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🍴 ( 009 ) Video
[Hannibal is seated at his desk, the camera balanced against something there: he is dressed in a tux, legs crossed, a glass of champagne in his hand. He sips it gracefully.]
Consider the ortolan.
[He smiles faintly, as if it's a joke he knows no one will realize.]
It was the practice of certain gourmets to eat these small birds for centuries. A rite of passage, of sorts, where one must hunt but not kill. Capture it alive and keep it so, for a time. It was best to blind the bird, placing it in a small cage filled with grain. Its reaction to the darkness is to gorge itself. If you were particularly thoughtful, you would add oats and figs to this diet as well. Once it had fattened itself, these gourmets would drown it in brandy - Armagnac, preferably. On high heat, roast it whole for six to eight minutes.
There is a tradition for consumption as well; of course there is. You would place a cloth over your head, to contain the aroma, to make it last, but also to hide your soon-to-be atrocity from God.
[He smiles again.]
Place the bird in your mouth, with only its beak escaping your lips. Bite down, and place the beak in your place. Chew slowly. Savor it. There is the sweetness of the flesh and fat, the brandy and the fig you have forced it to eat: this is God in all His wonder, from whom you must hide this act. I wonder if they tasted shame, too. Next there is the bitterness of untended innards, of organs uncleaned: this is the suffering of the Son, His blood on your tongue. It will soon be joined by your own, as your teeth crack hollow bones, as those bones slice your gums. Your blood, the sweetness, the bitterness - this is the Holy Spirit, and the Trinity come together in one mouth. A rite of passage, a mystery revealed.
It is terribly cruel. And terribly delicious.
[Spam for Ned]
[Shortly after his post, Hannibal heads for the pub sans champagne but still wearing his tux, and knocks at the door. He's already begun the set up, but there is one thing he still requires.]
[Open Gallery Spam on the Deck]
[Hannibal has been hard at work. With little to do between death tolls and less to occupy himself, he has been drawing. Mal was kind enough to supply him with tools enough for his art, though his pencils are never quite sharp enough without a scalpel to do the job. When he has finished, there is only one thing to do with his art.
Setting up takes time, but he goes as quickly as he can manage: Mal requested presentation dividers, which makes it feel just professional enough to satisfy Hannibal. The sketches and portraits are spaced out on the deck, providing plenty of room to walk around and observe. There is a small table near the pub entrance with glasses of champagne, and a very serious pie maker making certain that nobody does anything untoward to the champagne.
Hannibal himself can be found wandering through the little corridors he's made, observing his art on occasion but mostly observing those who have come to look.
It's opening night.]
(Hannibal is paraphrasing from Brendan Kiley's The Urban Hunt.)
Consider the ortolan.
[He smiles faintly, as if it's a joke he knows no one will realize.]
It was the practice of certain gourmets to eat these small birds for centuries. A rite of passage, of sorts, where one must hunt but not kill. Capture it alive and keep it so, for a time. It was best to blind the bird, placing it in a small cage filled with grain. Its reaction to the darkness is to gorge itself. If you were particularly thoughtful, you would add oats and figs to this diet as well. Once it had fattened itself, these gourmets would drown it in brandy - Armagnac, preferably. On high heat, roast it whole for six to eight minutes.
There is a tradition for consumption as well; of course there is. You would place a cloth over your head, to contain the aroma, to make it last, but also to hide your soon-to-be atrocity from God.
[He smiles again.]
Place the bird in your mouth, with only its beak escaping your lips. Bite down, and place the beak in your place. Chew slowly. Savor it. There is the sweetness of the flesh and fat, the brandy and the fig you have forced it to eat: this is God in all His wonder, from whom you must hide this act. I wonder if they tasted shame, too. Next there is the bitterness of untended innards, of organs uncleaned: this is the suffering of the Son, His blood on your tongue. It will soon be joined by your own, as your teeth crack hollow bones, as those bones slice your gums. Your blood, the sweetness, the bitterness - this is the Holy Spirit, and the Trinity come together in one mouth. A rite of passage, a mystery revealed.
