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"In all unimportant matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential. In all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential."
Oscar Wilde
Crystal Prawns w Smoked Ricepaper & Coriander Vichyssoise
Prawns. Peel the center away. Devein and seal in vacuum bag. Poach at 55 degrees for 10 minutes.
Ricepaper. Place in smoker with charcoal accent for 2 minutes. Ready with warm water to rehydrate.
Coriander Vichyssoise. Refer to Vichyssoise recipe 56 on page 391. To finish, add puree of coriander and blend till smooth.
Spoon the soup onto the middle of a high hat. Place the prawns on the edge, heads poking out from the cavity. Rehydrate the ricepaper and quickly drain off excess water before placing it over the dish.
Top with yuzu shards, coriander powder, micro coriander and prawn bisque gelee*.
* Refer to garnishes on page 773.
postpunkneonoir
The door is a solid block of black, smooth Corian. It slides open and you’re at the reception. A quaint little stand that’s been burnt black holds a bowl of flowers. There’s a big, black, hollow picture frame surrounding it and the top right has an RGB sidebar of little colored squares. A single, loose lightbulb hangs like it’s almost going to drop off the decrepit ceiling, with its paint peeling. Closer inspection reveals that it’s really raw concrete that has some metal paint flaking loose. A little bit drops onto the suited shoulder of a robot standing to your left, whom you now notice. A semi circular ring which you presume to be the visual receptor breathes red and comes to life just as the sparkly metal flakes dissipate in an ethereal shower. “Välkomnande min herre , vi har blitt väntande du. Tillåta jag till utställning du till din bord.” chirps the maitre’d, who has a laser etched numeral on it’s breast pocket. 1. The translation module you have loaded reads the Swedish flawlessly and you nod. You follow slowly behind as 1 starts away mechanically. Your gaze averted by the myriad objects that adorn the room. The ceiling is low and seemingly composed of metal waves painted in a dark charcoal. A gigantic chandelier hangs down in the middle, such that it almost touches the floor. It’s a strange structure made of flourescent tubes that appears random and messy. It’s excessive brightness is tempered by 3 plinths of black, milky glass that diffuse the radiance. There’s more raw concrete on the walls. One wall is etched like a Japanese stone garden whilst the others are perfectly smooth. Some black and white pictures hang slightly unbalanced from the smooth walls. One graphic keeps swirling the more you look. Another seems to bend the light around it. The floor is a plush burgundy carpet that appears bright crimson with the one step, black the next and then vermillion, switching simultaneously and at will. A light fog envelops the place, which is relatively quiet, save for the odd clink of a glass or cutlery against porcelain. You notice a mild incense, smoky and mysterious that pervades the atmosphere. You breathe in and feel almost too relaxed. You suddenly bump into 1 who has stopped dead in its tracks. Your chest cushioned against the cushy suit fabric. “Your table, sir”, a robotic arm extends toward a booth hidden with the same milky black glass as before. It’s one of several that line the 2 sides of the room, with the now distant glow of the chandelier fading away in the middle. A glass panel unsheathes upwards, revealing a small circular, white streaked marble top with a pyramid base. On either flank, 2 chairs are propped. Each one appearing like the bones of a pterodactyl were recast in white aluminium and topped with a white cushion. You plump down on one whilst your partner faces you. 1 departs and the glass panel closes, leaving the two of you in complete privacy. A warm light fades in, apparently from nowhere. Everything becomes clear as day and you wonder if you’ve suddenly stepped into another world. A faint blue light streaks out from the marble. It contracts and expands, reforming into a full color graphic of the menu. You scroll around with your fingers and pull the ones out that interest you. Crystal prawns with smoked ricepaper and coriander vichysoisse. Sumac crusted lamb fillets with strawberries and kohlrabi. A dessert plinthe of gaseous chocolate trapped within balloons flavored with thyme will finish things up nicely. Some Riesling to start, then the Pinot Noir and a coffee to finish. But before that a breath of pure oxygen enhances your sensors before a shot of absinthe warms the cockles. You chat about the conference from the morning earlier. The department is struggling to reach the numbers set at the previous meeting. You’re tense and worried. Suddenly, the ceiling gives way and 2 plates descend in the gentlest motion, supported by the air cushion that lowers them. It’s beautiful. You reach out to the table and a knife and fork form perfectly and come up just as your fingers reach the surface. Your palate is revived and you forget the tribulations of the day. The meal ends as quietly as it started, though the memory of the dishes still lurk at the depths. 1 reappears and presents you with a cards. It’s a miniature hologram display of photos taken whilst you ate. The recipes are printed as well and you can easily upload that at home. You lift a flap and notice some thin, transparent wafers. You take one and bring it into the light before placing it on the tongue. Spearmint with pomelo on the finish. You feel refreshed but fulfilled. You step out on the street. It’s raining. On the opposite side, a man hunches beside a lamppost. The light from it delineating the black of his trenchcoat from the darkness of the street. He flicks a cigarette on the floor and reaches for his inside pocket. A puff of smoke burrows its way towards the midnight sky. Then a hazy flash followed by a loud crack of distortion. You clutch at your chest and feel the blood oozing as you collapse, the last thing you hear are the anguished screams from your partner and the hurried footsteps of your assailant. There wasn’t much you could do. That’s the way it is in Sector 52.
