Missonary Stew

WC 1816

Missionary Stew

By Jack Rawlins

“Kunte Myway,” said King Eatem Ahmen, pleasantly, “to celebrate my fiftieth birthday I want you to fix me a missionary stew. Please don’t disappoint me.”

“Your Highness, “I asked, “Where will I get the missionary?”

“Why, from The Fat Farm, “he said. “Unlike spas that take off fat, ours is where we feed and water the livestock to put it on.”

It was hard to please the King. Even though he was basically a meat and poi kind of guy, he was fussy. He treated his cooks well, but if you didn’t please him he cut off your head and selected a replacement—not for your head—for your job.

Too many cooks (three) had lost their heads trying to please him. I did not want to follow their career paths. Yet, try to please him I must. It’s one thing to have your ass on the line, but quite another to face total separation of head and body.

I owed a lot to King Eatem. He discovered me at Bubba & Bunny’s Ribatorium in Atlantic City as he nibbled his way about town sampling the local cuisine. He had arrived in AC on his private jet for one of his infamous and frequent fun-filled frolics to the tables down at Harrah’s Casino where the ladies of the Wifffenpoof Escort Service knew him so well.

When I was introduce as Bernie Swartz, the chef responsible for the dinner he had just enjoyed, he greeted me with a bright smile of gleaming gold teeth and said,” Chef Swartz, I would be honored if you joined me for a drink in my suite at Harrah’s.”

In the culinary field, connections are important so I welcomed the opportunity to not only rub elbows with royalty, but also to bend one with them.

I can hold a lot of booze for a small man, but that night after seven rum and cokes, I was comatose. The next morning, I awoke on Cannibal Island in the royal palace. I was propped up on a pile of red velvet pillows before the King seated at his throne. He looked down upon me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“First, “he commanded, “you will change your name from Bernie Swartz to Kunte Myway, in memory of my father who was shot by a cookapoo member of his palace guard. Second, you will attend The Culinary Institute of America, at Hyde Park, NY. I will of course pay your tuition, room and board and provide you with a liberal allowance of play money. When you graduate, you will come back to Cannibal Island and join my kitchen staff as second in command—forever if you don’t screw up, or until the executive chef does at which time you will become top banana.” And then he slapped his fat thighs, rubbed his hands together, leaned back and waited for my reply.

I was still a little hung over, but now I’m thinking this guy is really an ace. “It’s a deal, Your Majesty. I’ll have to go back to AC to pick up my things.”

“Kunte,” the King said. “You have no things. We left no trace of you---just in case you didn’t accept my offer. You know, writer Thomas Wolf was right: You can’t go home again.”

This was my first hint that the fun-loving king might have a black side under his dark skin.

I did well at the Institute, scholastically and socially…graduated cum laude and was soon aboard the King’s jet headed for my new homeland. I left behind only a few minor traffic citations and one unsettled paternity suit for which I was only half to blame.

Once back at Cannibal Island, my orientation was brief. I leaned that the natives no longer practiced cannibalism. They had mastered the art and didn’t need any more practice. I also learned that the pas de resistance of human flesh was reserved only for the royal family at special occasions--and any excuse they could find to eat and drink.

At first, I was surprised that noshing their buddies was so casually accepted; but in retrospect, the name Cannibal Island should have been a clue.

Still, as a chef, I was curious. “What does it taste like?” I asked one of the other chefs.

“Just like chicken,” he said.

Too Many Cooks Spoil the Soup

For one year I was happy in my second string position as Sous-chef de Cuisine. Then, one day—thanks to a broken lock on the rum locker--- six of the cooks got smashed. Each one thought the soup de jour needed a dash, a splash, a touch, a tad, a squirt, or a dollop of his favorite secret ingredient.

Now, one of my responsibilities was to taste all of the King’s food—in his presence. Tasting included swallowing the taste. No wine-taster-like shenanigans of sip and spit. One cook, caught cheating, was given the taste by enema. He died immediately, which proved the King’s wisdom.

“Kunte Myway,” the King explained, “I am not paranoid. Everybody really does want to kill me. That’s why you must make sure I’m not poisoned. That’s not asking too much, is it?”

“Oh, hell no “I said.


But back to the soup in the spoon… I sipped the monstrous concoction, swallowed, and gagged. King Eatem erupted. He was one pissed potentate…so pissed that he personally detached the Chef de Cuisine’s head and sentenced the rest of the staff to The Fat Farm to serve time until they would be served as entrees.

