"Chris Lawson - Unborn Again" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawson Chris)

Chris Lawson - Unborn Again

Take lamb's brains fresh from the butcher's block and soak them in icy
water. Starting from the underside, peel off all the arteries under
running water, add lemon and salt, and boil in water. Once boiled, dry the
brains, quarter them, and marinate them for ten minutes. Serve them with
steamed custard and Tabasco sauce.
The delicacy of the dish is exquisite, and I can easily digest two
portions. Eating is more than a necessity; sometimes it is a pleasure; now
it is a duty.
The brains slide down like oysters. I love the texture and the tang of the
sauce. The pinot noir is a touch dry, but not enough to tarnish the flavor
of the brains. Good wine is virtually unaffordable in Hong Kong nowadays.
The marinade is an old family secret, but I don't want it to die with me,
so here it is: ginger, spring onion, rice wine, sesame oil, and oyster
sauce. And my own variation: a dash of pituitary extract.

"In here." The nurse shows the way into the room. The walls are antiseptic
white. The bed is made with clinical precision. Sitting in a chair is the
room's sole occupant: a woman in her mid-forties who rocks and drools like
a demented centenarian.
"Ignore it," says the nurse. "She always does that when a visitor comes.
She's perfectly able to hold one end of a conversation during the day. She
only becomes confused at night."
Stepping into the room is a small man in a brown suit. His tie is knotted
too tightly, and the purple paisley teardrops clash with the khaki suit so
gratingly that his colleagues have been known to grind their teeth down to
the gums. His hair has somehow defied the short cut and fallen into
disarray.
"She has Alzheimer's?" the brown-suited man asks the nurse.
"Something like that," the nurse says. "If you need anything, just hit the
buzzer there."
The nurse leaves, and the brown-suited man finds himself standing,
briefcase in hand, in front of this woman. Her face and skin look young,
but she sways in time as she hums an unrecognizable tune.
"Dr. Dejerine? I'm from the customs department."
Dejerine smacks her lips and fixes the visitor with an unfriendly stare.
"You look like a cheap detective."
"I suppose I am. My name is Gerald Numis."
"I won't remember that, you know. Not by tomorrow."
Numis nods. "I'll give you a business card. How's your long-term memory?"
"Better than my short-term memory, I'm disappointed to say. I didn't
expect it to be this way. I can quote verbatim the monograph I wrote
twenty years ago."
"What was it?"
"It's called Utilitarian Neurology." Dejerine looks at Numis as if that
should mean something.
"What's it about?"
Dejerine laughs. "I don't know. Maybe, if you're interested, you could
look it up and then you can tell me what it means."