. I stepped forward, crouched and grabbed the front hem of his dress from between his legs. He looked round at me, confused. But too late.

I yanked the hem towards me. Up and over the balcony he went. 

I stole a look over the edge. Just enough to see him impaled on the horn of a bull. The beast shook its head and hurled the great writer into the wall. I heard the splat over the din. His body smeared the stonework as it slid to the ground before being trampled by the crowd.

The fever pitch was so high in the street that no one had noticed.

Or so I thought.

Before I had time to pull my head back, I saw Chaplin and Welles raise their glasses to me from the balcony opposite. Then they went back to watching the bulls.

• Written in room 214 of La Perla Hotel, Pamplona whilst on a rest day from El Camino de Santiago

• Recipe with thanks from the Le Genépi, Courchevel, 2006