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The Gourmet Pierre Courbertin was restless and more than a little annoyed. He was waiting for Majboot Singh and he was also beginning to feel hungry, and while he hardly liked to be kept waiting, he had a far greater aversion to hunger. Men like him were not meant to feel hungry. Hunger was a degrading experience, a debasing, humiliating fact of life that was the destiny of the poor and downtrodden, the under-nourished masses, the toilers and the sweatycollared. It was a close relative of overwork and malnutrition, poverty and exploitation, a constant companion of cheerless lives that looked forward to nothing as eagerly as the blessed release of death. It was not something that was to be felt by the idle rich of the world. But he could feel the onset of the first pangs of hunger now, and it was decidedly unsettling. Courbertin was of the wealthy upper classes that have more money than they know what to do with. In sorting out his life priorities, after he had inherited the family business of global shipping, aircraft manufacture and the chain of Export-Import Houses that ran themselves under professional management, he had decided that he would devote the rest of his life to exploringnot the higher reaches of financebut the highest realms of gastronomic experience. Since that day, he lived but to eat selectively, eat exclusively, eat luxuriouslyeat like few men before him had ever eaten. He had tried all the gustatory avenues available to the sybarite; none of the hedonistic solutions to ennui had appealed to him more than the intensely personal pleasure of sampling exceptionally good non-vegetarian food. An outstanding dish, well cooked and served, had the power to arouse him spiritually, to inspire him to a passionate contemplation of lifes immeasurable bounties. His predilectionsand his insatiable appetite for gustatory adventureshad taken him far beyond the traditional eating-places of the rich, where each item on a menu could feed a poor family for a year, dishes that cost a kings ransom and yet left him ever more dissatisfied. His awesome wealth, his encyclopedic knowledge of the worlds cuisines and his unwavering food fixation had made him one of the most famous gourmets of all time, a lover of extreme cuisine for whom larks tongues in honey were pedestrian stuff. His opinions carried weight, and his observations could make or mar the reputation of many a Cordon Blu chef. A good dinner was to him as meditation was to a monk: it stimulated his inner person and gave him a glimpse of Higher Possibilities. He roamed far from well-trodden paths, discarding the usual continental conurbations such as Paris, Vienna and London and traveling to distant lands, sometimes enduring unconscionable hardships in search of more and yet ever more exotic dishes to tantalize his taste buds. To satisfy his craving for novel cooking had become as an obsession with him.

He was humanas he grudgingly admitted to himself in rare moments of introspection that he allowed to happen in the secret recesses of his mind and he knew that such fanatical pursuit of culinary delights was somehow as corrupting as the honest hunger of the underprivileged, but he hastily swept his misgivings under whatever table he was dining at and concentrated on testing his palate against the worlds rarest dishes. His obsession had taken him to Alaska for the Artic Char, Salmon, and King crabs the Inuit peoples lived off; he had tried Reindeer and evenduring a brief famineeaten wolf meat. He had devoured the steaming brains of Liontailed Macaques, spooning it out of the skulls after they had been boiled in brine and their bony crowns had been neatly sliced off with a machete to expose the oyster-like contents. He had feasted on Llama stew, broiled Andean Condor, roasted Canada goose, minced Kodiak bear, Puma pies, juicy Lion steaks, Koala cutlets, Kangaroo kabobs, parboiled Pandas, Dugong sausages, sweet and sour Anaconda in mushroom sauce, Vampire bats stuffed with apple dumplings and boiled in maple syrup, filleted Piranha fried in butter, and even Platypus patties. He would have tried Yeti if he could lay his hands on a specimen. He had made many discoveries in the process of sampling African Bush meat from Okapi sirloin to grilled gazelle liverbut he leaned earnestly towards Bushmaster fillets fried in raw olive oil, undeterred by the fact that the snake was one of the most venomous reptiles in the world. He had tasted of Ostrich, Aardvark, Baboon, Mandrill, Opossum, Crocodile, Rhinoceros, Hippopotamus, Black Mamba, Wildebeest, Zebra, Wart Hog, Gorilla, Chimpanzee and Giraffe, to name but a few. At some time or the other, the meat of hundreds of the worlds fauna had lined his stomach. Now it all seemed to be coming together; an answer lurked somewhere within his subconscious, the answer to the Final Question: What was the Best Meal in the World? Secretly, and to his utter surprise, he found himself leaning ever closer towards the flesh of the primates. But he wasnt