This month, I’ve been presenting examples of global fiction—concerning Nigeria, Egypt, Afghanistan—as well as exploring the philosophical and practical challenges that come with writing it. These pieces have brought a lot to the table, in my opinion, but not too many laughs. Is there a role for humor in global fiction? For example, what might happen if you put WWII, Hitler and FDR’s Cordon Bleu-trained personal chefs, and jalapeno poppers together? Something along the lines of this epistolary story by humorist Tyler Stoddard Smith:
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WAR IS A DISH BEST SERVED HAUTE
3 Feb 1943
Mein Wyatt,
What a predicament we find ourselves in! I am of course confident that the Reich will prevail, but it looks as if your countrymen have actually come to fight. You strafed us last week in Wilhelmshaven—in broad daylight. I always said you and your volk had a lot of moxie. I recall the spit-roasted Arles grotto pork loin with wild fennel, lacinato kale, and farro with fresh garlic and onions followed by a lemon Pavlova with blood oranges you arranged for our Cordon Bleu mid-term—such daring! Kale in October? Inconceivable!
Well, friend. I wish you and your country of grouchy playboys good luck. I have just received news that we have surrendered at Stalingrad. The Führer-for whom I am now sole executive chef—must be in bad spirits. Perhaps a crêpes Cosette with candied tangerine ice cream to brighten his mood? I would have said that a nice steelhead salad with macerated shallots, avocado, and kiwi vinaigrette might do the job, but it turns out Herr “Tons of Fun” is a vegetarian. Minister of Internal Affairs Goering would enjoy it, but at the moment, I’m steamed at him. A little cluster of his homophobic stormtroopers snuck in the kitchen the other day and stole all the shallots. Cowards.
We’ve come a long way since Paris, Wyatt. Je suis fier de nous deux. We’ve really made it.
Congratulations again on your promotion.
Best,
Erich
P.S. There are murmurs of sending me to Tunisia to whip up something for Gen. Rommel. What do you think? Wild boar risotto with watercress jus? Me too.
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March 2, 1943
Erich, damn it’s good to hear from you. The last time we swapped epistles, you Jerrys were pulling out of the Caucasus and I was a mere sous chef for Secretary of Commerce Jones. What a ludicrous trade that was, peeling onions for garden-variety beef stew. Word travels fast. I have in fact been promoted to executive presidential chef. Look at us! Who told you? Giancarlo? Probably. He’s such a gossip. The knave can cook a grilled farm squab with chanterelles like nobody’s business, but asking me where the Americans were going to swing around the Kasserine Pass? Come off it, Giancarlo. Mussolini is working him too hard. But remember during summer vacation in Ibiza when we got drunk and dulled his knives? Ha! Good times, good people.
The new job is stressful, but rewarding. I’m getting to try new creations and I think my spit-roasted duck with sweet and sour roux put FDR in my corner. He says you’ll be withdrawing from Tunisia any day now. Look at the bright side—you won’t have to go all the way to Africa. I find moving my equipment terribly disorienting. You know I like for everything to have its place. Oh, and yes. Your lobster risotto would have been ideal. Perhaps you should unsheathe it at that potluck at the Reichstag I’ve been hearing about. You’ll blow them all away.
I’ll tell you one thing in confidence, though. The first lady, Eleanor, is a royal pain. She tries to tell me what to do in the kitchen. She’s clueless. When I made a sautéed striped bass with green onions and black olive vinaigrette for the State dinner, she told me “Don’t you think a little lemon wedges might be nice?” No, I don’t, I thought. But I caved and the final arrangement looked like Carmen Miranda on amphetamines. Well, mein freund, great to hear from you as always, and good luck with Kharkov. That moustache on Stalin—it’s almost as bad as your guy’s.
Sincerely,
Wyatt
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8 April 1943
Ah, Wyatt. You’re too kind. The lobster risotto was a smashing success. The Führer was ecstatic (of course, I had to tell him the lobster bits were artichoke hearts). Sounds like that first lady really has you in a tough spot. The Führer pals around with this Eva Braun, and if she ever told me how to go about my business, I’d laugh in her face behind her back.
