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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
Should this be enough?
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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.
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Which I can do upstairs.
Digby owns a cummerbund. I don't know where he got one, but he has one.
no subject
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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]