Thus, in a blink, I was catapulted from second in command as Sous-chef de Cuisine to Chef de Cuisine. It was a prestigious and dangerous promotion.
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Father Guido Pepperoni

Cannibal Island was always closed to all immigration and emigration. But Father Guido Pepperoni found a way. The ballsy little zealot arrived there aboard a bouncing rubber life raft launched form the yacht, Good Samaritan, sponsored by Soul Savers, L.L.C. He came with only a bible, a small compass, a Swiss army knife and one change of underwear. He said, “I come to save souls, not to make a fashion statement.”

As he made his first foot print in the sand, he was grabbed and hustled off to The Fat Farm. There he joined thirty-nine political prisoners, six former cooks, and a dozen others who had ticked off His Highness in some way.

When I met Father Guido Pepperoni, we had instant rapport. “You know I’m supposed to cook you? “ I said.

“Of course. But the Lord will protect me. I’m here to do his work.”

“He should have sent more help,” I suggested.

“The Lord works in strange and mysterious ways,” he answered. “Besides, good help is hard to find.”

I said, “Father Guido (we were already on a first name basis), why did you choose Cannibal Island for your mission?”

“My people,” he answered, “are big on human rights.We’ve carefully investigated your ruler. King Eatem Ahmen should be spanked. He’s a nasty man. When he studied political science at Penn State, his doctorial dissertation was on Nepotism and the Divine Right of Kings. He likes cock fights, bull fights, and dog fights. He cheats at card. His heroes are Machiavelli, the Marquis de Sade, and Ivan the Terrible. And he eats people.”

“Nobody is perfect,” I said.

“I’m surprised no one has tried to assassinate him,” said Father Guido.

“The King has been terrified of guns since his poppa got pop in the royal palace," I said. “The gun control laws here are as absolute as his rule. There are no guns on this island. Clubs and spears are the weapons of choice.”

“Whatever. I’m not here to promote assassination. I want to save his soul,” said Father Guido.

“Why? “ I asked.

“Well, that’s what people in my line of work do. That’s why.”

“Father Guido,” I said, “you are not going to get a chance. The King’s birthday party is only thirty days away, and you are going to be the guest of honor, so to speak. How can we change the course of events and save your butt so you can devote the rest of your life to saving souls?”

“I’ll pray for guidance,” he said.

Two weeks later when I visited Father Guido, he not only had a plan, but the support of every inmate in The Fat Farm--and all the guards. He greased the wheels of action by promising each guard an all-expenses paid vacation for two in Atlantic City. And then he promised the prisoners lower taxes, more jobs, and universal health care.

The Coup d’ Etat

It was birthday party time in the banquet hall.

I took a spoonful of steaming stew, sniffed, tasted, swallowed and smiled. “I think you will enjoy it Your Majesty,” I said as I filled his dish.

He sniffed. Tasted and smiled.
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“Does my missionary stew please Your Majesty?” I asked.

“Kunte Myway, it tastes just like chicken,” he answered.

And that’s what it was: chicken stew. The King’s cousin, the Minister of Chickens never missed the clucks of forty, four-pound oven-stuffers I deducted from his farm one night to replace the one-hundred sixty pound priest in my pas de resistance.

While the King and the royal family gorged their stew, my staff wheeled in a giant birthday cake, lifted it onto the table, lit the candles and stepped back.

While the King’s niece, the Minister of Music, directed the steel drum band in Happy Birthday with a calypso beat, King Eatem Ahmen, after a series of huffs and puffs, blew out all fifty candles. He then sat back expecting a nude Wiffenpoof lady to pop out of the cake and into his lap. Instead, out popped Father Guido Pepperoni waving an excellent replica of an assault rifle carved from balsa wood and fitted with a realistic black plastic barrel. “Happy birthday, Your Highness,” he yelled. “You are under arrest.”

The King fainted. The Royal Family cowered in terror. Thirty-nine former political prisoners, six cooks, eight guards and twelve others who had ticked off the King, burst into the hall brandishing placards that expressed their views about the present regime.

Except for a small gash on the King’s head sustained when he fell against the table, it was a bloodless coup. Father Guido Pepperoni was named El Presidente Pro Tem. The once powerful Eatem Ahmen was exiled to Malaria Island.

Negotiations are now underway between the new regime and Donald Trump to turn Cannibal Island into a posh resort designed to gobble up tourist’s dollars instead of one another. To spruce up their image, there is talk of changing the island’s name from Cannibal to Vegan Island.

As for me, I’m back as Bernie Swartz in Bubba and Bunny’s where every Thursday is missionary stew day

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