It is terribly cruel. And terribly delicious.
[Spam for Ned]
[Shortly after his post, Hannibal heads for the pub sans champagne but still wearing his tux, and knocks at the door. He's already begun the set up, but there is one thing he still requires.]
[Open Gallery Spam on the Deck]
[Hannibal has been hard at work. With little to do between death tolls and less to occupy himself, he has been drawing. Mal was kind enough to supply him with tools enough for his art, though his pencils are never quite sharp enough without a scalpel to do the job. When he has finished, there is only one thing to do with his art.
Setting up takes time, but he goes as quickly as he can manage: Mal requested presentation dividers, which makes it feel just professional enough to satisfy Hannibal. The sketches and portraits are spaced out on the deck, providing plenty of room to walk around and observe. There is a small table near the pub entrance with glasses of champagne, and a very serious pie maker making certain that nobody does anything untoward to the champagne.
Hannibal himself can be found wandering through the little corridors he's made, observing his art on occasion but mostly observing those who have come to look.
It's opening night.]
(Hannibal is paraphrasing from Brendan Kiley's The Urban Hunt.)
no subject
At the knock, he glances once to his dog before standing up to open the door. Upon seeing who it is, his face doesn't fall, exactly, but there's a definite withdrawal of his immediate feelings. The Piemaker lets neutrality take over, where he can't be touched or hurt]
Dr. Lecter.
no subject
Ned. I have a small favor to ask, though I will understand if you are reluctant to hear it.
no subject
Does the favor involve hurting anyone?
'Hurt' from the way I define it. Not the way you define it.
no subject
I only ask that you provide champagne on the deck for anyone of age who may want it.
[Which delicately sidesteps the question: no, there will be no physical harm. He can't speak to the emotional reaction anyone might have.]
no subject
What's happening on deck that needs champagne?
no subject
[Which is a stretch at best, an outright lie at worst. Mal agreed to request the necessary materials for a showing, but he did not ask permission and she did not outright give it.]
no subject
[Hang on, the Piemaker needs to wrap his brain around this]
...I like your artwork infinitely better than your cooking.
no subject
I thought you might. If you want no part, I'll retrieve what little I have in my cabin. I only hoped to offer better than what I received at Christmas.
no subject
Don't do that.
I can bring champagne.
But I want to stay and make sure that it's not...tainted. By anyone. If it comes from the pub it's my responsibility to look after.
no subject
By all means. I would happily welcome your presence as a chaperone to the liquor.
no subject
Let me get a cart.
[He disappears inside the pub again, to gather a collection of champagne bottles from the back room.
Digby sticks with Hannibal, licking his hand]
no subject
Hannibal inclines his head and lets him go, crouching to give Digby some affection. It's still an act. This isn't Hannibal having a weakness for canine things. How best do you hurt a man like Ned? You take his dog away. He even had the foresight to bring a bit of breakfast sausage with him, rolled up in a handkerchief. Which he will use to wipe his hand once Digby has finished slobbering over it.]
no subject
Are there glasses upstairs?
no subject
I'm afraid I have none to supply.
no subject
Should this be enough?
no subject
Thank you, Ned.
no subject
[He begins wheeling the cart in the direction of the deck, after locking up the pub]
You look nice. I feel underdressed.
no subject
no subject
Which I can do upstairs.
Digby owns a cummerbund. I don't know where he got one, but he has one.
no subject
no subject
You don't worry you'll be overdressed? I wouldn't think many of us had occasion to go formal on the Barge.
no subject
[He loves a good gala, or performance, or dinner party.]
no subject
Which is why he stops in the middle of the hall to take off his apron, dust the flour from his hands, and comb his hair out with his fingers.
He continues on again]
I don't see it.
no subject
To each their own, I suppose.
no subject
Finally, he resolves to push forward, and does just that, entering the gallery and going to set up. He focuses entirely on the task in front of him and doesn't look around]