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As Hannibal dipped his pen into the blood of the public defender he had just decapitated, the doctor wondered how best to phrase his inquiry. In a neat cursive, he wrote: You are cordially invited–no. It was trite, unimpressive. He pulled out a new sheet of paper and tried again. Dear Chef Ramsey–no, no. Too personal. And did Ramsay have an “a” or an “e?” A quick Google search proved the chef’s name was in the category of Sean and Geoff—unnecessarily confusing. Hannibal sighed softly and marveled at how sensual his exhales of breath were, even when he wasn’t trying to seduce anyone. He would have to keep that under control when Gordon visited. That is, if he visited.
Hannibal sucked on the pen as he wondered how to compose the invitation. The lawyer’s blood tasted rich and inspiring and a little bit spicy–had he been eating Mexican food when Hannibal killed him? Hannibal shook his head. He needed to concentrate if Gordon was ever going to get this invitation, and Gordon visiting was of utmost importance.
The doctor wanted to conduct an experiment, and Chef Ramsay was the best candidate he could think of. Over the years, Hannibal had fed many a person to many an other person, passing them off as lamb or rabbit or duck. Sometimes he even made up a French-sounding word just to see if anyone would question him, but no one ever did. No matter how accomplished in music or science or police detective work his guests were, none noticed that his steak tasted exactly like his chicken. Which was why Hannibal needed someone with a more experienced palate to taste his food; someone like Chef Ramsay. He would be the perfect test subject for Hannibal’s experiment, and he was scheduled to be in Baltimore for a few days shooting an episode of Kitchen Nightmares. The timing was perfect, as Hannibal had murdered a whole rhumba of traveling salesmen the week before. Just thinking about their scrawny calves marinating in the fridge got Hannibal salivating. With renewed inspiration, Hannibal began to write the perfect invitation.
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Exactly one week later, Chef Gordon Ramsay knocked on the door of Hannibal’s impressive abode. He was exhausted from a day of shooting with the most incompetent restauranteurs he had ever met, and slightly wary of this mysterious Hannibal Lecter’s invitation. Of course, Ramsay had looked up the man to make sure he wasn’t a crazy serial killer, and was impressed by what he found. A surgeon-turned-psychiatrist, who was also a rather charitable philanthropist; also apparently quite well known in the area for his extravagant dinner parties. With this information in mind, Ramsay accepted the invitation with mild interest.
The door swung open to reveal a man in an exquisite suit and very little eyebrow. “Chef Ramsay, I am Dr. Lecter. So pleased you could join me.”
Ramsay shook the man’s hand and stepped inside. “Thank you for your invitation. I must say, I feel a little underdressed.”
Hannibal laughed as he led Ramsay into a dark dining room. “Not at all. You must forgive my suit; I’m afraid I enjoy my own vanity far too much.” Hannibal examined Ramsay’s jeans and button-down from the corner of his eye; the shirt, with the hint of flannel at the sleeves, reminded him of something Will would wear. Hannibal was liking this Ramsay character more and more.
“So what’s for dinner?” Ramsay asked.
“I’ve prepared a loin served with a Cumberland sauce of fruits,” Hannibal said, pulling out Ramsay’s chair for him. “But first, I thought we’d try some wine. I have a 1990 Chateau Latour Pauillac for us to taste.”
“And to think, I was going to show up here with a bottle of cheap Rosé,” Ramsay said as Hannibal poured the dark liquid into his glass. “I must say, I’m already impressed.”
Hannibal sat down and lifted his glass. “A toast. To good company and hopefully, good food.” He brought the glass to his nose and sniffed.
Ramsay took a small sip of the wine. “That’s lovely,” he said, looking up at Hannibal. But Hannibal did not respond. His eyes were closed, and he had the wine to his lips. He looked as if he were listening to the alcohol sing him a very sad, very quiet sea shanty. Ramsay self-consciously took another sip of his own wine. A few more seconds passed and Ramsay looked up again, only to see that Hannibal was in the same position.
After seven minutes, Hannibal let out a surprisingly seductive sigh and opened his eyes. “A beautiful wine. Now, are we ready for some dinner?”
