kidneys

another one from Pomiane. And more proof, were it needed, that I’m really not very good at being vegan.

I’d gone to the organic meat-stall at the market at Lausitzer Platz to pick up a joint of lamb to roast for the Lion-Tamer and the Ethnologe, who’d said that he wanted to try mint sauce (the lamb doesn’t really merit a post in its own right: I marinated it overnight, roasted it till was nicely cooked on the outside but still very pink in the middle, then let it rest for 20 minutes while I crisped up the potatoes and parsnips (in some goose-fat that was leftover from the Lion-Tamer’s dinner party a couple of nights before), and served with steamed courgettes and leeks, mint sauce and gravy made by adding flour and then the liquid from the vegetables to the roasting dish, over a gentle heat). While at the market, I noticed that they had beef kidneys available, at the entirely tolerable price of €6 a kilo. I bought half a kilo, and put them in the freezer for a rainy day.

That evening, Josef Swoboda came over for a drink. At some point over a beer we pondered whether we were going to cook anything. I mentioned the kidneys, and my intention to do them roughly according to a Pomiane-recipe to which my maternal grandfather had introduced me, involving butter, brandy, mushrooms and cream. We didn’t have any mushrooms in the house, but that was rectifiable as Josef had some at home. But our brandy-supply had been exhausted the previous day, so that put paid to that idea, for that evening, at least, and we feasted on toast and Leberwurst instead.

But Josef was keen to try the recipe. So a couple of days later, after I’d bought mushrooms and replenished the brandy-supply, he came over. I’d boiled some potatoes, intending to prurée them with a bit of milk and some butter, made a salad, and sliced the mushrooms thinly. We were all ready to start, so I went to get the butter from the fridge, to discover we’d run out. Fortunately, the shop round the corner was still open, so that was rectifiable.

Josef suggested that what would really improve the potatoes would be some Speck and onions. So we chopped them finely, rendered the fat from the former, then crisped them together, before stirring them into the potatoes with a little milk and a lot of butter.

So we set to work preparing the kidneys. Pomiane’s recipe begins

Get the butcher, if he is amiable, to cut the kidney into pieces the size of a walnut.

This didn’t seem a particularly reasonable thing to request of the organic meat-vendor at the market, particularly since the kidneys were already packaged. So we set about cutting them up ourselves, removing the white parts, of which I know neither the culinary nor the biological name. Neither of us being experts in this task, it took a fair while. Josef said he hoped that the smell of piss would disappear in the cooking. I didn’t quite feel able to reassure him, but did promise that the combination of brandy, cream and mustard would change it beyond recognition.

In a frying pan, we brought the butter to smoking-point, then added the kidney-pieces, cooked until they had all turned beige. Then turned the heat up and added the mushrooms, which promptly – and as promised by Pomiane – exuded a lot of liquid, which took about five minutes to evaporate. In went a generous glass of the cheapest brandy I’d been able to find at the discount supermarket. At this point I quote the master:

Add the cognac, stir, and taste. The raw flavour of the cognac spoils the sauce. Let it cook for another minute. Now it is better. Two more minutes, and it is delicious.

He wasn’t wrong. We stirred in about 100ml of cream, mixed with a teaspoon of dijon mustard, cooked for a few more seconds, and served, with the potatoes and salad. And a bottle of red wine.

Josef was pleased with the result. The obnoxious smell of piss had given way to what might be termed a fine tang of faintly-scented urine, which when combined with the brandy, the cream and the mustard was sumptuous. The texture of the mushrooms complemented the kidney-pieces perfectly, and there was just enough to go round. The Lion-Tamer and the Ethnologe were equally well-pleased; the Lion sat on a chair, apparently none too pleased that he was deprived of attention for the time it took us to eat. Which wasn’t long at all.

Memories of New York 1

I’d spent the day on a bus back to NYC from Ithaca, where I’d been at a conference that refreshingly was both engaged and engaging, where papers were discussed as if what was at stake mattered. Mostly because it did, to the bunch of graduate students who were there if not to anyone else.

Then I met up with the Loft-Dweller, a cutie, queer boy (his choice of words) based in Brooklyn. We’d met online, where he had possibly the most attractive profile I’ve ever read. Setting out his commitment to non-monogamy, but including a wonderful paragraph setting out his aversion to such words as ‘poly’ and ‘polyamorous’ on the grounds that they bring to mind pagan Star Treck fans who hang around at the Society for Creative Anachronism. Suffice it to say that he isn’t one.

Plus the obligatory references to feminist and anti-authoritarian politics, and some amusing ideas for inventions born of his personal malingering. Such as vitamin-fortified cigarettes and a back-dated postal service for late applications and bill-payments.

