You’re Invited to a Five-Course Corpse Flower (Fanfic) Dinner

Co-authored by Matthew Sandvik & Sarah Brumble

(This is gross, and meant to be. Read knowing that full-well.)

With very little notice, we received a most mysterious invitation.

On the occasion of its 20th year sharing this green earth, Chauncey Beadle -- one half of the twin gender-fluid “Corpse Flowers” [Amorphophallus titanium] thriving at the U of Minnesota’s CBS Conservatory -- is set to produce a most fragrant bloom. Everyday its protrusion inches skyward, ever nearer to its infamously pungent peak and inevitable collapse, like a rotting phallus bedecked in a wilted cabbage-like peplum.

Inspired by Chauncey’s bloom and accompanying ‘perfume,’ we corpse-flower-tenders invite you to this birthday party, one with a grown-up palate, hosted in darkest night. Before your arrival, Chauncey implores guests to suspend their preconceived notions of delicacy, to best bask in this flash of culinary innovation.

Two comps to a five-course tasting dinner fluttered from envelope to floor. “Menu to be announced upon arrival” appear in script at the bottom of each.

As a pair, we arrive together, in the night, at the appointed time. A smell of humid filth emanates from a vent near a list of grow houses, its golden hues reflecting in the slick misted parking lot.  

Crossing the plant kingdom’s threshold, our coats and hats are removed for us and locked safely within an adjacent walk-in cooler. We, the guests, are lifted firmly, but not without care, and deposited into a large upright cart, by burly men bedecked in white linen, whose faces are obscured. “Such nice Agricultural Undergrads!” I beam at my companion, who cannot hide his astonishment that anyone can budge his 6’2” frame.

In the cart, we are wheeled down a concrete and iron hallway. All is dark save for colored pools of light spilling from unmarked side rooms -- research labs, likely. The floors are slick with a fine layer of mud over linoleum.

“How kind of them to wheel us to our destination. Moisture’s hell on suede, and I do prefer these heels intact,” I think.

We enter, or are entered, into a dark room with a single yellow bulb hovering amidst a sea of black-currant drapes in velvet. The makeshift “walls” bear a single painting with a dark splatter smeared across a white canvas. We consider if it were wrought by a hand? a mop? or something else entirely. A second set of twin servers -- identical in height and gait, albeit veiled fingertip to face in black muslin and lace -- lead us to our table.

Nearby, one of our dozen dinner companions titters, “This is certain to be a fete!”

Central to the room, surveying us all, stands the guest of honor: Chauncey Beadle. The corpse flower, with its grey purple spadix rising to the heavens like an obscene tongue, looked every bit the part of dark belle of the eve, oozed a sweet pungescence nothing short of putrid and, somehow, mouthwatering -- dead trees, hot garbage juice dripping from a dumpster, the moist underside of an unlucky possum, and a hot summer breath on your neck.

Needless to say, we are hungry.

The first course arrives and we are treated with an amuse bouche, a tiny, masterfully crafted chrysanthemum built of swim bladders, encased and suspended in a hoof gelee. Not unlike a common chevre, the gelee’s barnyard flavors are strong but any scent is not decipherable. The dead stench of the corpse flower hangs over everything as a storm cloud blots out the sun. We are not displeased.

The cocktails are served promptly and we are delighted by the refined delivery of a martini glass, featuring an interactive component. The clear, chilled liquor inside is deceptively thick, and dotted with a perfect float of what the menu notes refer to as “pond algae” -- “locally sourced, from this very lab.” To consume, one first chews open the dish-sink film that has sealed the glass-top, then stirs the… vodka? -- admittedly we are embarrassed we simply cannot tell, given the putrescence fighting our nostrils -- with a garnish pick, decorated with skewered eyeballs, increasing in circumference from toad to cuttlefish, and goat.

The soup arrives, along with plastic, full-length bibs for diners. A medley of rotten pumpkin pureé with dandelion sludge, fortified with bog butter for nuttiness, cooked slow-and-low until textureless, served in the body of a sea cucumber. To consume, one must place the smaller “head” of the sea cuke within one’s mouth, lift the butt-end into the air, and with the opposite hand squeeze firmly and rush the hand up toward the mouth rapidly while sucking. Admittedly, the bisque-squash slime is guaranteed to end up on your face and hair and clothing, but as with the best barbecue one must simply dive in.

Once we have futilely de-goo’ed and de-bibb’ed ourselves, the hors d’oeuvres arrive. Bestowed with a courteous bow, our faceless server leaves a simple plate containing a trio of treats; to the left, a generous serving of dog guts (blue) with a tease of steamed hair; on the right, a small pyramid of fatberg (foraged); at center, a mini-Rocky mountain oyster juicy lucy (speared with pink plastic sword). The fatberg is in-season and has been sliced in perfect cubes, like a cloud trapped in ice, bears a playfulness of fog.

Presiding over the hors d’oeuvres stands a grasshopper in a pose reminiscent of a stag in battle, with cordyceps protruding from its head. Unsure whether it’s garnish, we eat it to avoid looking foolish. The simplicity of preparation is thrilling.

“It feels like years since I’ve used my teeth!” my companion bellows, head thrown back, eyes frantically searching for the moon.

The main course is an urban forager’s dream. Freegan-sourced donut chunks, beef rib tips, rewetted dried-mushrooms garnished with yeast blossoms, all served cornucopia-style from a centrally located flower pot, found plaster bucket, and goldfish bowl. We chitter gleefully, food pieces in each hand, forgoing all manners, caught up by the swell of community, marveling at each guest’s haul.

Upon returning to our chairs, the main course is cleared and we are treated with dessert. At first glance, the dish resembles cheesecake, but is in fact a slice of pig’s blood consomme, sweetened with Goldschlager, encased in which is a tiny dark-skinned salamander with gold specks down its back, carrying in its mouth a tiny fish heart. The crust is a composite crust of animal bone, fingernail and various cartilages, with a perfect bake. From the iron’s interpay with the spice, to the loose textural and crunchy aspects, it proved a daring final flavor, to be certain.

At the very instant we finish our desserts, the first pair of strongmen and our twin dark servers rushed to our sides, leaving no room for a parting moment of contemplation at Chauncey’s altar. Heaved from our seats, we are carried over-the-shoulder fireman-style, up a length of industrial ladders, and quite ceremoniously hucked from the second floor roof. We land, fittingly, in the dumpster, amidst a steaming garbage stew of detritus that smells vaguely familiar. Gazing up at the early spring starlight, we are overcome with joy from head to toe, and the sudden urge to vomit.

***

Yet none of this actually transpired. Though (the very real) Chauncey Beadle is set to complete its rancid bloom cycle any day now in the CBS Conservatory, located on the University of Minnesota’s Agricultural Campus, the above was nothing but a fever dream enlivened by corpse flower blooms of yore -- including having witnessed Chauncey’s last maturation, in 2016.  

But such a feast should, and theoretically could take place.

We set this fanciful faux-spread as a challenge for lovers of both botany and and food to visit Chauncey while he’s stinking to high heavens, and devise a worse dinner party inspired by his unique, fragrant gift to the world. Better go now, before you’re stuck sniffing carcasses on the side of the road to see what your cool friends are raving about.

Blink and you’ll miss it.