The Hark-Aldonze ripostuary of antiphonal asininity
Episode 11: The Boeuf Bourguignon Guide to Excitement in the Air
The "Receipts" Taos Green Chili | Aldonze Out of Hiding Hallooo Harreeeeee! This is Aldonze. Chef Aldonze Luiz (Loo-eeze). As always, I remain at your service monsieur Hark! I have some of the good news and some of the not so good news to forward. That little pain in the arrears, Pierre LeConte, has met with an unfortunate accident, which is good news, non? It seems he fell off the TGV to Lyons, slipped under the wheels, and is no more. Only his silly little whistle was found and he is presumed dead. With his demission, I am surely satisfied the French government has no longer the interest in pursuing Aldonze. All former charges appear to have been dropped, and I, after so long under the covers, can emerge from the shadows. I will miss this short, formidable opponent. Alors, au revoir, old friend Pierre! The mauvaise nouvelles is that my freedom was short lived. Within an hour of the news, I got myself into another gherkin. I had been in hiding with my old friend, artist-sculptor Bertrand Hurtabise. I stayed in the loft of his studio located in the old quartier of Brussels. I lived happily among his towering statues and sculptures for more than two months. While in hiding, Bertrand asked me to pose in full Chef's costume for his new masterpiece, Aldonze in Stone. He had just completed the foot high prototype when the news came of my freedom. We, of course, celebrated with plenty of Champagne, women and song. I danced like crazy and got a little of his plaster in the brain. As I twirled my lovely partner to the tune of "I Feel the Goods," I accidentally sent her crashing into one of Bertrand's magnificent statues. How you say, the Fats Domino thing happened? One sculpture crashed into another and soon the room was littered with broken stone and clouds of thick dust. I tell you Hark, it looked like a bomb had made a direct hit on the humble loft. The artist's entire life's work, including his famous Man with a Garden Gnome, which he had removed from the Musée des Beaux Arse for repairs, was reduced to rubble in seconds. I watched with the horrors as Bertrand silently walked into his closet and produced a tiny pistol which he began to fire at me. I snatched the remains of my little Aldonze statute and ran like the blazes of hell. With bullets whizzing past my head, I raced through the dark streets of Brussels and finally lost the madman in the shadows of the famous Hotel de Quelle Bordelle. After many torturous weeks of hiding and running, I am now resting, safely, in the heart of the Borneo jungles. I have accepted a long standing invitation from my old friend Walla-Walla BingBang and his lovely wife, Madame Ting-Tang. In addition to being the manager of the local K-Mart, Walla-Walla is the tribal chieftain for his small village of Ooeeooahah. We were once close friends but, alas, when I was wrongly accused of a dalliance with Miss Ting, we did not speak for many moons. Now, many years later he has assured me of his belief in my profound protestations. He has given me a warm welcome and begged forgiveness. It takes a big man to admit that he is wrong. Unfortunately, Walla-Walla is only 4'5" tall. The Ooeeooahah villagers have been most friendly. Considering that these people were cannibalising headhunters less than 60 years ago, I am impressed with their adaptation to the modern world. At the behest of Chief Walla-Walla, these wonderful people are showering me with kindness. They insist I eat five meals per day, yet they voice concern as to my weight. They place me on a scale hourly. Today, after the weighing in, I was told that my poundage is perfect. I am to be guest of honor at a large banquet tonight. When I offered to assist in the preparation of the meal, my very own recipe, or, should I say, one that was given to me by an old friend from Provence, I was asked to allow the head chef to prepare it for me so that he could test his skills. I was assured that I would, nevertheless, play a big part in the upcoming feast. At this very moment, a giant cauldron of water is being heated on a large fire outside of my hut. I can hardly wait for the night to fall. I have only a small moment to get these messages off to you, my cher ami Hark, and the means is many thanks to the little phone loaned to me by the lithe Miss Whim-Wham, daughter of noble Chief Walla-Walla. She has been kindly attending to me for some days now. I am sorry to burden you with so many little messages, but this petit contrivance will only permit of a few sentences at each time. I am happy to send also this latest receipt, the very Boeuf Bourguignon that is being cooked for tonight's repast. I hope you and our many readers will remember me when they eat of it. Drums are beating and excitement is in the air. I must get prepared for dinner. Until next time, this is Aldonze, Chef Aldonze Luiz (Loo-eeze) at your service! | Hark Pulls the Blinds Infernal! These have been gloriously peaceful months here at the maison of Oz Family Hark. This, despite the madness of King George and his desire to spread fear throughout the world. He may have proven that his weanie is bigger than Saddam's, but we are certain it won't stop there. Now that the "war" is over and we are no longer required to watch its "progress" like rabbits mesmerised by oncoming headlights, we can afford the luxury of paying no attention whatsoever to the inevitable chaos following the "victory" of Goliath over David. Yet, like your short lived respite from the diligence of the erstwhile Monsieur LeConte, we too no longer have cause to celebrate our retreat from the horrors that life so assiduously, and seemingly without cessation, seeks to inflict on our pathetic little dream of familial quietude. For you have resurfaced! (Despite our many visits to a local voodoo practitioner--it's true what they say about the suburbs, the most frightening people, albeit retired, live in them--she appears to have failed.) Yes, confounding our wildest hopes, you are alive and well. Or are you? It sounds as though Chief Walla-Walla had the intentions of taking the baton from LeConte. A textbook example of morphic resonance as it relates, in this case, to a worldwide demographic of men and women who have been harmed at one or another point in their lives by yourself. I curse the day I gave you my mobile phone number, but then that was back at the beginning when I, like so many others, was unaware of your troublesome nature. Did I say troublesome? Good Lord, you're a menace to mankind! I would suggest to Interpol that you share top spot with Osama bin Laden, but for the certainty born of natal paranoia that they would in some way associate me with your foul exploits and proceed to harass my poor wife and daughter. Nevertheless, as an honourable man, I am bound to reproduce into a readable document the thousand and one SMS messages sent by you, as well as your recipe for Boeuf Bourguignon. And, of course, this reply, which goes a long way in assuaging my outrage at ever having entered into our agreement in the first place. I can only hope, in closing, that you were indeed grandly feted that night and that each and every member of Chief Walla-Walla's tribe is still belching the reward of your just desserts. In spite of the looming takeover of the world by the American Empire, my hope for peace and tranquillity is renewed. Harold Hark PS: How is it that Miss Whim-Wham's mobile phone worked in the depths of Borneo's jungles, when mine won't even work in Daylesford? |