The Chef (26 page)

The drink tasted – funny. It was not particularly easy to drink, the swimming carpet of tiny Campari balls was slippery, either you had to slurp the things down or catch them with pursed
lips. Makeda let out her infectious laugh and, to amuse her, Dalmann rather exaggerated his efforts.

Playing this game he had soon emptied his glass, and he asked, ‘Do you think one might get a
supplément
of this?’

Makeda did not understand this word, and so he explained, ‘Do you think I could have another one?’

She rang the temple bell.

Maravan was in the middle of preparing the
amuse-bouches
. When he opened the bottle with the curry leaf, cinnamon and coconut oil essence and drizzled a few drops onto the tiny
rice-flour chapattis, the aroma of his childhood filled his nostrils once again. And Ulagu’s childhood, which had ended so soon.

He did something he had never done before. He put one of the chapattis in his mouth, closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the flavour unfolding between tongue and palate.

Andrea, who was scowling by the door, waiting for the bell to ring, was watching him. ‘I thought you’d made exactly the right number.’

Maravan opened his eyes, chewed, swallowed and replied, ‘There’ll be enough.’

The bell rang out from the first floor. Andrea grabbed the plate of chapattis and took them up the stairs.

She returned to the kitchen with a tray carrying the empty cocktail glass. ‘He wants another one of those.’

Maravan mixed a second.

Dalmann enjoyed the two consistencies of urad lentil ribbons, as well as the frozen saffron and almond foam and its textures. Then Makeda came running down the stairs, ringing
the temple bell loudly all the while.

‘He’s dying,’ she said and ran back up. Maravan and Andrea followed her.

Dalmann was lying on the Indian cushions and cloths. His right hand was clutching at his chest. In the candlelight his white face had a wet sheen. His eyes were wide open in terror and he was
gasping for air.

Makeda, Andrea and Maravan watched the scene from a distance. Nobody made a move to go any closer; each of them was deep in their thoughts.

Dalmann seemed to want to say something, but his struggle for air and life prevented him from doing so. At times it looked as if he was giving up; he closed his eyes and hardly breathed at all.
But then he would rear up again and struggle on.

‘We should call somebody,’ Andrea said.

‘Yes, we should,’ Makeda agreed.

‘144,’ Maravan added.

But not one of them moved.

When the emergency services arrived, Andrea and Maravan had already gone, taking with them everything that could be linked to Love Food. Makeda had rung 144 and waited for the
ambulance.

All the emergency doctor could do was confirm the patient was dead. The autopsy revealed that the stent, which had been inserted eight months previously, following his first heart attack, had
become blocked, despite the fact he had been taking Aspirin Cardio and Plavix. In the doctor’s opinion this unfortunate development was a result of the deceased’s reckless
lifestyle.

This was corroborated by the statement given by the Ethiopian-British national Makeda F., who had cooked for the deceased that evening. And also by the level of alcohol in his blood.

Hermann Schaeffer organized a suitable funeral for Eric Dalmann, which fewer mourners attended than expected. And he made sure there was a nice obituary in
Freitag
.

The other papers settled for a short announcement. Nonetheless, the name Palucron and Dalmann’s connection to this firm had not yet cropped up.

On the Scilly Isles the daffodils are already in bloom in November. And now, in April, they were still in small clumps in the grass, which looked like an English lawn.

Andrea and Makeda had booked into a bed and breakfast for a fortnight. Every day they went walking on a narrow path along the coast, beside which the cliffs wallowed in the surf like sluggish,
primeval creatures.

‘Do you want to know why I didn’t help Dalmann?’ Andrea asked out of the blue. Until now they had avoided the subject.

‘You wanted him to die.’

Andrea nodded. ‘I was so jealous.’

Makeda put an arm around her shoulder and pulled Andrea towards her.

They continued walking for a while like this, until the path became too narrow and they had to let go of each other. Andrea went in front.

Suddenly she heard Makeda’s voice behind her: ‘He was supposed to have fucked himself to death.’

Andrea stopped and turned around. ‘I thought he wasn’t able to any more.’

‘I’d planned on slipping him an erection pill.’

‘How?’

‘I’d asked Maravan to put it in his food.’

Andrea looked at her wide-eyed. ‘So you wanted to kill him?’

Makeda nodded. ‘As a representative of all those others like him.’

Andrea sat down on the soft grass beside the path. Her pale face had become even paler. ‘I bet that stuff caused his heart attack.’

Makeda sat next to her and smiled. ‘Definitely not. Maravan didn’t mix it into the food.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘He gave me back the pills. Very discreetly that evening.’

‘Thank God!’

They sat there for a while, looking out at the sea warmed by the Gulf Stream, and the clouds gathering in the west.

‘Maybe there is a higher justice after all,’ Andrea said thoughtfully.

‘Absolutely,’ Makeda replied.

On a platter were mango halves and pineapple boats. He had separated the mango halves very close to the core, cut diamond shapes in their dark-yellow flesh and turned them
inside out. The tender flesh of the fruit now looked like a shell of sharp-edged cubes.

