The last time I cooked for Henry Kissinger we were in a B-52 over Vietnam. We were en route to dropping our payload onto a group of unsuspecting villages just inside Cambodia. I knew he would need sustenance to yank that lever, so what better than a rock lobster suquet? The Catalan fish stew was always a winner.
Holding onto the bomb release lever to steady himself, Kissinger sat crouched on a stool, looking at the landscape below through the gaping bay doors. He cut an odd figure crouched there - astrakhan collar on his trademark overcoat turned up, flaps on his fur hat pulled down and wearing aviator goggles to secure his glasses. I wondered what he saw through those glasses of his. Were they dots to him, much as they were to Harry Lime in the aftermath of the Second World War? And whilst the villagers probably couldn’t see us, they would be able to hear us. Unused to the sound of any but the most rudimentary motors, they may well have wondered what was causing the infernal buzz that droned above them. They would soon find out.
The noise inside the enormous aircraft was close to deafening. A howling gale swirled about the body of the plane, sucked in through the wide open bay doors. Thank God I had remembered my induction hob. No way could I have used gas.
We were on the first of many planned missions into Cambodia. Close to four thousand actually. It would take time to let loose half a billion tonnes of bombs. Two to three missions a day for four years, letting loose a hundred and seventy tonnes per mission, to be more or less precise.
The good doctor's reasons for bombing Cambodia were obscure. Perhaps whilst seeking guidance on how to overcome the Vietcong, he misinterpreted the scriptures? Maybe, tired as he must have been, late one night he misread love thy neighbour for bomb their neighbours? Whatever his reasons, it was doubtful the bombardment would do much to end the Vietnam War. On the upside, the spreading of so much natural compost would create fertile ground in which the Khmer Rouge could flourish several years later.
But ours not to reason why. These things are best left to great men.
And I needed to get the food ready for him and the two other passengers we had on board.
One of them had the worst teeth I had ever seen. Truly appalling, though not surprising, given the quantity of tequila and cigarettes he was getting through. Each cigarette was clamped between his lips and removed only to light the next one with the stub of the former, or to gulp at the bottle. He somehow also managed to scribble away in a notebook with a pencil stub, no bigger than the stub of one of his endless cigarettes.
I wondered if the second passenger, a photographer, was here to give me an unscripted screen test. But then every time I saw a camera I wondered that.
I needed to stop my musings and get on.
The sofrito of onions, green pepper, tomatoes, garlic and parsley in copious olive oil that I had started an hour earlier was ready, so I took the lobster from the tank. I did this clumsily and hoped no one would notice how much water slopped onto the floor. A slip hazard without question.
I stuck a knife into the top of the lobster’s head to kill it, then pulled the head from its body. I removed the digestive tract from the meat, scooped out the corral and creamy insides of the head and put the head in some water to boil.
I scrambled the corral and goo up together then stirred it into the sofrito. I chopped the body into pieces and added them, coating them well. I couldn't resist adding some brandy (for which the scribbler kindly offered to strike a match but then necked the remains) and then a gurgle of wine.
I strained some of the water from the boiled head into the pan and shook it. I tasted it for salt, tossed some parsley through it and ladled out a bowlful.
I leant over to the fuselage wall and flicked the chain that secured the stool off the hook.
‘Doctor,’ I shouted, offering him the bowl, ‘Your stew is ready.’
In order to reach it he had to let go of the lever. Sadly, I chose that exact moment to kick the stool from under him and out he went, sans suquet. Alas, he would not receive the Nobel Peace prize for his role in negotiating the end of the Vietnam war.
The drunken writer came forward to take a look but slipped on the water and fell through the opening. Next, the photographer rushed up to snap the moment but, misjudging the force of the rushing air, was sucked as well.
Oh dear, I said, digging in.
Pithy and cutting and a recipe too. I'll pass this onto Emma at Lockdown Lobsters xx
I love the smell of lobster in the morning...