Ramsay nodded, mystified by the intense bout of wine tasting he had just witnessed. However, the incident was soon forgotten when a beautifully prepared plate was set in front of him.
As Hannibal poured the red sauce on top of the meat, Ramsay let out an appreciative murmur. “Now this, this is how food is meant to be served. Not covered in cheese and tomato sauce and who knows what else. Simple and elegant.”
Hannibal smiled. “I’m glad you appreciate my presentation. I can only hope the taste meets your standards.”
Ramsay started to cut the meat. “Loin, you said. What kind of loin?”
A slight pause. “Pork.” Already Ramsay was proving more attentive than Hannibal was used to; most of his guests would not have thought to ask that much of what he served them.
Hannibal watched with anticipation as Ramsay put the first bite of loin into his mouth. Ramsay chewed slowly and looked slightly perturbed. He put another bite into his mouth.
Not wanting to look suspicious, Hannibal carefully cut a morsel of the salesman and placed it on his tongue. He chewed slowly, savoring that juicy human flavor. He remembered this man well–-he had insisted that Hannibal leave a name and number after failing to sell him a set of encyclopedias. Rude and outdated. Like a pair of Gauchos in 2013, he just had to go. Hannibal could almost taste those meaty salesman parts in his mouth as he slammed the door in his face. Not before getting a business card, of course.
Ramsay broke Hannibal’s reverie. “You said this is pork?” He asked, pointing to the slices of meat with his fork.
“Yes, pork. Locally raised, and I use an ethical butcher–”
“–this isn’t pork.” Ramsay interrupted Hannibal.
Hannibal quickly turned his smile into a look of confusion. “Not pork? I assure you it is, Mr. Ramsay.”
“It’s Chef Ramsay, and I know meat. This isn’t like anything I’ve tasted before. Is it some sort of synthetic meat? Soy-based?”
Hannibal chuckled, “No, Chef Ramsay, I assure you that meat is not soy-based.”
“So what is it? Rabbit?”
Hannibal set down his fork and knife and smiled at Ramsay across the table. “No, not rabbit.”
“Some sort of deer?”
“No, no.”
“An unusual poultry?”
“No.”
Ramsay cursed under his breath. “What is it then? Something endangered?”
“No, there are far too many of these around.”
“Cat? Dog?”
Hannibal chuckled. “No.”
“Something exotic, then. Llama? Camel?”
“No.”
Ramsay was starting to sweat. This meat was so unsettling–and Ramsay had eaten many strange animals.
“Peacock?”
“No.”
“Emu?”
“No, not any winged creature.”
“So what, guinea pig? Rat?”
“Much too small, Chef.”
Ramsay was almost yelling now. “Lion?”
“No.”
“Tiger.”
“No. Not bear, either.”
“So what is it, then? It’s not bloody pork, and don’t you dare tell me this is chicken.”
“I would not dare insult you that way.” Hannibal was grinning; he couldn’t help it. He had to dab his eye with his paisley pocket square as he teared up.
“What the fuck is this? Goat? Bloody silk worm?”
“No, no.”
“Then what the fuck am I eating, Dr. Lecter?”
Hannibal managed to stop grinning, forcing himself to revert back to his cool demeanor. He took another sip of wine and smiled lovingly at the deceased salesman on his plate. After a pause, he looked up at Ramsay, who had a panicked look similar to that of a public defender about to be brutally murdered.
“I must say, Chef Ramsay. You are being rather rude.”
Ramsay scoffed. “You’re bing rather fucking suspicious.”
“Though I enjoy your commentary, I think this is the end of our dinner party tonight. I do look forward to having a chef of your distinction for dinner soon, however.”
Hannibal stood up and began approaching Chef Ramsay, who in turn began backing away.
“What are you talking about?”
“What I mean to say, Chef, is that I enjoy your taste buds, and I think I will enjoy them even more tomorrow night. A Tongue en Papillote, perhaps?”
“That’s it, I’m leaving,” Ramsay said, backing quickly towards the door.
Hannibal smiled and pulled out a chef’s knife from within his suit jacket. “But you see, Chef Ramsay, that isn’t really your decision to make.”
FINÉ