A Moveable Feast

Zab considered himself polite. Before he arrived, he had studied British culture in ESL class, and found himself particularly fond of their indirectness and subtlety. Matters of the heart were much too direct in his culture, so he greatly admired the way the British could say so much by saying so little. It was an art.

So when he sat down at his dining table and said, “Tonight, let’s have a bit of a feast.” his personal chef, Andy, believed he knew exactly what Zab meant.

Andy, a British expat, was well-versed in the nuances of the wealthy citizens of the British Isles. If someone said they were “hungry,” it meant, perhaps, they wanted a small sandwich. If they asked for “a bit” of something, they wanted a lot. And when Zab requested “a bit of a feast,” it meant he required nothing short of a banquet of epic proportions.

Andy’s only problem was the cookbook. Zab zealously held onto his cookbook from the homeland, and wouldn’t let Andy see it.

The Secret Recipe

Zab opened the exquisite, ancient, leather-bound tome.

“Snakes. The recipe I've picked out needs twenty snakes,” he said, reading carefully out of the book. “The Chef’s Special is served on a bed of snakes.’

Andy nodded despite the churning of his stomach.

The rich have strange tastes, and Zab was rich—obscenely so. His business had taken up where SpaceX left off, commercializing interplanetary travel and making trillions in the process. Catching a few crumbs off Zab’s table had in turn made Andy richer than he had ever imagined. But wealth came at a cost.

The UK was too small for someone of Zab's stature and appetites so they had long since moved to a ranch in Montana.

In Montana, finding snakes wouldn’t be hard. There was a lot of surrounding land to hunt for them on. Most of the neighbors had moved away after Zab moved in. Once a Gothian trillionaire settles into a neighborhood, the locals tend to move out.

When Andy presented the snakes he found to Zab, Zab looked pleased. He put on his reading glasses, and reopened his heavy cookbook.

“A live sheep,” he boomed, “is the next ingredient. The recipe requires a sheep.”

Sheep would be a problem. “Can’t find a sheep in Montana,” he muttered to himself. Unlike every other English-speaking country, Americans only crave beef and avoid humanity’s other favorite meat. Even the Chinese greatly prize mutton, but not Americans. But there would be consequences if the meal wasn’t ready, so Andy had to get creative. After a few discreet inquiries, he had a show sheep abducted from the Montana State Fair, from a man who was more interested in cash than questions.

Seeing the sheep, Zab roared with delight.

Zab reopened his heavy cookbook. “Which leads us to the next ingredient—three poodles.”

“Sir, did I hear that correctly?” Andy asked. “Poodles?”

“The recipe requires three poodles, unskinned.”

Andy’s heart dropped. Every few months he had to do something awful like this. He’d need to head into town, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Over the years, Andy had surrendered his morals in the name of keeping his job.

The one thing that gave Andy solace was the fact that he had been sneaking off notes to the government, letting them know Zab’s next move. It was his small way of fighting back, of ensuring that someone, somewhere, was keeping an eye on the alien who sent Elon Musk into the Sun, and was turning life upside down.

The Cookbook

“A cookbook is a Gothian’s most important possession,” Zab told Andy, after they first had become friends. Zab guarded his cookbook like a dragon guarding its treasure. Andy was never allowed to so much as glance at it.

“Can this recipe get any worse?” Andy asked, as he presented Zab with three incessantly barking poodles.

“Why so many complaints today?” Zab asked, his voice dripping with exasperation. “Fine, you’ve always wanted to see my cookbook. Here it is. You’ll be happy to see the recipe we’re making.”

Andy’s heart raced as Zab showed him the page he had been reading from. He had spent enough time learning the Gothian system of hieroglyphics to make out the ingredient list, even if the details of the procedure remained a mystery.

The Chef’s Special:

• A bed of snakes
• 1 whole sheep
• 3 poodles, unskinned
• 1 chef
• A sprig of rosemary

Andy’s blood ran cold. Next to “chef” was scribbled: “Andy”.

“Why am I in the ingredient list?”

Zab waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind about that. Where do you keep the rosemary?”

The Plan

Andy’s mind raced, he couldn’t let this happen. But how could he outsmart a Gothian?

He prepared the snakes, sheep, and poodles, in Zab’s giant dog bowl, giving them an extra dash of salt and pepper for good measure, then brought out an ingredient he had been saving for a day like this. It was risky, but it was the only way.

When the time came, Andy presented his dish with a flourish. “The Chef’s Special,” he announced, placing the platter in front of Zab.

Zab’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“Finally!” Zab picked up his fork. “But there’s only one ingredient missing.”

Andy had to ask, “I’ve served you well. Why me?”

“How can I have a Chef’s Special, without a chef.”

A tentacle burst out of Zab’s corpulent side, and shot directly at Andy. Claws dug into his shoulders like sharp pliers.

“No, don’t!” Andy screamed.

“How can I eat a Chef's Special without you?”

Andy was flung into the air. As he soared overhead, he watched the dish full of squirming snakes, a bleating sheep, and 3 terrified poodles, spiral ever closer. Something very hard hit his backside. As the dizziness of being flung through the air wore off, he realized he was sat in a chair. In front of him was that monstrous dish, and across the table sat Zab, who was sprawled over 3 chairs.

“This meal is to celebrate 5 years of working together!” Zab said. “Surprise! Now, dig in. Bon Appétit!”

Andy held his fork, poking suspiciously at the snakes. They were non-venomous ones, just in case.

“Why aren’t you eating, Andy?” Zab asked, while chewing on one of the snakes. “The recipe said to eat this meal together, with the Chef.”

Andy realized, because of the complexities of Gothian hieroglyphics, he had misread the cookbook. But before he could say anything, Zab slumped forward, unconscious.

The rosemary wasn’t rosemary—it was Montana Sliver Weed, a potent sedative.

The Aftermath

Andy wasted no time. He grabbed Zab’s cookbook and ran, his heart pounding.

Then he came back, freed the sheep and the poodles, and ran again. No animals would be hurt in his life story.

Andy didn’t stop until he reached the nearest Alien Control Services office, where he handed over the cookbook and spilled the beans on everything he knew about Zab and his plans.

Using the office’s Gothian dictionary, together they translated the front page’s title, word by word:

The Planetary Conquest Cookbook.

So, that’s why Andy hadn’t been allowed to read it.

While Zab was asleep for 3 days, the cookbook came under intense study at ACS. Scientists and linguists pored over its pages, deciphering its secrets and unlocking the mysteries of Gothian cuisine, and interplanetary conquest. Apparently, finding a good personal chef was the most important step for a Gothian warlord to succeed.

When Zab woke up, Andy was there to feed him bland split pea soup, and let him know his goose was cooked. A culinary ceasefire was soon signed, and Zab agreed to move to a different planet.

Andy retired to a quiet life in the English countryside. He bought a small inn, serving simple, wholesome food and drink, with one unique quality for a dining establishment in Yorkshire – only vegetarian dishes were served.