Page 68 of The Secret Dinner

“You know, the core concept, an idea that sums up its whole vision. Every company has one. I was thinking gourmet anthropophagy,” he said, raising his open hands as if drawing a marquee in the air. “But it seems a little spineless, you know? Like a cop-out. I think it’s better to go with gourmet cannibalism.”

Piglet laughed. “Gourmet cannibalism?”

“The concept of cannibalism has been sullied; it has a very negative semantic charge. Just the mention of it and people immediately think of that guy who volunteered to be eaten online, or Hannibal Lecter, or that death cult in the Northeast who sold human empanadas. Empanadas, for Christ’s sake! What a way to cook a delicacy!”

Miguel got up from the table. “Now you’re saying cannibalism is cool?”

“I’m saying we need to put an end to its correlation with savagery and evil. Right now, it’s taboo. Take the word queer: It had a pejorative meaning in the past, but that’s no longer the case. The value people place on certain flavors is a cultural thing. For example, why is caviar more expensive than cassava? Both are divine delicacies! Human flesh is also divine; it has the most intense flavor of all. That’s what we need to show people.”

It was useless to argue with him. Dejected, Miguel sat back down, and we munched on our duck in silence for a few more minutes. I sometimes had the impression that Umberto was just saying those ridiculous things to rile us up. I tried to decipher his expression and mannerisms, but he seemed to truly believe what he was saying.

“People need to understand that eating human flesh can be virtuous and delicious!” he explained. “Did you know that for the Tupinambá tribe, ritual cannibalism was the main form of cultural acquisition, capable of transforming nature’s inherent evil into good? They ate their vanquished enemies to uplift the soul and gather courage, strength and vitality. From the moment I tried human flesh for the first time, I understood those Indians! It’s the fountain of youth, boys. It has a healing and regenerative effect. Let me ask you something: What’s the world’s biggest problem today?”

“Disease,” Miguel ventured.

“Social media,” said Piglet.

“Hunger,” I replied.

“That’s right, hunger,” said Umberto, like a teacher pleased with his star pupil. “Have you ever stopped to think about how cannibalism could become the most immediate solution to world hunger? What I mean is, it’s a cultural thing, not eating our dead. We weren’t raised that way. But as it turns out, burying the dead is a huge waste of tasty meat that could be used as nourishment. Even in the poorest villages in Africa, where people are starving, perfectly good meat is going to waste. Why not eat it? These people are going hungry because of this moral hang-up about eating their fellow human beings…”

It was sheer madness. Before anyone could respond, the maid came in to clear our plates. As if he’d been counting the seconds, Umberto stood up, rubbing his hands in front of his face.

“Time for the grand finale!”

He got up from the table and disappeared down the hall, shouting “Follow me” when he realized we hadn’t joined him. We went down a small staircase and into the rear elevator, which took us to the garage. There, parked among pickup trucks and convertibles, was a brand-new black Lexus with tinted windows. It was gorgeous, with leather seats and a panoramic sunroof.

“Forget that old clunker. This is my little gift to you, so you can arrive in style at dinner tomorrow,” he said, tapping lightly against the metal.

I was briefly suspicious of why Umberto would buy us a car like this. But then the old man swung open the doors and handed me the keys, and I didn’t think any more of it, overcome by that new car smell. Umberto patted the hood like a proud papa bear.

“You can call this one Hemingway.”

4

Late Saturday morning, I put my tuxedo jacket in a garment bag and drove my friends to the house in Jardim Botânico in our new car. We needed to start preparations for opening night. In just a few hours, the table was set—candlesticks and ten sous-plats on the linen tablecloth, small plates for bread and butter to the left of each setting, crystal glasses for water, white and red wine aligned in a perfect cascade. The silverware was meticulously positioned (two forks on the left; two knives on the right; dessert spoon above), with blindingly white linen napkins rolled in elegant silver rings and, as a finishing touch, a scattering of English lavender and finger bowls with floating petals. I felt like taking a picture and posting it on Instagram.

The body arrived around two PM, brought in by two suited men in a dark vehicle—I was never any good at identifying cars. The pair carried the body like a sack of potatoes to the guesthouse out back and dropped it on a plastic tarp. Cora thanked them as they left, then she went to change, leaving me alone with the body. It was a young white guy, a little older than me, with striking, chiseled features. His chest was torn open, red and raw, and he’d already been bled, which explained his ashen pallor. Despite all that, he was handsome, which piqued my curiosity. Who was he? He was so young; how had he died?

I stared at his face for I don’t know how long: his pointy nose, light eyes, angular jaw, the marks on his temples indicating he’d worn glasses. He seemed well-off, maybe upper-middle class. Inevitably, I began to imagine his parents mourning his death, receiving a box of ashes that belonged to someone else while their son lay in a guesthouse somewhere in Jardim Botânico, naked and dead.

Cora snapped me back to reality. She was wearing a white jumpsuit and a surgical mask, wielding her yellow chainsaw, which was now adorned with a barrage of stickers: Star Wars, Game of Thrones, Frida Kahlo, Harry Potter, Pokémon, Jesus Christ, and Hello Kitty. That chainsaw was becoming more colorful by the day, adorned in funny sayings and the faces of TV characters. It was her favorite toy.

“Excuse me, handsome,” she said, muffled by the mask. “I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.”

I obeyed without question and went upstairs. I stepped into the shower just as the chainsaw’s roar engulfed the property, creating a disturbing echo in the forest. I stood under the hot water for a long time, escaping the noise, before getting ready for the evening.

That first dinner in the new house came and went without a hitch, like all the others we would hold over the following months. Contrary to what I’d imagined, waiting lists continued to grow. To meet demand, we soon had to increase our frequency and began hosting two secret dinners a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

Like any bustling restaurant during the dinner rush, we established a ritual. My responsibilities ranged from welcoming guests to supervising the staff hired by Umberto, which consisted of five waiters, two sous-chefs, security guards, drivers, attendants, and cleaners. Everyone was discreet and humble. They may have found the atmosphere of the dinners strange, but they had no idea what was being cooked or served. We never talked about it, and only once did a waiter ask the wrong question—What kind of seagull meat are they eating? He was fired immediately.

Our drivers performed an initial search upon pickup, powering off and confiscating any electronic devices or other dangerous objects. Guests would begin arriving at the house—nicknamed JB SteakHouse by Piglet—from seven onward, always blindfolded and dressed in formal attire. At the entrance, they would undergo another search by security guards and would then be guided to the candlelit living room, where pleasant background music and unlimited Veuve Clicquot awaited them. Once everyone had arrived, I would come out to welcome them, wearing a tuxedo with my hair gelled.

“It’s a pleasure to welcome you to this exclusive occasion. My name is Sidney and I’m here to make sure you’ll have the best night of your lives. I hope you enjoy yourselves. I’m sure you have a lot of questions—most do the first time. You can ask whatever you like, but please don’t forget to use the term seagull instead of … you know…”

At that moment, everyone always giggled, exchanging glances. Then silence would set in, and someone would venture an obvious question:

“How do you obtain the seagulls?”