Status Updates From Kafka's Soup: A Complete Hi...

hmmmm, zor yenen bir yemek ama yicez artık

Onion Tart
à la Geoffrey Chaucer

Then spake oure Host.
“Now have we heard from every which one
Of our fellowship with receipts to tell, but one.
Maister Graham, as knoweth many a man,
Loves best tales of cuckoldry as he man.
And thou wyfe of Bloomesbury, long of face,
Right boldly hast thou taken thy place.
God knowes well thy stream of consciousness,
For your clafoutis may God you blesse.
And thou, clerke of P

Cheese on toast
à la Harold Pinter

HURLEY. You like olive oil?
(He lays the mozzarella over the aubergine, drizzles olive oil on top, and finally adds a sprinkle of chopped oregano, before placing the ciabatta under a hot grill.)
CLACK. I don’t want none of that foreign muck.
HURLEY. Olive oil? It’s good for you.
CLACK. It’s for cleaning out your ears ain’t it?
HURLEY. (Drops a tea bag into the

Sole à la Dieppoise
à la Jorge Luis Borges

Sir Henry then seasoned the sole with salt and pepper and place the pieces in a flameproof pan. The sun had by now descended below the rooftops the through the window he perceived the tower of Westminster Abbey. The light of the gas flame took over from the extravagant sunset and illuminated Sir Henry’s irremeable countenance. He drained the mussels and re-covered them

Vietnamese Chicken
à la Graham Greene

The smell of chopped garlic clung to my hands as I mixed it together with the lemon zest, fish and soy sauces, and the peppers, black and cayenne. The chicken breasts rested on the counter and my hand moved towards them as though guided by an unseen force. It was too late to go back; she would be here soon.

Ritually I sliced the breasts into thin strips. The white flesh lay on

Fenkata
à la Homer

Odysseus bound the mighty creature’s feet and slung him over his shoulder to carry back to the Achaian’s camp on the beach of the grey sea, beneath the bows of the wooden ships.
Then swift-footed brilliant Achilles gave up his weeping and came out from his tent. He girt about his chest loins a leather apron and skinned the rabbit and cut it expertly into equal parts. Then he took the pieces

Clafoutis Grandmère
à la Virginia Woolf

She placed the cherries in a buttered dish and looked out of the window. The children were racing across the lawn, Nicholas already between the clumps of red-hot pokers, turning to wait for the others. Looking back at the cherries, that would not be pitted, red polka dots on white, so bright and jolly, their little core of hardness invisible, in pity she thought of Mrs Sorle

Boned stuffed poussins
à la Marquis de Sade

He now laid the two poussins down in front of him and began to stuff them with the mixture. I had no idea that a small bird could take so much stuffing, but he carried on, using language that my ears could barely suffer, until the poor birds could take no more. Then he took a needle and thread, sewed up their openings, and patted the brutalised creatures back into shape.

Mushroom Risotto
à la John Steinbeck

The porcini lay dry and wrinkled, each slice twisted by thirst and the color of parched earth. When the water finally fell, at first only in splashes, they drank what they could, but soon they were all covered with the life-giving liquid. The parched fragments recovered an earlier form, their contortions changed, by the gift of water, into a supine mass, glistening.

Coq au Vin
à la Gabriel García Márquez

On the eve of the execution Father Antonio took up his position at the kitchen table and laid out the church accounts. Tobaga crossed herself, took the pieces of the Little Jaguar from the marinade, and allowed them to drain. In a pan she heated the olive oil and added the small onions whole. She chopped the smoked pork into small pieces and put that, too, into the pan.

Tiramisu
à la Marcel Proust

“He then takes the eggs and separates out the yolks, which he mixes with sugar to form a soft cream. The whites he whisks into a snowy peak.” To throw myself from that snow-swept mountain. “He then reunites the two mixtures,” oh blessed union, “before adding the mascarpone a little at a time and a final splash of the amaretto. He then spreads the creamy concoction on top

Rich Chocolate Cake
à la Irving Welsh

Ah drop a packet of butter intae the pan and light the flame beneath it. As it melts, ah pour on the sugar, watching the white grains dissolve intae the golden brown liquid. They’re dissolving cleanly; it’s good fuckin shite. Ma hands are shaking as ah sprinkle the brown powder of the cocoa intae the pan and when ah drop in the bar of chocolate ah have the satisfaction of

Quick Miso Soup
à la Franz Kafka

The sound of a kettle boiling brought his attention back to the food and at the same time he noticed a jar of fermented miso and a block of silken tofu, perhaps left by his landlady. He placed two spoonfuls of the miso into a saucepan and poured on four cups of hot water, shielding the process from the panel as he did so. He became angry with himself for thinking of the new arrivals

Tarragon Eggs
à la Jane Austen

Mrs B— obliged by beating the eggs slightly to break up yolks and white. On Lady Cumberland’s instruction she then passed the eggs through a sieve to remove the thread and further mix the white and the yolk without creating the froth that can be “so unsightly.” No sooner had such an end been reached than she added the tarragon, which was by now high in her good graces

Lamb with Dill Sauce
à la Raymond Chandler

In this town the grease always rises to the top, so I strained the juice and skimmed off the fat. I added more water and put it back on the heat. It was time to deal with the butter and flour, so I mixed them together into a paste and added it to the stock. There wasn’t a whisk, so using my blackjack I beat out any lumps until the paste was smooth. It started to boil,