Page 69 of The Secret Dinner

“We harvest our meat safely and sustainably, from seagulls that are already deceased,” I replied. “All of it is fresh and undergoes a careful inspection process.”

“What if I’m too afraid to eat it?”

“Being an observer is not allowed. You must participate fully—those are the rules. If it’s your first time, you might feel a little scared or guilty, but I guarantee all that will go away after one bite!”

Once all the questions had been answered, I led the diners into the dining room, where a small card with each person’s initials marked their position at the table, where they were arranged by age and prestige. The waiters entered to serve drinks, and the sequence of dishes began—naturally, each flavor profile was paired with a different variety of wine. With one waiter for each pair of guests, dishes would arrive at the table all at the same time, the stainless-steel cloches lifted in perfect synchrony. The seagull was always plated with a sauce, while side dishes were served French style: Waiters circulated around the table carrying steaming platters so everyone could help themselves.

At the beginning of the meal, the guests would eat in silence, greedily chowing down, forgetting everything and everyone as they delighted in the extraordinary flavor of the new meat. Their faces brightened, their eyes grew more colorful, and their expressions came alive after those first few bites. Soon, a feeling of warmth spread around the table, and with their spirits stirred and their imaginations heightened, everyone began to talk, filled with excitement.

Life changes when you discover your gift, and I had discovered mine. I was a pro at welcoming the guests, making them feel comfortable and special. I knew how to be discreet and didn’t ask personal questions, but I showed keen interest in the stories they wanted to share, complimenting the women’s clothes and jewelry at just the right time, and talked to the men about anything from the stock market to sports and imported drinks. I made a good amount of money in tips at the end of each night. I was, without a doubt, the perfect host.

Piglet also diligently performed his duties behind the scenes, digging into the lives of every diner in advance and ensuring that none of them had any connections to the police. Overall, everyone was cautiously reserved, fascinated by the electrifying experience of arriving blindfolded at an unknown location and being treated like royalty at a banquet, tasting such rare and special meat.

“With us, you’re not just paying for the food, but for the experience,” I got used to saying.

Driven by a perverse curiosity, the eccentrics of Rio came out in full force. A lot of them preferred to give a pseudonym or lie about their job title, but Piglet always figured it out. After several months, Piglet, who had always liked lists, tallied the main professions of the people who attended our events. Doctors, artists, lawyers, businessmen, and politicians topped the list. There were quite a few heirs of rich, powerful families and, almost every week, at least two or three celebrities, including actors and TV directors.

To secure their place on the waiting list, diners were required to pay a deposit in full upon reservation, so the money just kept rolling in. After deducting expenses and Umberto’s half, we made around fifteen thousand per dinner, to be divided among the five of us, which came to almost twenty thousand reals per month each. It was a lot more than I’d ever make in a junior role at any private company. One night I built a bonfire with all my college textbooks and cackled at the sight of Taylor’s and Chiavenato’s organizational theories going up in flames.

Hugo severed ties with the catering company where he’d been working, and Miguel cut back his shifts at the hospital without telling Rachel. Cora stopped turning tricks and decided to devote herself solely to butchering and literature. She insisted on being introduced to Umberto, but I refused, respecting Piglet’s wishes. After she was done slicing and dicing the bodies, she’d go home with her boyfriend, before the staff and guests arrived.

Those dinners changed our lives, bringing us a sense of real momentum while the rest of the world was floundering. Without the threat of having to go back to Pingo d’Água hanging over me, I could lead a stable life and even allow myself a few luxuries. Piglet was happier than ever, stuffing himself with food, internet, and sex with Cora. With each day, the two of them seemed more connected, more made for each other.

Hugo had found nourishment for his ego. He spent all his free time studying recipes, trying new delicacies, and ordering gourmet ingredients online. He prided himself on being the greatest underground chef de cuisine in Brazil. It wasn’t uncommon for evenings to end with guests demanding he make an appearance so they could congratulate him, like a director being called to the stage.

“Nobody had ever applauded me before these dinners,” he told me early one morning as he sweated over the stove, toasting a blend of spices. “Nobody valued me.”

Of course I noticed he was slowly turning into this strange, self-sufficient being, steeped in vanity, but back then I didn’t want to waste my time worrying about things like that. I was too busy upgrading my TV and stocking my mini fridge with Johnnie Walker.

