The main portion of our meal now past, my hosts turned to face the spirit of their ancestor. He had regarded our feast with a stoic quietude. I could see his eyes flitting from one table setting the next and afterward I learned from my bunk-mate that he had been assessing how will each dish had been prepared based on sight alone. Such was his culinary aptitude!
A silence washed over the room as the spirit began to speak. He told the kindred assembled that he had been feted over twoscore times since his remains were burned in this room. And in all that time there had not been a single meal that had measured to his standard. Many had come close, but none were equal.
Until now, that is. The spirit’s brow quivered almost imperceptibly. His voice very slightly quavered as he extolled the virtue of each dish that had been presented that evening. All that remained was to close the meal with the customary tart made from egg custard and topped with vverm. The anticipation of the gathered diners was palpable as the tart was brought to the table. All members of the assembled kin waited to hear their ancestor’s final judgment, and potentially his permanent departure from the mortal plane.
The tart was set on the table, and the heavy copper cloche was removed from it. The faintest upturn of the ancestor’s lip was judgment enough. A cry went up among the kin at that end of the table, which was taken up by all of my hosts. The pie was without flaw.
What transpired the rest of that evening was almost beyond recollection, for we drank so much in celebration of the perfect feast that my head still aches at the memory of it. But my heart also swells when I recall that solemn event, and my stomach still growls when I think about my feast among the dead.
