Pâté Pantin, special Greek Orthodox and muffed puff pastry edition.

The Last Tempation of the Croûte.

Enough of an endeavor, maybe, to secure a single orchestra seat to the rapture. Protestant ancestors might not be too jazzed, but who cares. Supposed to be an Easter Pithiviers but the puff pastry got muffed up, naturally, and a colorful monument to profanity ensued. Bitterly added enough flour, piss and vinegar to make some sort of bullshit pâte à foncer.

Meatloaf left me cross.

Forcemeat was a desperate mish-mash of duck scraps, chicken liver, probably some pork, my spoiled lardo, metal shavings, cat litter and a whatever pistachios could be pilfered from uppity lounges.

Tree of Job would have been more original, and organic.

Oh great. Aspic.

Reckoning: Not enough nitrate in the pantry, had to substitute sel-rose and the forcemeat oxidized after cooking. Aspic didn’t have enough wine because I drank most of it. Pretty much a waste of time. Sorry to have wasted yours. Should have gone to art school.

Multifaceted blasphemy. Barely sacrilicious.

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