The Diplomat's Feast

The visitor appeared as lightning – bright, fast, and with terrible noise, heralding their arrival to the Auvergne countryside with black scorch marks in a field of crops. On a cloudless, rainless night, it could be seen and heard for miles – but there was only one who noticed it, who peered out with tired eyes from his farmhouse window, shrugged it off, and went back to bed. The visitor, perhaps expecting a larger welcome, decided to wait.

Alexandre found them the next morning, completely by chance, after tending to the cows, and rearing the new calves. The visitor was strolling his small orchard, sampling apricots, hairless, naked, and bony. The farmer had never before seen anything so unbearably wretched. He said nothing when they met eyes, processing still how his guest could stand upright with those tiny, brittle limbs.

That guest, in turn, treated Alexandre with mild curiosity, looking him up and down, before extending an emaciated hand in greeting.

“Hello, friend!” They said, with unusual strength and confidence. Not knowing what else to do, Alexandre meekly shook the creature’s harsh and icy hand. Alexandre introduced himself. The visitor appeared to ignore him.

They gestured to the half-eaten apricots on the ground. “Did you make these?”

Alexandre nodded, slowly.

“They aren’t bad.” They picked one up from the dirt, and took another bite, “Not at all bad. More than I expected from coming here, if I’m to be honest.”

And then, for some time, the visitor talked. They called themselves a “diplomat”, who had been sent to find exotic cuisines to bring back to the motherland. They spun tales of magnificent places and unbelievable dishes, of opulent feasts and unbridled pleasures, food of all forms from strange and distant lands. Alexandre wasn’t sure what to make of it, but they spoke with such conviction that he couldn’t help but be drawn into the stories. Suddenly, the backhanded compliment about the apricots meant much more coming from this strange, skinny thing. The longer he listened to the Diplomat talk about food, the more he himself became defensive about the quality of his produce, half-buried in the mud. And so, the moment they stopped talking, Alexandre invited them to his farmhouse for brunch.

His antiquated dining room felt unimpressive when the Diplomat was sat at the table. It had never bothered him before – but then again, he rarely had guests. He felt uncomfortable leaving his esteemed visitor alone in such a rustic environment, but there was work to do in the kitchen – for years, he had almost lived off a hearty vegetable soup, made with a little fruity zest, topped off with whatever garden herbs were in season. It had gotten him through many winters, and kept up spirits many a miserable and lonely evening. If ever there was to be a culinary ambassador for Alexandre’s farm, this would be it.

He brought the pot through to the table, the Diplomat’s sunken eyes following him all the way.  He spooned a serving into a bowl, and sat opposite to watch his visitor eat.

And eat they did.

The Diplomat ignored the spoon set out for them, and instead immediately cupped the soup in their hands, getting carrots and onions and chunks of potato on the table and the hardwood floor, spitting and coughing as they stuffed fistfuls of vegetables and carefully seasoned broth into their hideous, gaping mouth. Alexandre struggled to hide his discomfort. Even as the Diplomat moved on from the bowl and begun eating directly out of the pot, the farmer was too wrapped up in finding out their opinion to comment on the mess. After all, such a display of gluttony was an undeniable endorsement of Alexandre’s cooking! Perhaps they expressed it in an unusual way, but surely, that expression was one of enjoyment?

“Hm.” The Diplomat looked down at the empty pot. Alexandre watched their expression closely – and his chest went cold when he saw disappointment.

“A fine meal. Just fine.” They looked up at the farmer. “What else do you have?”

---

Alexandre barged back into the kitchen. To be insulted like that, at his own table! His resolve strengthened. That hideous creature would not leave Auvergne without a good dish! Soupe a Vin Blanc as a starter, whetting the appetite for skillet potatoes served alongside his prize recipe – meatloaf, studded with dried apricots. None have ever found fault in Alexandre’s apricot meatloaf, with fresh ingredients from Alexandre’s farm, and the finest beef from his freezer. Surely, they would appreciate it too.

The farmer, again, carried the meal to the next room, presented like a chef. Again, the Diplomat sat, and watched, and then wordlessly devoured the starter. Alexandre looked on, no longer hiding his disgust; the dining room was filthy, as was the unwelcome guest. He flinched when the Diplomat dropped the empty soup bowl, and grimaced when it shattered on the floor. But the worst offence, by far the worst offence, came when they got to Alexandre’s prized meatloaf – never previously having any problem shoving food down their throat, the Diplomat took one bite of the main course – and begun to pick out the apricots. Then, when all fruit had been removed, they swallowed the meat whole. It was a poor fate for a cow.

Alexandre had just about had enough. Reaching to whisk away the Diplomat’s plate, lest they break it too, they noticed a wide, toothy grin on their sunken face. He could not mistake that look. It was a grin of satisfaction.

