The last time I cooked for the son of a preacher man, he was sitting on death row awaiting execution the next day.
Why Billy Ray did what he did, no one knew and he refused to ever make any kind of statement as to his motives. But I’d known him all my life and was certain he would have had good reason for the killing.
He had everything going for him - handsome, intelligent, a sportsman, came from a good family apparently. Such a waste to throw it away. But there was no denying the cold blooded brutality of the murder, deserved or otherwise.
Because of his father’s standing in the local community and in the wider state, Billy Ray had been granted a last supper to be cooked for him by yours truly. I had spoken to him a couple of days before to finalise the menu. At least that’s what I told his jailers. I already knew what he would want for his Ultima Cena. It would be the same as he always wanted. A dish called frijoles that he had come across when he was travelling in Cuba. He told me it came from a restaurant in Havana’s barrio chino called Romesco, run by three Galicians.
He loved that restaurant. It was open till late into the night, was cheap and populated by drag queens, hookers, pimps, dope dealers, addicts and people like him. That’s what he told me anyway.
But back to the frijoles (that Google Dictate spells Fric toilets). You put together a plateful of white rice, black beans, ragu, a fried egg and a fried banana, then mash it all together with tabasco. Something about the combination of these everyday ingredients - the slippery, silky rubberiness of the egg white; its rich, velvet yolk; the sweet gooey texture of the fried banana with that tiny caramel crunch - take the dish elsewhere, towards heaven perhaps.
Maybe Billy Ray was thinking he could hitch a ride.
But like I say, I knew what he’d want for this cenaculo so I actually went to see him to ask if he had any last thing I could do for him. He looked at me, long and sad, those blue eyes glistening, even in the half light of his cell.
‘One thing,’ he said, and leaned forward to whisper in my ear. He smelled strong. Not bad as such, but strong. His dirty grey prison uniform, with its downward pointing arrows, needed a wash. He was calm but I could smell the fear. My eyes widened, and as he spoke the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
‘You’re sure?’ I asked. He nodded and I told him I’d try. I left then as I needed to get started on the black beans.
These I prepared in exactly the same way as the ones from a few weeks ago when I forgot to murder anyone. As they cooked, I sweated a lot of diced onion with garlic and ginger and coriander roots in a load of olive oil for a long time. I toasted cumin and a little coriander seed, blitzed it and added it along with some chili flakes. When this was sweated way way on down I added smoked pimenton. Then all of this went into the cooked beans and these into a low oven for three hours.
I cooked the rice and ragu the usual way, but given it was a special occasion I decided to do something a little bit wow (Spanish accent) with the fried egg. Whilst I shallow fried the banana until caramelly on both sides and soft through, I flicked through my Ferran Adria at the Supermarket. In it he says that what everybody wants in a fried egg is a soft yolk with a fully cooked, crisp bottomed white. He thinks the only way to achieve this is to deep fry one egg whilst gently frying another. You then cut the yolks out of each and place the soft yolk in the space where the inevitably over cooked yolk had been, et voilá, l’œuf parfait.
The meal was a necessarily sombre affair with both of us nervous about the next day’s big event. I did however manage to persuade the guard to let me smuggle in two tuxedos so at least we were decently presented.
He ate the food, thanked me and was taken back to his cell.
The next morning the gallery was packed, of course - people do like to see other people fry. Flash bulbs gave the glass execution cabin a sort of disco, no, concert-like effect. This was compounded when Billy Ray was led in, still in his tux. He was serene, the fear that he had been carrying the last couple of days had exhausted itself. He caught my eye and smiled, then searched the gallery. I knew what he was looking for, and that he would find it, I’d made sure of that. His eyes scanned the eager crowd, then lit up as they fixed on someone high up in the gods. I squinted but was at the wrong angle and could only make out the crutches, their dull metal glinting in the camera flashes. The room seemed to go silent then and time stopped whilst he stared. Finally, he nodded, smiled and blew the gentlest kiss.
The governor stepped forward and instructed the executioner to secure him to the chair. He turned side on so he could face both Billy Ray and the audience and began to read out the sentence.
‘Billy Ray Pasteur, son of a preacher man, you have been sentenced to death by electric chair for the murder of your father…’
From the far corner of the gallery, I heard his true love burst into tears.
Ragu?
But I wouldn’t say the animals were harmed, so much a slaughtered
And no animal was harmed.