While reading one of my favorite blogs: thekalechronicles.com and drooling at Sharyn’s recipes, an inspired thought appeared somewhere above my rumbling tum: art rat café is, amongst other things, a CAFÉ! “Food for Thought” yes, but why not also ‘Thought for Food’? So today I am pleased to announce the official Opening of artratcafe CAFÉ in which shall be served food and beverages inspired by words, specifically the words of literature, and illustrated with miscellaneous art. And, as a special Opening Treat I offer you a surreal and scrumptious Banana Breakfast Feast, compliments of Pirate Prentice from Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. Enjoy…..
Book 1: Beyond the Zero (1) A screaming comes across the sky and fills the dreams of Pirate Prentice. This is not disentanglement from, but a progressive knotting into. He goes underground, through ruinous secret cities of the poor to Absolute Zero, under the arch of the Rocket’s vapour trail. No Virgil, he is called not by Beatrice, but by his Banana Breakfast. For a split second he feels a terrible mass above his skull. (2) Black market marshmallows slide languid into syrup, and the sweet, fragile, musaceous odour of breakfast permeates Prentice’s flat. There is a giant glazed crock where bananas have been fermenting since the summer with wild honey and muscat raisins to create (yes!) Banana Mead.
“Across a blue tile patio, in through a door to the kitchen. Routine: plug in American blending machine won from some Yank last summer, some poker game, table stakes, B.O.Q. somewhere in the north, never remember now…. Chop several bananas into pieces. Make coffee in urn. Get can of milk from cooler. Puree ‘nanas in milk. Lovely. I would coat all the booze-corroded stomachs of England…. Bit of marge, still smells all right, melt in the skillet. Peel more bananas, slice lengthwise. Marge sizzling, in go long slices. Light oven whoomp blow us all up someday oh, ha, ha, yes. Peeled whole bananas to go on broiler grill soon as it heats. Find marshmallows….”
“With a clattering of chairs, upended shell cases, benches, and ottomans, Pirate’s mob gather at the shores of the great refectory table, a southern island well across a tropic or two from chill Corydon Throsp’s medieval fantasies, crowded now over the swirling dark grain of its walnut uplands with banana omelets, banana sandwiches, banana casseroles, mashed bananas molded into the shape of a British lion rampant, blended with eggs into batter for French toast, squeezed out a pastry nozzle across the quivering creamy reaches of a banana blancmange to spell out the words C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre (attributed to a French observer during the Charge of the Light Brigade) which Pirate has appropriated as his motto … tall cruets of pale banana syrup to pour oozing over banana waffles, a giant glazed crock where diced bananas have been fermenting since the summer with wild honey and muscat raisins, up out of which, this winter morning, one now dips foam mugsfull of banana mead … banana croissants and banana kreplach, and banana oatmeal and banana jam and banana bread, and bananas flamed in ancient brandy Pirate brought back last year from a cellar in the Pyrenees also containing a clandestine radio transmitter …”