sure enough to make a pronouncement just yet. It always seemed as if the very next dish could hold the answer. Yet for all his fame as a titillator of taste buds, no one in his right mind could have accused Courbertin of gluttony. He was not a dainty nibbler, as was the gourmet of myth, but he was not a gormandizer, either. He was the epitome of the accomplished epicure. He ate heartily and wellhis well-rounded form was walking testimony to thatbut to compare him with the over-indulgent patricians of Rome in its final years of decline, who had built vomitoriums to facilitate their passion for incessant gorging, would have been have been an act of gross injustice. He was too rich to be greedy; a little too fanatical in his quest, perhaps, but his innocent enthusiasm saved him from decadence. He felt appetite was elevating (as opposed to hunger, which was humiliating), and he saw nothing excessive in pursuing its fulfilment. A keen appetite, he

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felt, was something to be proud ofit was a sign of good mental and physical healthespecially when summoned up over a dish cooked to perfection. It sharpened the anticipation, whetted the mind, and goaded the taste buds into delivering a fair verdict. Le bon appetit instigated by the aroma of good food was like the Code Napoleon: it promoted impartiality even as it presumed that the defendant was guilty until proven innocent. No dish, lovingly prepared to perfection by an inspired cook, ever failed to be exonerated of all charges. On rare occasions, encomiums and eulogies accompanied the verdict. The proclamations of Pierre Courbertinscathing or generouswent straight into the food columns of international cuisine magazines, and were more sought-after than knighthoods by restaurateurs. Yet, for all his fascination with fastidious fooding, Courbertin was a shy sybarite, a man who chose to approach the table in as much anonymity as was possible for one of the earths leading connoisseurs. * So as he waited for Majboot Singh in the foyer of the posh hotel in New Delhi, his presence failed to elicit little more than the occasional curious glance. He recalled with keen anticipationas he pulled back his cuff to peek discreetly at his Rolexhow the burly sardarji with the huge turquoise ring on his little finger (little was a misnomer, if ever there was one, thought Courbertin: the said finger was the size of a decent frankfurter, and well-suited to the turquoise that was the size of a pigeons egg) had promised him the adventure to end all adventures. Courbertin had met Majboot Singh at a reception given by the King of Morocco in the Htel de Paradiso, in Paris. The large, bearded, and turbaned Indian towered above the crowd like a Punjabi Paul Bunyan. They introduced themselves as they sat down next to each other. It turned out that Singh was an exporter of Indian handicrafts, a business that took him all over the world. Like all his opportunistic and extroverted clansmen, he was fond of the good things of life, for sardarjis are the earthiest of the earths earthy. They never allow their minds to soar to empyrean heights, even if such a feat were at all possible. One can hardly rely on them for intellectual prowess, but they are uncommonly useful to have on ones side when it comes to a mix-up at a dock-front bar. Firmly rooted to the soil, they see little need to over-exercise their mental muscles, endowed as they are with hearty appetites and exceptional physiques. Its hardly surprising that although theres no such thing as a sardarji philosopher, there is no dearth of sardarji sofa-fillers. They are unabashed hedonists, and Majboots refreshing candour appealed to the retiring Frenchman, who began to take a lively interest in his companions remarks on the courses as they came and went. When he had done with checking out the women at the table (all the time twirling his moustache appreciatively), the Sikh turned to the subject of his other pet fascinationthe menu. The Frenchman was pleasantly surprised to find that despite his rough-hewn exterior, the brawny man from the Punjab was a true-

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blue epicure, a man who knew the foods (and, it must be confessed, the strong spirits) of the world. Majboot Singh was one-up on Courbertin in that he had tried Fuguand lived to tell the tale of its delicate, orange-scented flavour. It is never possible to predict with any degree of certainty the toxicity or otherwise of a Fugu, a fish found in Japanese waters and reputed to be the tastiest in the world. It can also turn out to be the most toxic. No Fugu eater really knows, as he puts the first morsel in his mouth, whether he will bite into ecstasy or eternity. Why, just last year, chow-savvy Lee Kew Chen, the uncrowned king of the Fugu eaters, had keeled over at a fashionable restaurant in Hong Kong and died in convulsions within seconds of ingesting his first mouthful of Fugu. It had been his twenty-second encounter, and his last. Majboot Singh had survived to tell the tale of his first (andhe was determinedhis final) foray into the ranks of the Fugu worshippers. He intended to live long and eat wisely, if too well. Not for him the dramatic gamble of going at Fugu one time too many, the gastronomical equivalent of Russian roulette. Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, the celebrated French gastronome of an earlier century, had described gastronomy as the intelligent knowledge of whatever concerns man's nourishment. Majboot called it the intelligent mans way to nourishing entertainment. Once was quite enough, even for the self-indulgent sardarji. Courbertin had journeyed all the way to dusty Delhi because Majboot had promised him the ultimate epicurean experience. He would never have taken the promise seriously had it come from anyone else, but the knowledgeable Indian was another matter. A month later, after receiving the all clear from Delhi, Courbertin had flown down to meet Majboot and take him up on his promise. Lurking at the back of the Indians offer was the hint of a business deal, but Courbertin didnt mind. It went with the territory, this culinary courtship for commercial considerations. It took him all over the globe. If it meant he got to partake of Olympian fare as well, all the better. The true gourmet is always a realist. He knows there is no such thing as a free lunch. There are always strings attached. The titanic bulk of the sardarji lumbered into the foyer. Courbertin saw that he was clad in T-shirt and jeans. The casual dress accentuated his enormous frame. His huge paunch sagged over the fashionably wide leather belt, and his brawny arms bulged with muscle. A massive chest balanced an equally wide, muscular back. Legs like tree trunks did extreme things to the jeans he wore, a size 56 at least. Courbertin felt enervated by the waves of energy and power that emanated from the man. He reminded the Frenchman of prime beef on the hoof. Courbertin himself was but of medium height, well fleshed out to be sure but

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somewhat the worse for wear (at fifty-one) and prone to sciatica. He could hardly be described as being in the prime of life, especially when juxtaposed with the vital and ebullient Indian who was striding delightedly towards him, grinning fiercely from behind the profusion of whiskers that obscured most of his face. They shook hands enthusiastically and set off immediately, but not before Majboot made a sheepish confession. He had never sampled the slated dish, either. But he had it on the word of a good friend that, on certain days in the year, the restaurant in question served Mutton Mahakarma, the rarest and tastiest delicacy in the world. It was always a supper event, and today being one of the appointed days, they were merely going to reconnoitre the eatery and make their advance payment and reservations for a table at eight tonight. Seated in the poorly sprung and noisy auto-rickshaw alongside Majboot, hanging on for dear life to the grab rail, Courbertin wondered what hed let himself in for this time. He had weathered many hardships in his quest for the best of the worlds cuisines, but this one was near the top of the list. The din and confusion of Delhis chaotic traffic belaboured his eardrums. Malodorous vapors tortured his olfactory system, and his eyes watered at the noxious fumes from auto engines. The sardarji, to his envy, seemed quite immune to the provocation around him. Blissfully unaware of the acute distress of his companion, he urged the auto driver to greater speed with taps on his shoulders, shouting directions over the bedlam in his native Punjabi tongue. The auto twisted and gyrated violently through some of the narrowest lanes Courbertin had ever negotiated in a vehicle, till it finally stopped before a small, faceless single-storied structure squeezed between two taller buildings from whose balconies young ladies, in various (and garish) shades of makeup and matching attire, waved uninhibitedly to the two men who alighted from the three-wheeler. The Frenchmans heart sank within his breast even as his burgeoning appetite expired in the squalid surroundings. As his eyes gradually adjusted to the dim lighting of the interior, however, Courbertins misgivings abated. A limited number of small, well spaced-out dining tables, covered with plain white tablecloths, waited patiently to seat two to four diners each. The interior of the restaurant was lavish enough to be called opulent. The lighting was tasteful: diffused, yet somehow focused in some obscure way as to enable the scanty photons of light to congeal in puddles of discreet illumination around the tables. The faint aroma of good cooking lingered in the air. The deep carpeting, the scenes of bygone feasts that adorned the walls, the dcor from an earlier age of kings and conquerors who filled their huge palaces with the choicest things of the earthall served to enhance the ambience. The silent approval of a satisfied clientele seemed to hover benignly over the room.

