Rebel Food

By Rodwyn Arenze

Mino, the jade turtle, and his band of rebels are in an epic struggle against evil chefs who want to dominate the world through controlling recipes, dictating menus and catering for the creepy tastes of the elite.
They embark on an action-filled adventure in eighteen-century Paris, helping ingredients mutiny to cries of Vive la Ingrédient! Vive la Liberté! Vive la Révolution!
Can they undo the curse of Le Clock Cuisine as they pit their brawn, wits and magic against the combined forces and machinations of the Great Caréme and the Dark Chef?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rodwyn Arenze
• Release date: Aug 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370950140

Book preview

Rebel Food

By Rodwyn Arenze

Copyright 2016 Rodwyn Arenze

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Le Clock Cuisine

Chapter 2 - Dolfy

Chapter 3 - Nidavellir and the Holy Ear

Chapter 4 - Scoyote and the Grand Central Recipe Cavern

Chapter 5 - Chefs' Jamboree

Chapter 6 - Royal Midnight Feast

Chapter 7 - Barcelos' Conundrum and the Lord of the Drinks

Chapter 8 - Caréme and the Great Gatsby

Chapter 1 - Le Clock Cuisine

In the best part of eighteenth-century Paris, in the kitchen of a fine culinary establishment catering exclusively for creepy tastes of the elite, a jade turtle was held captive. In the eerie glow of candles burning upside-down, behind the iron bars of the ingredient holding cell, emerald eyes flickered from the steaming copper cauldron over the fire in the hearth, to the white Chef’s hat holding a meat cleaver aloft with an invisible hand – ready to chop.

Tilting back, the Chef’s hat stared at a lantern-lit picture of a sage on the wall. Paying homage, the Chef’s hat bowed in deference to the immortal words inscribed in the picture;

‘Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirais qui tu es.

Tell me what you eat, I will tell you who you are.’

Hovering over a screeching green on an altar block, the cleaver chopped, and tossed the sacrificial cubes into the waiting cauldron.

‘Escape now, before it‘s my turn,’ the turtle thought.

Emerald eyes followed the Chef’s hat to the alien shelves displaying live ingredients.

Vegetables, desperate to not be selected by the inspecting Chef’s hat, rushed across the top shell. A nut-run is underway on the second shelf; walnuts and pistachios mixed with poppy and hemp seeds puffed away in a high-induced dash-fall to the other side. Chili peppers, ginger, rosemary and garlic performed on the third shelf, knowing this could be their last show, as they stared at the kitchen audience - the Chef’s hat. Walking dead on the bottom shelf were Skubankys - a small potato tribe from the fields of Czechovania, and a staple ingredient for many dishes - on their third forced march of the day. At nerves end, trying to avoid the kitchen curse by not looking at the silently calling clock.

Those at the bottom, the potatoes, are from my village. A chiseled potato draped in sauce, in a cell next to the turtle, announced. My name is Skubanky. Sputtering through the herbs and spices, What’s yours?"

Mino, the turtle replied.

Mino?

Yes. Mino. Minogame.

What are you? Skubanky asked.

A dragon turtle.

A what?

A dragon turtle!

Reading Mino’s questioning gaze, Skubanky explained, They’re experimenting with me, as he nodded to the Chef’s hat. I was dipped - marinated, then blew bubbles with the sauce dripping from his forehead. To stop me from rubbing it, they shackled my hands and feet - want the seasoning to seep through my skin. I heard them say, ‘It will add exotic flavor - taste like the East.’ I can feel the tinkling under my skin already. When I speak, I smell spices on my breath, coming from the inside.

Fried Skubanky is a popular snack, the potato lamented. Can you imagine, your skin peeled, added to a dish and eaten alive? A favorite is to skin the Skubanky, dip him in spices, and dip-fry him. He becomes a zombie-like morsel, alive with no free will, a dulchy. The only way to save a dulchy, is to ‘re-skin’ him. This involves stripping the crispy outer layer of the skin, which is unbearably painful for the dulchy because the skin melts with the nerves. After stripping, the skin transplant starts. For this, a new potato skin is needed. This is where it gets complicated - depending on what skin is available, the condition of the skin, and how the skin was removed. Sometimes, the skin transfers memories of the original skin owner to a new Skubanky. Then, you have a seriously confused potato - with comical and tragic consequences.

Mino, transfixed by the babbling potato, turned to face the Chef’s hat pointing the cleaver at a potato on the shelf. Kitchen minions; thorns with spikey stiff ends, and shape-shifting jelly blobs, collected the shrieking potato.