Thanks for the vote of confidence on Kharkov. We took it back on 15 March, allaying some fears in the ranks here that we were really starting to crumble. I, of course, make no mention of anything either way. There was a brief celebration for the U-boat captains for sinking merchant ships in the North Atlantic last Friday. I made a Brittany-style fisherman’s stew with halibut, leeks, and potatoes; farm quail farçie with pork and spinach, with juniper berry sauce and sautéed zucchini followed by Muscat ice cream. Those boys were really pleased. As I’m sure you imagined, I had to concoct a kind of Caprese gyro for the Fuhrer. Oh, and yes, Giancarlo did in fact tell me about your promotion. I think he is having a nervous breakdown. He called and asked me if I remembered how to poach a crouton the other day.
It does look like you and the Brits are gaining a pretty solid hold on Africa. I’m sure you heard but we withdrew toward Enfidaville while you all linked up. Kudos, colleague! I never really wanted to go to Africa, anyway. Seems hot down there and you know me, old alabaster Erich—I burn so easily.
Well, friend. I’m off for now. It’s been a long day and I’m really in the mood to treat myself to honey nougat ice cream profiteroles with strawberry coulis. Take care and let the best team win!
Yours, Erich
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July 23rd 1943
Erich, how goes it? I apologize for this ellipsis in correspondence. As I’m sure you’re also familiar, the war has got me busy as the proverbial bee. It’s nothing personal.
Remember that time (when was it, second semester first year?) that you unveiled the Sardinian style lamb shoulder braised with olives and saffron with your homemade fregola pasta? I was thinking about that the other day when we bombed Rome. I have to tell you, I went back to my apartment and literally wept at your talent that day. I’d like to think I’ve begun, at least to some extent, to rival your genius, but be sure, you still wear the culinary crown. If that Führer of yours would come around to meat, I’m sure you’d be more appreciated. Are they treating you well?
I guess the Brits will be bombing Hamburg soon, July 24th. I know you’re from there and I’d hate to see anything happen to your family. As you can imagine, the bombing is apparently classified (I overheard FDR and Secretary of War Stimson discussing it when I brought them an afternoon snack of Alsatian-style sauerkraut braised with Riesling, cured pork shoulder, two kinds of sausage, and smoked bacon.) I figure this letter won’t even arrive to Berlin by mid-August anyway, so what’s the big deal?
Shame to hear about Giancarlo. You can’t say we didn’t see this coming. After the war, perhaps you and I should institute an intervention. You know, take the poor boy to Normandy or somewhere in South America for some R and R. Erich, now I don’t want to sound like I’m gloating, but if we win this war, I want you to feel comfortable asking me for help. We always talked about starting a restaurant, and I, all patriotism aside, would love to follow through with this. And of course, we would still name it after your mother: “Gertrudis’s.” It has a nice ring.
I almost forgot! I have a question for you: Can you serve a chardonnay with Coquille Saint-Jacques à la Crémaillère? You know I’m horrible at this sort of thing.
Your friend, Wyatt.
P.S. I’m doing some interesting things with “crusting.” We’ll discuss.