“My, my!” They said. “That was beautiful!”

Alexandre was taken off guard. They looked at the lonely apricots left on the plate.

“How did you make that?”

Alexandre began describing the process of making the white wine soup, starting with melting the butter, and browning the onions-

“No! How did you make that? What is it?” They gesture to the near-empty meatloaf plate. A mixture of veal and beef, primarily, is what Alexandre explains.

“Excellent! Get me more of that!”

A lover of beef! Alexandre was so pleased with the Diplomat’s approval, that he was willing to ignore their irritating tone. Immediately, he swept the uneaten apricots into the bin, brought out a fine cut of steak he had been saving in the freezer, and prepared for his distinguished guest a beautiful ensemble of beef and potatoes, made with care and passion. Another story for the Diplomat to tell on their travels! The tale of when they visited Alexandre’s humble home, and left having experienced incomparable pleasure in his cooking! Now, Alexandre had a life beyond Auvergne. His head swam thick with pride, reinforced still when the Diplomat crammed down his lovingly prepared steak in three unholy bites, and left the potatoes on the plate.

“More!” they cried. “More!”

And they got more. Because Alexandre had more, stashed away in his large chest freezer. Over the next few hours, Alexandre would feed the Diplomat, and the Diplomat would ask for more. All they ate was meat, and it was every meat they ate - chicken, lamb, pork - but veal was their favourite, followed closely by beef. Alexandre darted between the rooms, preparing meat in every way he could think of – boiled, fried, minced, diced, all eaten indiscriminately by the ravenous consumer. Eventually, he stopped seasoning it. So long had Alexandre lived alone, it was a downright thrill to have somebody around who so enjoyed his company in this way.  

The dining room suffered the most from this cycle. Chunks of half-chewed meat cluttered the floor and the table, covering the dried soup stains with gristle and bone. Unwashed plates piled in front of the Diplomat, who would only get messier and more violent in their eating with every new course brought out.

As it got dark, the excitement began to wear off on Alexandre. He became more aware of the aching in his feet and back. The novelty of cooking like this was no longer enough to keep him going. As he once again placed an assortment of uncut meats into a boiling pot, he privately decided that he would stop with this final course, and ask his guest, politely, to leave.

BANG. The kitchen door flew open. It was as if the Diplomat could hear his thoughts. It had been a while since Alexandre saw them stood up. He had forgotten just how unbelievably thin their legs were.

“Where do you keep the beef?”

There was a threatening desperation to their tone. Stunned, Alexandre meekly gestured to the freezer. The Diplomat scampered towards it.

Even after all that had been eaten, the farmer couldn’t believe it. The creature bit through frozen bone as if biting through celery. There was no pride here. No more delusions of a refined palate. Alexandre saw them as the naked beast that they were – a beast with no capacity for taste. They backed away; sharp fragments of bone began to fly dangerously across the room. When the two beings briefly met eyes, Alexandre saw nothing but a mad, pupilless void. For the first time, he was truly afraid.

Overwhelmed, he begun to walk on autopilot. He left the kitchen. He passed through the wrecked dining room. He left the house, got in his truck, and drove to the nearest town. Whatever was happening, he could no longer deal with it. The Diplomat could eat all the meat he had – just as long as he didn’t have to watch. Alexandre could’ve told somebody, but he didn’t have the words for it. Instead, he sat in his truck, far away from the farm, and waited for sunrise.

---

He returned in the morning. The freezer was empty, of course. Every cabinet and drawer in every room had been ransacked. Furniture lay splintered on the floor. Alexandre was worried that he’d find the Diplomat – but after inspecting the empty farmhouse, he became exponentially more worried that he wouldn’t. Patrolling his farmland, he looked around for any sign of his guest. And then, unmistakably, he found one:

A trail of blood, flowing downhill from the cattle shed. It was fresh.

Alexandre knew what he would find up there. Before he took his first step, he had mapped the whole journey out in his mind – climbing over the gate, walking across the field, opening the door, and finding the Diplomat. He knew there was no other outcome, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it. But still, for some reason, he wanted to see it with his own eyes. And so it wasn’t a shock when he did climb the gate, walk across the field, and open the door, just as it wasn’t a shock to find the Diplomat, sat on the hay, covered in what was little was left of his entire herd, sitting quite content among blood, bone, and flies. The stench was terrible.

Alexandre was less horrified than he expected he would be. From the moment his visitor finished their first meal, a part of him knew that this is how it would end up. In the moment, another part of him knew that this was not the end.

As he approached, the Diplomat looked up at him, grinning innocently. Strands of viscera were stuck between their teeth. With a carnal pleasure in their eyes, they opened their gaping mouth once more –

and bid their host farewell.

“Thank you, Alexandre. The others will love it here.”