He had left the stiff, decorative leaves on the pineapple boats. With a sharp knife he had cut away the softest and sweetest part of the flesh from the scaly skin and sliced it straight across.
This left small blocks of pineapple, which he pushed alternately to the right and left across the boat. Neither preparation was original, but they looked pretty and could be eaten by hand.

Maravan was in his own kitchen. It was early morning; it looked like rain – a cold, grey day. The dustcart had noisily emptied the bins. Once again an uncanny silence descended on the
block of flats in Theodorstrasse. It had been quiet ever since the day when the Sri Lankan government had announced the defeat of the LTTE. Journalists, independent observers and aid organizations
were refused entry to the war zones. There were no reliable news reports. Only rumours. Terrible rumours about 10,000 civilians killed, people starving or suffering from an epidemic, about war
crimes on both sides. Those with relatives in these areas waited apprehensively for news or signs of life; those who had heard good news did not dare celebrate, out of respect for those who had
heard bad. And everybody was burdened by the uncertainty of what the future had in store – for the people in Sri Lanka and those here.

Once again, however, other events ensured the drama was kept off the front pages. The top news story affected everybody. There had been an outbreak of swine flu in Mexico and the world was
gripped by the fear of a pandemic like the one which had raged after the First World War, claiming millions of lives.

The evening before, Maravan had made a thick batter of rice flour, coconut milk, sugar and a little yeast, and allowed it to ferment overnight. Half an hour ago he had added some salt and baking
powder. Now it was time to coat the small, hot, semi-circular iron pan with a little coconut oil.

He put it back on the heat, dropped in two dessertspoons of batter, took the pan by its handle from the cooker and let its contents run to form a layer at either side. He cracked open an egg and
poured it into the middle of the batter. Then he returned the pan to a low flame and covered it. Three minutes later the edges of the hopper were brown and the egg was cooked through. He kept the
egg hopper warm in the oven and started making the next one.

When he brought the tray with the aromatic hoppers, coconut chutney, tea and fruit into the bedroom it was still dark.

But Sandana’s voice sounded clear and awake when she said, ‘So, when are you going to cook
me
a love menu?’

‘Never.’

Maravan’s recipes are partly inspired by Heiko Antoniewicz’s wonderful cookbook
Verwegen kochen: Molekulare Techniken und Texturen
(Matthaes Verlag). In
the following collection of recipes, Antoniewicz has simplified the preparation and, where we thought necessary, allowed the dishes to be made with less elaborate kitchen equipment. The amounts
specified for the
Love Menu
recipes are for a ten-course meal for two people. Those for the
Promotional Menu
are for four people.

Mini chapattis with essence of curry leaf, cardamom and coconut oil

Work the flour and water by hand into a very smooth dough, kneading for about 8 minutes. Cover the dough with a muslin cloth and leave to rest for 1 hour. With floured hands
make marble-sized balls of dough. Sprinkle a work surface with a little flour, flatten the dough balls and roll them into thin rounds. Just before serving, dry fry them on both sides in a hot
cast-iron pan until brown.

Essence of curry leaf, cardamom and coconut oil

Put all the ingredients for about 1 hour in a rotary evaporator at 55ºC. For the essence you can use either the distillate from the upper flask or the concentrate from
the lower one. Maravan mixes the two. Drip the essence onto the chapattis using a pipette.

Urad lentil ribbons in two consistencies

Leave the lentils to soak in the sugared milk for at least 6 hours. Blend to a fine paste. Spread half of this onto a baking sheet, cut lengthways into strips, and dry in the
oven at 50ºC. Remove from baking sheet while still warm and twist into the desired shape.

Mix the other half of the paste with agar agar and heat to 90ºC. Stir in the yoghurt, then also spread thinly onto a baking sheet. Leave to cool and cut into strips of the same
width as the others. Intertwine with the dried spirals before serving.

Ladies’ fingers curry on sali rice with garlic foam

Wash the okra and leave to dry or pat with kitchen paper. Cut into 3cm pieces. In a saucepan mix the okra, chilli, onion and all the spices thoroughly. Add the water and cook
until almost all the liquid has evaporated. Stir and add the coconut milk. Cook for a further 3 minutes. Reduce the liquid on a low heat.

Sali rice

Briefly pan fry the rice and add the water. Cover and leave to cook for about 20 minutes in the oven at 160ºC. Remove from oven and immediately break up the rice with a
wooden spatula so that it doesn’t stick. Put into a form and keep warm. When needed, remove from the form and place the curry on top.

Garlic foam

Blend the stock finely with the other ingredients and pass through a sieve. Combine with the soya lecithin, season and whisk. Cover a large bowl with some clingfilm to prevent
splashing, and under this whisk up the foam, working in plenty of air. Leave to settle for a while. Using a slotted spoon remove the foam and arrange as desired.

P
oussin curry on sashtika rice with coriander foam

Finely grind the coriander and cumin seeds, pepper and chillies. Simmer the poussin, onion, fenugreek seeds, turmeric, garlic and salt in 300ml water, covered. Dissolve the
ground spice mixture and tamarind in 100ml water and add, together with the curry leaves and coconut milk. Bring to the boil, simmer for 2 minutes and remove from the heat.