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10 September 1943
Good old Wyatt. You always know how to cheer me up. Let me address two things. 1.) I too am doing interesting things with crusting and, 2.) A chardonnay sounds delightful for the Coquille Saint-Jacques à la Crémaillère. You’re really coming into your own. I wish you only the best. Ah, I’m getting so sentimental. I just pulled out our old class photo from the CB. I felt a kinship with the 1578 foundation of the Order of Knights of the Holy Spirit. I felt we were with them. There’s you and I in the second row, proud as punch (and a little blotto off of that terrible sherry, if I recall). Giancarlo, eyes closed, pondering God knows what. Then in the front there’s Ian. Did you hear that Churchill said his bouchee of escargots and morell mushrooms with a cognac roasted garlic cream sauce and chives was “reminiscent of manure?” I think those were the words. Poor guy. He tries. And fails! Then that odd kid from Uruguay who just kept insisting that octopus ink should supplement Hamantashen? What a hoot it all was! On a side note, it seems the majority of my family was spared in the Brits bombing raid on Hamburg—thanks for your concern. They really did some damage, though. Nothing like when the old Luftwaffe hit London, but the Limeys, dare I say, layed siege. The damned Soviets recaptured Kharkov, too. I’m not going to lie—things have been better. The Führer has only been asking for baked macaroni and cheese and a watermelon slice drizzled with maple syrup. This, mind you, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The damn dog, Blondie, is more interesting, menu wise. I made her a pickled tongue in apricot sauce that she went for vigorously.
A Panzer tank ran over my big toe yesterday when I was looking for my salad spinner. You, of all people Wyatt, can imagine the indignity. I wish we could be in Paris again. I like the idea of the restaurant, though, and I thank you for considering naming it after my mother, God bless her. I see a signature first course involving encrusted bread sticks infused with mozzarella, or perhaps goat cheese. Or jalapenos! We could call them “poppers” as they just pop right in your mouth. Excuse me—I’m sure you follow. I just get excited sometimes.
Well, tomorrow is another day. Perhaps the Führer would respond to a marinated fresh fruit kabob with Grand Marnier. I’ll give it a whirl (gasp).
Best Regards, Erich
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November 19th, 1944
Erich, tell me something good! The Brits bombed the hell out of Berlin yesterday, as I’m sure you’ve known for a while. Are you well? You know how I worry. The moment I heard the news I panicked and put together a batch of fresh New Zealand cockles and green lip mussels in a saffron, smoked bacon Provencal broth served in sourdough rounds. I had intended to share them with our Postmaster General, Mr. Walker, but I was too distraught and finished them off myself, along with a bottle of Armagnac J Dupeyron, 1931.
Assuming you’re okay, which is the only conceivable thing (in terms of my mental health) for me to assume right now, I love your idea of jalapeno “poppers.” I have always, as you know, maintained that most things should be stuffed with something, and I think you have a real flash of brilliance here, Erich, and you know I’m not just saying that.
I’m tempted to urge you to get out of the area.
Hang in there, buddy.
Best Wishes,
Wyatt
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22 January 1944
Wyatt, I really appreciate your concern. I managed to avoid any personal bodily harm in the raid. I was, of course, in the kitchen at the time, knee deep in macaroni and cheese. The Führer is beginning to really lose his marbles. He told me that from now on, he’d like his macaroni and cheese served to him inside his boots. And when I tried to sneak a sun-dried tomato into the concoction, just for variety, he had my testicles shaved. If the Führer doesn’t get more protein, he’s going to fall ill. Hell, what do I care? The other day I saw Minister of Propaganda Fritzsche put a helping of my pheasant-lemongrass paté…in his PANTS. What is it with these people? What kind of way to act is that?
The Soviets have advanced into Poland, the Führer, he has just found out, has been miscalculating his ground targets as he is convinced the earth is concave, and Himmler has begun to slap Goering in the face with my pistachio panko crusted Ahi tuna every time he passes him. They said that the war would be over by Christmas. I suppose they say that about every war, but I believed them this time. I hate to sound like such a turncoat, but I’m really thinking of poisoning the old bastard’s macaroni. I’m glad you like my idea of jalapeno “poppers.” The thought gives me hope in this dreary place. Have I mentioned we are out of port glasses? Savages. I trust this missive finds you better than I. Think of me well and the next time you make your half duck confit style, breast sautéed crisp with a tangerine tart cherry jus lie and garnished with candied ginger and citrus zest—wink at it for me.