Freakies and púcas, Skubanky identifies the thorns and blobs. They’re scavengers, eat left overs, do kitchen errands and whatever their master, the chef, orders. Freakies pin you down with their thorns, so the chef can cut, scalp and sculpt.

Turning, to Mino, I can’t watch this, Skubanky said, I left the fields, formed a band, ‘Spud and the 2 Red Chili Peppers,’ in a nearby village. We toured the fields, markets and garden patches surrounding the villages and towns of Czechovania - enjoying food, wine, song and merriment.

What happened? Asked Mino.

I was hoodwinked and captured by a wizard who cast a spell on me. He triple distills the blood of Skubankys, to make the finest Vodka in all of Russia. He traded with a visiting chef and exchanged me for rare roots. Traded me! A Skubanky! For a carrot! Can you believe it? Anyway. What does it matter? I escaped ending up a drink, only to die a meal. That’s life. Mind you, I think, I would prefer my last moments to have been a sweet lullaby in drunken stupor, to the torturous seasoning and suffocating fumes of a spicy new dish.

What are you?" Skubanky asked again, examining Mino with a frown.

I’ve seen turtles before, but you’re different.

Your shell is green

Jade, Mino replied.

Your skin is a golden color

Pure gold, Mino affirmed.

Emerald eyes, dragon ears and a tail that’s also gold.

Yes. Golden seaweed.

I’ve heard rumors of a sacred turtle soup dish, but I’m not certain if it’s true. Tunnel stories foretell the shell of a jade turtle glows, tells the future and is a portal to a spirit world. Like a trumpet, it can be blown - to summon creatures from the unseen, who beget the commands of the trumpeter. Flesh of the jade turtle possesses magical qualities, giving eternal youth to the one who eats it. And its tail can be used to make a golden fan-wand that wards off evil spells, bad omens and curses! Is it true?

Mino’s eyes glowed, agitated at Skubanky, I don’t know. I’ve never been eaten before! shifting his focus to a wooden door next to their cells.

Skubanky followed his gaze, Chef’s door.

Mino frowned questioningly, prompting Skubanky, There’s a door in the kitchen of every great chef in Paris that only the chef can enter. Behind that door, lies many a secret. Usually, there’s a staircase leading underground to a ‘Dark farm’ - ingredient penitentiary. ‘The pen’ to those who survive it, ex-pens - where ingredients from the dungeons, hatcheries, and laboratories are brought, to be prepared for dispatch to ingredient holding cells and display units of kitchens of chefs in the area.

From his right, Mino felt the overlord-like presence of a mysterious chalet cuckoo-clock mounted on the wall across the Chef’s door.

That clock’s alive, Skubanky whispered. ’Le Clock Cuisine’ - when it strikes the hour, it’s time to eat and be eaten. Wary of what might happen, Skubanky cautioned, Don’t stare at it, it’ll talk to you, and you’ll start having visions of your life, a few days into the future.

Why’s that bad?

"I heard from Skubankys who survived the shelf-run a few times, a talking clock reveals your last days. Skubankys to whom the clock spoke, told of ‘seeing’ what they would do the next few days, and did exactly that; then wound up in a dish.

When the clock strikes the hour, a door at the front of the clock opens and a miniature chef presenting a dish, steps from inside the clock. Soon thereafter, all ingredients of that dish would succumb in the kitchen.

That clock is evil, and haunts every ingredient. I know of so many ingredients, babies and adults, who have nightmares about clocks. There’re even instances of ingredients dying of heart attacks when they see an ordinary clock! Ingredients have stopped wearing watches, and in many places, clocks have been banned. It is really messing up individual lives, wreaking havoc in families and communities. We are losing track of time and soon the ingredients would have lost any, and all sense of time – if that happens, we’re doomed. Life will lose all meaning and ingredients will be in a timeless abyss – rich pickings for the chefs who have to keep cooking and feeding at all, and different times of the day and night."

Preparing a giant clam brought from Cook Islands, a freaky and a púca pinned down and de-shelled the mollusk on a firefly-lit chopping board, before the chef’s apron and meat crusher tenderized the clam meat, and threw it into the steaming cauldron on the fire.

Mino yo-yo-ed, emerald eyes moved from the cauldron to the Chef’s hat and cleaver chopping fresh greens and onions for the cauldron. Then turned to Skubanky, we must do it now.

I have an idea. Come closer, Skubanky replied.

Mino moved against the iron bars and Skubanky spelled out his plan.

Mino positioned his back against the bars and reached with his seaweed tail into Skubanky’s cell. He could