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Courbertin returned to the present. A small, oily-looking man had emerged from the gloomy recesses behind the managers cabin to enquire as to their business. Majboot lapsed into rapid-fire Hindi that made no sense to Courbertin. The unctuous one seemed to be in a state of complete denial, with Majboot just as forcefully insistent, alternately twirling his moustache and rubbing the gigantic turquoise on his little finger, as if for inspiration. A thick wad of currency notes was seen to change hands. At this juncture, the sebaceous one conceded defeat, and asked Majboot to follow him inside. Courbertin had seen it all before, in the Orient: vociferous denial of available reservations, followed by exchange of money, followed by seemingly reluctant acceptance, as if a favour had been granted. A table was reserved for them for eight that evening. Mutton Mahakarma was on the bill of fare. They emerged into the bright sunshine, blinking their watering eyes. The suffocating heat, the dust, the awful smells and the pandemonium hit the European like a sledgehammer. Courbertin rubbed his temples. He had seen his appetite vanish, then revive in the inviting interior they had just left. Now he saw it depart again as suddenly as it had been resurrected, leaving in its wake a dull throbbing at the temples. The strain had proved too much for his nervous system. He needed to lie down and rest in the cool, friendly darkness of his hotel room. The massive Indian, made in Punjab and therefore far more durable, appeared totally unfazed. He saw the stricken Frenchman off at the rickshaw stand, promising to pick him up at seven-fifteen that evening from the hotel. Strong as an ox and bursting with the juices and vitality of ten, waving energetically in the hot sun, he stood there like some vast outcropping of nourishment in a sea of squalid deprivation. Courbertin felt tired just looking at the beefy expanse of him. So incongruous was the sardarjis sanguinary bulk in the midst of grinding poverty and naked starvation that Courbertin wonderedas his three-wheeled vehicle bore him swiftly homewardshow many million acre-feet of lush grass had gone into the raising of the prime cattle that had thereafter featured in the assembly of the redoubtable Sardar Majboot Singh. * Majboot Singh sent an elaborate note of apology stating that he had been called away to attend to a sudden crisis at his home in Amritsar, so Pierre Courbertin had to be content to dine alone. He flew home the next evening to retreat behind a silence so comprehensive that even the editors of food magazines couldnt penetrate it. France wondered. It was unthinkable that their leading expert on what Paris was (well, almost was) all about should shun his fellow men in so churlish a fashion. Courbertin failed to respond to the outcry. It was as if he was preoccupied with something meatier than mere victuals. The more spiteful among his

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critics speculated whetherafter consuming the tongues of so many of Gods creaturesthe cat had finally managed to get his tongue. Even as the Good Living columnists and Talk Show hosts failed to entice him out of his selfimposed hibernation, the rumour mills were busy churning out theories to explain the foppish Frenchmans inexplicable behaviour. Had he become a Buddhist? Could his over-strained palate have succumbed to the ravages of some mysterious malady? Did he have carcinoma of the colon? No one knew what had occasioned this abrupt makeover. Members of his faithful inner circle, however, were firmly of the opinion that the gourmet had found his Holy Grail and, having done so, had decided to call it a day, gastronomically speaking. Courbertin never issued any explanation, nor did he ever emerge into the public eye again till his death, a year after his visit to India. Then his valet sold his diary to Paris Matchand the incredible truth was at last revealed. Courbertin had turned vegetarian after his return from India. Who could ever have guessed that he did so simply because he foundat the bottom of a bowl of the fabled preparation that went by the name of Mutton Mahakarmaan artifact as inconsequential as a turquoise ring? ~*~