Writing inspired by the following SWC prompt:

Write about tired eyes.

The Edible Gaze

by Loli Owl

The most tired eyes I have ever seen were served to me at midnight upon a gelatinous silicone platter, globules contained within an artificial mucus derived from sturgeon with a piercing blue iris formed out of a freeze-dried butterfly’s wings. The corneas were a slightly jaundiced shade of eggshell, and no doubt contained some ingredient obtained from the crushed embryos of some sort of wronged animal. A convincing nerve ending had also been skillfully crafted, and like the blood vessels crisscrossing the surface of the dish, had been painstakingly hand painted with dyes distilled from beetroot and purple cabbage.  

I stared back at the two jiggling orbs for more than a minute. It was one of those minutes that paused and stretched itself out like a languid black cat moving from one perch in the windowsill to the next, claws out, teeth exposed one moment, the next curled into a seamless repose. I took the specially provided pick and poked at the centre of the iris, which proved to be a deep black squid ink jell flavoured with shrimp powder. Still, I hesitated before scooping out a bit of interior of the dish, which proved to be surprising crunchy, even piquant in the centre. I detected a note of crushed chilis, and sesame oil suspended within the viscous, gently oozing centre. 

Ouf. Those tired eyes. They tasted like the scent of dried sea creatures in a Chinatown market, but fresh and alive; though presented in such a corporeal manner, there were no readily identifiable parts. Only after interrogating my server could I piece together what it was exactly that I was sampling. I could hardly finish the course – but I could say that I am, perhaps, haunted by them? Those two eyes served on what resembled at once an offering platter of St. Lucia and the still living pair belonging to the restaurant’s superstar young chef, whose work I had traveled 18 hours to review? Bloodshot, exhausted eyes, not unlike my own after that harrowing flight from San Francisco, where I had been reviewing yet another young restauranteur’s already forgotten experiential new tasting menu just hours before? 

The reservation had taken months to go through but finally I received it and was cleared to arrange for travel to Copenhagen. I had reviewed several hangers-on of the so-called Nordic Avant Garde manifesto in the past few years, starting with the first location of Noma in 2012. I had sampled moss and mushrooms, foams of all colours and flavours, and had been subjected to experiences both overwhelming, irritatingly performative and deeply satisfying – paradoxically, all three simultaneously at times. But those eyes were possibly among the most challenging, disturbing and finally rewarding items that had ever been served up to me.

My gushing profile appeared a few weeks later in the weekly literary magazine for which I provided a column, and bi-monthly, a longer profile of the famous up-and coming, or aging under-sung geniuses of the culinary world. I had briefly interviewed the thirty-three-year-old Norwegian wunderkind from a working-class background, more The Bear than French Laundry, about the inspiration behind his Buñuelian creations. “Sometimes,” he replied, “I simply have to look into the mirror.”

The quickly forgotten restaurant in San Francisco that had failed to inspire was featured in a half-page op-ed bemoaning the use of animal suffering to shock fine-dining clients. “No one pays hundreds of dollars for a dining experience only to be guilted into a Greenpeace subscription,” I opined. The magazine sent me larger than usual bundles of letters regarding my two pieces from that week, which I declined to read.

At home, I began experimenting with shaping moulds and attempted several different gels, indulging a mostly dormant side of myself that sought to recreate that of which I most admired. The alchemy in my stainless steel clad home kitchen escalated to the level of a home laboratory. I lost interest in my column, missing three deadlines in a row as I distilled, foamed, and formed twenty recipes for eyes, none of which satisfied or thrilled me.

My publicist began to call more frequently, demanding that I fulfil my obligations. I insisted that I was simply a bit tired, perhaps some irritating auto-immune disorder had accompanied me home from Copenhagen?

My laptop lay open on top of the countertop. Emails and reminders whirred and beeped and popped up and were swiped away as I sampled eye after eye.

Glancing at the screen, I saw my own face reflected in the open webcam. The eyes that stared back at me – those were the pair that I had been attempting to create. In horror, I stabbed through the screen with a fork.