Hopefully, Erich
P.S. Oh, Happy New Year. No Auld Lang Syne here. Just Wagner and macaroni and goose-stepping…
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March 5th 1944
Erich, my poor man. It hurts me to hear of this breakdown, on all parts. If it makes you feel any better, they found Giancarlo at Monte Cassino trying to sauté his ears in a white-wine reduction. They are sending him to a specialist, but it doesn’t look good. Things here are looking pretty good, though. We bombed Berlin again yesterday, but it seems to me that you could care less. Don’t give up hope. Remember at the CB, our pastry instructor, Hans Havernkamp? Yes, you must. Remember how he said that after WWI he was forced to peddle chocolate covered slugs on the Herengracht in Amsterdam for a period? Well, I defy anyone to say that his period of culinary stagnation compromised his exquisite Black Forest cherry torte. So, cheer up. You and I and perhaps (but I doubt it) Giancarlo will all have a hearty laugh about this whole stupid business very soon. If it weren’t for the Soviets, I’m sure you all would be doing much better.
Also, and I know this is a bad time, but seeing as you all are buddied up with the Japanese, I was wondering if you had come across any indigenous dishes that might prove interesting and/or worth taking a look at.
Erich, I’m so sorry to learn of your current situation. I’m sure you’ve thought of this, but have you experimented with four or even five-cheese macaroni? My heart goes out to you.
Best,
Wyatt.
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1 May 1944
Oh, Wyatt.
The Brits dropped 3000 tons of bombs on Hamburg on 18 March. The city is in ruins—they even leveled the brothels. I am utterly destitute. The Führer, ah, fuck it—Herr Dingleberry—has told me that I was better suited for carrying a Mauser 98 K in the Crimea and that he “never really liked macaroni and cheese, anyway.” I am an artist. I don’t carry rifles. I will fight to the death for veal scaloppini with a cognac gorgonzola tarragon sauce—but for the Reich? Egads, no. I am thinking of surrendering, but I don’t quite know how. I can’t goose-step—I once tripped over a group of Hitler youth playing tetherball as I was out in the courtyard. Can you imagine? The sky is roaring with flames and all I want is to enjoy an aperitif after, hmm…maybe a grilled vegetable strudel with red bell peppers, portabellas, green and gold zucchini, and crisp julienne parsnips.
Before I ship out, the Führer wants one last dish from me. Do you want to know what it is? Belgian waffles. No, that’s it. Just Belgian waffles. Hypocrite.
You are a true friend. I will try to write from the “front,” or whatever it’s called. A true shame about Giancarlo. However, I am not surprised. Excuse my somber tone. I suppose that this is what war is. Will you show me Peter Luger steakhouse in New York after all this? I could use a rib-eye right now. I’ll think about that as I join the herd.
In Hope and Friendship,
Erich
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June 13th, 1944
Erich, I can only wish you the best. I can’t see you out there with a Mauser (that is a rifle, right?). I hear the Germans surrendered in the Crimea on May 12th. Does that mean you’re off the hook?
Regardless, I can’t see this lasting much longer. I’m certain, and I mean this, that some incarnation of your rainbow trout, pan seared with garlic, scallions, sun-dried tomatoes and toasted almonds in a chardonnay butter sauce had something to do with the V-1 rocket that ravaged England today. You inspire, mon bon ami. Never forget that.
Your friend,
Wyatt.
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21 July 1944
No Crimea for me, but looking at our situation, I think I might fare better there than here in Berlin. I am running out of resources, Wyatt. Goering now wears the Dutch oven as something he calls a “neutron helmet,” Himmler has adopted the habit of hanging from a ceiling fan, spinning languidly like a rag doll, half-heartedly chanting “Deutschland, Deutschland…uber alles” and Goebbels wants to know if we can eat his mistress under an almond demi-glaze.
Hitler has announced he’ll be launching a major counter-attack toward Avranches in early August. Maybe this information will do some good for you. I am through with this business. The business of war, that is.