He suggested we meet at a converted fast food place in Flatbush: it used to be a White Castle (which is apparently the US’s oldest food chain of burger bars) and was taken over by Rastafarians who converted it into a place serving almost entirely vegan (they also sell bee-products) West Indian-style ersatz meat, and a fantastic range of juices.

We got there around six, ordered what turned out to be far more food than we could eat, and started chatting. About the usual topics: anti-authoritarian politics and the dangers of obsessive newspaper-vendors (the ISO may have been thrown out of the IST, but they’re apparently no less pushy than their British former co-thinkers), radical tech collectives, militant cycling. He was feeling ill from a party the previous night, at which a combination of mojitos and dodgy food hadn’t seem to have done him a great deal of good, but was relaxed and chatty enough.

After what felt like maybe three quarters of an hour, we were told that we had to leave, as the restaurant was closing. It turned out we’d been there for about five hours, talking about things we both found interesting. It hadn’t been particularly flirty (admittedly, during the couple of weeks I spent in New York it seemed that being cute and having a British accent rendered flirting unnecessary), just (just?) friendly and interesting.

We left, taking about half the food we’d ordered in a doggy bag (the portions are huge), and walked in the direction of the subway station. As we got there, I was conscious that I had no idea what was going to happen, or if he had any sort of plan. So I asked:

Well, is there a plan?
Well, the Sewer said to bring you home.

So that settled that. Apparently, he’d been about to use the same line if I hadn’t asked. And deeply romantically, he explained that the aftermath of his previous night would probably mean he had to take some not-so-romantic breaks.

We took the subway back to the Sewer’s place in Crown Heights. Which from Flatbush, lateish on a Sunday involved what seemed to necessitate a relatively complicated route. We continued chatting about queer politics and alternative sex-parties while waiting for the various trains we needed. On one of them he seemed to recognise someone. Rather, he did recognise someone, but I couldn’t quite work out what was going on. As we got onto the train, he walked purposively towards an youngish (early 20s, I guess), attractive-looking woman, and said ‘you’re Heather Holliday’. She nodded. The Loft-Dweller went and sat elsewhere. I mumbled something to Heather about how nice it was not to have met her, and followed my date to a seat.

It turns out that she is a sword-swallower at the Coney Island freakshow, and that the Sewer had a substantial crush on her. I suggested inviting her back with us, but she’d got off the train before we’d summoned up the courage to do anything about it.

We got to the Sewer’s place, scrambled about in the dark to put our take-away rice, noodles and fake meat in the fridge, then while he rushed off to the loo to tend to his stomach, I found my way upstairs to find her doubly occupied with updating various online profiles and tidying her room. The Loft-Dweller contritely explained what had happened on the train, and we were mildly berated for not having taken the initiative. Apparently, the fact that I have a British accent would have guaranteed our success, to the extent that the Loft-Dweller suggested that we go out cruising together so he could hit on people with the line ‘will you sleep with me? he’s got a British accent.’ It might be fun trying.

We smoked some weed, laughed and chatted about online dating, kink, sex and life in general. And then, without any semblance of a rush, started fucking. He and I were kissing, slowly, gently, stroking our tongues across each other, playfully nibbling each other’s lips. Meanwhile,he stroked her face, as she manoeuvred herself into a position where we could all kiss together, which we did, working our way out of our clothes as we did so. I enjoyed the way our tongues and teeth combined, never certain of what was a reaction to what, enjoying the unpredictability of feeling three mouths together.

He had to excuse himself again. She and I fucked, her lying flat on her back, knees bent considerably, me more in front of her than on top. He returned and looked on happily, kissing and nibbling her right nipple as we moved together. We came together. I don’t know which of us set the other off, but we enjoyed a lot of grins as we did. The three of us relaxed together, her lying on her back in the middle of the bed in what she called the princess-position, with one of us on either side, on our sides, our outside legs meeting between her still-bent knees.

We kissed some more. Then he and I started kissing her nipples. Apparently she can come from having her nipples played with. But not, so I was told, when she couldn’t bring her legs together. At which point, the lovely scene consisting of the Loft-Dweller and me, kissing the Sewer’s nipples, our feet stroking each other between her legs, morphed into the Sewer, writhing as we kissed her, trying to extricate her legs from under ours. We smiled and chatted as we kissed her. Then relented, and she came again, noisily.

Someone rolled another joint. I took the Loft-Dweller’s cock in my mouth, sitting on the floor in front of the bed as he sat up, stroking his inner thigh while I licked him. They leaned back and started chatting. Eventually I discovered that joining in a conversation with a mouthful of cock was more difficult than it was worth, and joined them on the bed. We chatted a bit more, then slept, grateful that the bed was wide enough for three.

The following morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, them to go and work, me to head to MOMA. He and I took the subway onto Manhatten, gently kissing goodbye as he left the train, agreeing to meet later in the week.