Eating mammals : three novellas / John Barlow.

By:

Barlow, John, 1967-

Material type: Text

TextPublication details: New York : Perennial, 2004.Edition: 1st U.S. edDescription: 266 pages ; 21 cmISBN:

0060591757
9780060591755

Subject(s):

Short stories, English

DDC classification:

813 BAR

Contents:

Eating mammals -- The possession of Thomas Bessie -- The donkey wedding in Gomersel.

Fiction notes: Click to open in new window

Holdings
Item type	Current library	Call number	Copy number	Status	Date due	Barcode
Standard Loan	Moylish Library Fiction Collection	813 BAR (Browse shelf(Opens below))	1	Available		39002100665422

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

In the tradition of T. C. Boyle,

Steven Millhauser, and Michel Faber -- with a penchant for

the macabre worthy of Irvine Welsh -- comes Eating Mammals.

Gypsies, businessmen, servants, masters, and unwise children come together in three mythical tales from Victorian England. Eating Mammals evokes a lost time and place in which the realm of the magical seems almost too possible: a winged cat wreaks havoc in a Yorkshire workhouse and then in the minds of a succession of owners; a famed stunt eater introduces his apprentice, Captain Gusto, to the delicate art of devouring anything for a living; a blooming romance between two meat-pie makers leads thirty-two adorned donkeys to the altar. Wholly original and as assured as folklore, Eating Mammals marks the arrival of a very distinctive new voice.

Eating mammals -- The possession of Thomas Bessie -- The donkey wedding in Gomersel.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Eating Mammals Three Novellas Chapter One My career began with two strokes of good luck -- fate you might say, because as instances of good fortune none could have bettered them. After the war, towards the end of which I served as a cook in His Majesty's land forces, I returned to England and, armed with the ability to knock up wholesome bully beef stew for three hundred, presumed to pass myself off as a chef. In my new, ill-fitting suit (we all go a new, ill-fitting suit) I talked my way into the kitchens of modest hotel in Scarborough, and several years afterward found myself working in one of the superior hotels on the Yorkshire coast. I won't tell you where, because about decade later, at a moment when I gained some brief, local notoriety for swallowing slugs, my former employer there wrote to beg me never to divulge the name of the place to another living soul. Quite right, of course, although by that time I had completely forgotten the name of the establishment, and his letter served only to remind me of it. Anyway, whilst I was working at this hotel as third chef, in which role I took charge of breakfasts, I found myself on morning called to the table of a guest in order to receive hi compliments. His name was Mulligan, a regular customer and familiar to us all, not by the frequency of his stays so much as by the dimensions of his body. He was, quite simply enormous. In his tweed suit he resembled a well-tailored tree trunk, a huge lump of man. One would not have called him fat, although there was certainly more to him than meat and bone. No, not fat. Even as he sat, motionless but for the steady working of his jaws, one could tell that he wasn't a wobbler, that when he stood up his belly would not ifib-flab around in front of him like a sackful of jellyfish. From head to toe he had achieved a condition only dreamed of by the obese, and scorned (somewhat jealously) by bodybuilders everywhere: firm fat. And underneath that magnificent outer layer there resided also an ample musculature, sufficient muscle indeed so that, had he been alive today, Mulligan would have been at least an American wrestler, and at best a great film star. But as luck (for me) would have it, he was neither of these; he was the feted Michael 'Cast Iron' Mulligan. And that morning, as I picked bits of uneaten bacon from returned breakfast plates, examining them for teeth marks before setting them aside for a quiche, he wanted to speak to me. At that time I knew no more about him than what I saw, and that included what I saw him eat. On this particular occasion he had consumed enough porridge to fill a bowler hat, ham and eggs sufficient to keep a team of navvies on the move all morning, and half a loaf of toast. But, then again, he had done so the previous morning, and as far as I was aware my cooking had not improved miraculously overnight. So why he wanted to speak to the breakfast chef I could not guess. I approached his table, where he was sipping tea from a china cup, as delicate as you like. As if to mark my arrival he dropped a lump of sugar into the cup with a pair of silver tongs. Then he looked up at me. 'So you're the breakfast chef,' he said, in an Irish accent which teetered between seriousness and levity, as if everything had two possible interpretations. 'Well, many thanks indeed for another fine meal. Yes, many, many thanks.' I accepted his gratitude somewhat awkwardly, not quite deciding on an interpretation. 'And,' he continued, pushing a vacant chair towards me and lowering his voice, 'I am in need of a little assistance, and you look as if you might be the right man for the job.' I sat down at the table, and noticed that there was a pound note slotted under a side plate. He let me consider its possible significance for a moment, then went on. 'Today,' he said, then stopping to drain the last of the tea from his cup, 'I have a little business, a professional dinner if you will ... I nodded, still looking at the money. 'A rather special affair, for which I am to provide the liquid refreshment.' I was about to tell him that access to the wine cellar was strictly by arrangement with the manager, having (incorrectly) deduced that he, like many others before him, baulked at the prices on our wine list and fancied some vino on the cheap. But I was a rather timid young man, and before I could summon up a suitably tactful form of words to explain that every thief has his price, and that mine was three pounds a case, he took a small piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket and placed it in front of me ... Eating Mammals Three Novellas . Copyright © by John Barlow. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Eating Mammals: Three Novellas by John Barlow All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.