Oh, and I think I’ve come upon, at least what I think, is a potentially revolutionary “dipping” sauce. Try this out:
1 cup mayonnaise
1 cup buttermilk
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. pepper
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 tsp. onion powder
2 tsp. parsley flakes
I’m calling it “Bauernhof” dressing (Double-check the measurements. You know we’re metric over here) You can use it on salads, fried foodstuffs and, in my opinion, almost anything. You know, Bauernhof dressing sounds too much like a stable. Let’s call it: “Ranch.”
I’m getting excited about this, Wyatt. Let’s end this war. We have things to do. Ack! Goering has clamped my only wok to his septum. This is a god-damned mad-house. Must go. Please write.
Aufrichtig,
Erich
P.S. Sorry. I can’t help you with the Japanese quandary. They are secretive about everything. But, I will say, there is something called sake that makes you laugh and then forget things.
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September 5th, 1944
Well, my lederhosened laureate, it seems like we’re going to get our wish. I told FDR about the counter-attack and he was very grateful. To be perfectly candid, I couldn’t tell if he was referring to the intelligence you offered on the Avranches or the “Ranch” sauce/dressing. My God, what have you done?! The President and Secretary of State, upon tasting your alchemy requested a “side” of Ranch with my breast of chicken roasted with burnt honey-mango-chili glaze, mission figs, cashews and Israeli couscous. I’m going to go ahead and say, I was a little offended—but this Ranch! What have you wrought? It truly does make everything better.
For tonight’s Red Sox/Yankees game they’re having me batter then fry only the chicken wings, which they feel would be more accessible with the addition of the Ranch. These Harvard guys…they’re never satisfied.
Well, Verdun, Dieppe, Artois, Rouen, Abbeville, Antwerp and Brussels have all gone down this past week. No small thanks to you! We’re coming up on the Siegfried Line and things look up. It appears something’s brewing in the Ardennes. What in the hell is a neutron helmet?
May that this war will end and we toast sooner than later over a bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild, 1925—Wyatt
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27 December 1944
Wyatt, it’s a reckoning! Patton took Bastogne yesterday. They should make a moving picture about him. What a charismatic fellow. I see Chaplin giving it a go. Sorry no intelligence on the Ardennes caper. I’ve been in transit. The Führer and Frau Braun have got me running ragged all over the damn place. We’re here, we’re there. And all they ask for is pan-fried snow. Of course, this poses a problem for me as Frau Braun insists she is allergic to ice. I do what I’m told. I feel the end of all this is well nigh.
I’m going to have to cut this short. The Führer has just beckoned to me, as he has (what a genius) just had the revelation that snow is in fact water, albeit very cold water. He seems miffed.
Best, Erich.
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February 15th, 1945.
Erich, what are you doing? You mentioned earlier that you were unfamiliar with the protocol of surrender. I recommend taking off your underpants (make sure they’re white) and wave them about your head. This, assuming that Fritzsche hasn’t pilfered them from your drawer again.
You must trust me, Erich, the worst is over. Pan-fried snow? Now that’s just giving up. I know you could do better, but I completely understand. FDR just got back from Yalta where they sewed this whole thing up, for the most part. So, just wait it out after ditching those two yahoos you’re with. I spoke with Giancarlo the other day. He seems a little better. He tried to make an apocalypse run to Dresden after he heard about the Allied fire-bombing but was stopped by the allure of a knackwurst cart along the Elbe.
Get out of there, partner. Perhaps I could tempt you with grilled California quail and baby arugula greens with toasted pinenuts, Stilton cheese and a warm pomegranate-clover honey-lavender glaze. I knew I could.
Cheers, Wyatt
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1 May 1945
Wyatt, it’s over. The two “yahoos” (great word) blew their brains out. I felt a tinge of sentimentality, so I made them a final meal. Suffice it to say, it involved Mengele’s underwear. I’m leaving this place. Oh, and an enticing suggestion on the California quail. But, let the arugula grow up. If you’re going to go, I say…go.
I’ll see you soon.
Erich
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