And while it’s true Miguel never really got into the dinner business, he was never fully out of it, either. He continued to live with us and even helped out with dinners on occasion. I remember one time when one of the waiters called in sick, he put on the uniform to take his place, or another time when they brought fresh oregano instead of thyme and Hugo threw a tantrum, so Miguel ran to the supermarket to get the damn thyme.

In mid-August, I was surprised to see Kássio Gheler among the ten confirmed attendees for the evening’s event. He arrived alone, his long hair falling over his face and dark circles under his eyes; he looked exhausted, like a recovering addict. I hadn’t seen him since the first dinner at our apartment back in April. Piglet informed me that Kássio had broken up with his boyfriend over “differing values.” He greeted me and just stood there for a few seconds with this blank look on his face. Then he smiled.

“Don’t worry,” he said in this zombified voice. “You changed my life.”

Human flesh is addictive, I remembered immediately and watched as Kássio rabidly devoured the braised seagull ossobuco in date sauce with Moroccan couscous served that night. He came back for four or five more dinners and always made a point of thanking me. The obsessive tone in his voice was unnerving.

It didn’t take long before we needed to shake things up. Umberto suggested that all dishes, not just the main course, contain seagull, and we came up with the idea for themed dinners. Hugo reveled in the news. In late August, we hosted a dinner with special vacuum-packed cuts, each with a label indicating the seagull’s gender, race, age, and weight. Diners could select their very own steaks, which were cooked to order in the brick barbecue pit and served with grilled vegetables. That night, for the first time, Hugo attempted heart en brochette seasoned with lemon, as well as a homemade sausage that combined fat from a woman, the lean meat of an athlete, and the more marbled meat of a fat man, to ensure the very best flavor and juiciness.

There was also a French night, featuring classic flavor combinations. The smell of butter, cream, and black pepper filled the villa. Hugo taught me the foundation of French cuisine in its use of techniques that respect the food and finding the perfect balance of textures and flavors—acidity, heat, sweetness, and salt. For that occasion, he made a classic steak tartare as the first course, with capers, mustard, onion, mayonnaise, and black pepper mixed into the raw meat, a tender and flavorful rib eye. The main course was an escalope au vin accompanied by ratatouille. For dessert, profiteroles.

Thai night was a blur of colors and aromas. For the starter, spring rolls with neck meat, vegetables, and spices. The secret was in the sauce, a perfect blend of orange, pepper, soy sauce, fish sauce, and palm sugar. Hugo added his own twist with tarragon, an unusual ingredient for Thai cuisine. For the main course, a variety of curries—green, yellow, red—served with jasmine rice, fresh mushrooms, green beans, and herbs. The aromas were striking and the colors enticing. Hugo decided to use different body parts for the different curries. For the green curry, milder in flavor, he used the human equivalent of filet mignon. For the yellow, he wanted something with a little more personality and fat and went with marbled back muscle. For the red, he used the belly and buttocks, extra fatty and full of flavor.

In mid-September, we held masked balls, and guests went all out, exuding sophistication and mystery. We even hosted a special night with a “vegetarian” menu. Umberto made a point of explaining before the toast that the two seagulls being served that evening were a vegan couple who’d died a few days earlier in a car accident. According to everyone’s feedback, it was delicious.

5

For Piglet’s birthday—when he and Cora would celebrate their one-year “anniversary”—Cora decided to throw a party. She booked a boat cruise and spent a small fortune on booze. On the morning of September 19, the sun was scorching. I left the house in shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, positive it would be a blast. When we arrived at the pier at Aterro do Flamengo, with a stunning view of Guanabara Bay, Cora revealed her big surprise: She’d invited four of her “girlfriends” to show the boys a good time.

“Nothing like some good ol’ debauchery,” she said.

I boarded the boat and sat in the corner, moping at the thought of being forced to watch my drunk friends going at it with hookers on a Tuesday morning. I poured a glass of vodka on the rocks, connected my phone to the sound system, and put a playlist on shuffle. At least I could distract myself with good music.

“C’mon, let’s hurry up and set sail,” I said.

“Aw, do you think I just forgot about you?” she said. “Never, my darling.”

Minutes later, the missing piece arrived: a muscular, dark-haired man with green eyes and nipple piercings named Sebástian. It was the best party ever. Things got wild in no time. I’d never seen a weed burger or cannabis mojito before, but Cora had ordered these and other delicious THC-infused treats.