Eager faces followed the crane-mounted camera as it swept above their heads. They extended their arms into the air as if wanting to touch the people on the other side of the television screen. Merry jazz flooded the studio as strobing lights lit the stage—at the center of which, a pair of men standing behind a kitchen counter smiled and waved at the noisy audience.
“Welcome everybody! Welcome back to your favorite cooking show,” the host—a man in his fifties wearing too much makeup—said. “You see who’s standing right next to me, don’t you?”
The crowd roared.
“Our special guest for today, the one, the onl—”
The audience erupted. A woman fainted; a man at the very back deprived himself of the ability to speak for a whole week by yelling Woooo! at utterly inappropriate levels.
The guest, who until that point had been wearing little more than a plain white tee and a sincere desire to learn the culinary arts, put on a sheepish smile and took a bow. “Thank you for having me, it’s a real honor,” he said once the ruckus had subsided. “So tell me, what are we doing here today?”
“Silly me, I guess no introduction was needed.” The host side-eyed the camera and chuckled along with the crowd. “Today we are making a classic, a real staple of the show: we are, once more, attempting to recreate my grandma’s iconic Darwin bread.”
“Oh, what a treat!”
“Indeed. And we got ourselves a very special yeast. Our producers went all the way to a tiny hamlet in Bavaria to obtain it. Hopefully, it’ll do the trick.”
“Well, let’s get to it then!” The guest straightened his back and put his palms on the counter. “So uhm, tell me, what’s so special about it?”
“Ah, good question.” The host bent down and pulled a big bowl from beneath the counter, then placed it front and center for the cameras. “Here I’ve got flour and the yeast already mixed up. I added some sugar as well. Now, usually, when making bread, you want to create the ideal conditions for the yeast, right? Temperature, sugar, pH, hydration, so on and so forth.”
“Right, you want to make it as comfy as possible. Like that one Angolan brothel…”
The camera zoomed in on an elderly couple, showcasing their uncomfortable smiles and nervous darting of the eyes.
“Yes, exactly like that, I think,” the host said. “Well, to make my grandma’s Darwin bread, we go the opposite way.”
“Intriguing. How does THAT work?”
“Like so.” The sound of a can of cold, frothy beer being opened echoed through the studio. The host, sporting a sadistic smile, poured the whole can into the bowl. “Alcohol kills yeast. Also, beer comes from yeast—the beer is effectively in another yeast’s territory, right? You’re removing the home advantage.”
“Yeah, I get it, a double whammy. No yeast would ever like that—unless it’s some kind of psycho yeast.”
“Exactly. And now, I’m going to pour a little bit of this.” The host produced a pitcher of boiling water. “The weak shall be culled.”
“I can imagine. Just look at that steam! Oh, heavens, I bet it didn’t like that, didn’t like it at all.”
“Finally,” the host said, pressing his palms together as if in prayer, “we bring out the big guns.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial filled with yellowish liquid.
“Now look at that.” The guest peered into the vial, studying the swirling eddies born from chaotic micro-turbulence.
“This, my friend, is no common urine.”
“Of course. Uncommon urine. No other type belongs in the kitchen, if you ask me.”
“Rare indeed, for you see, every fifteen years, at the southern point of the isle of Madagascar, something magical happens.”
“How magical?”
The host cleared his throat. “Every fifteen years, for one night—and one night only—the elder southern yellow lemur matriarch emerges from her slumber to mate. She produces a serum filled with pheromones, proteins, hormones, and a dash of her personal microbiome.”
“Sounds thick, robust even. Like my favorite wines.”
“Yes, she then mixes it with her urine—”
“So that’s where it enters the equation.”
“And proceeds to spray it all over her territory. Collecting this substance requires a massive logistic effort, and it deprives an entire lemur tribe of the opportunity to reproduce. So as you can imagine, it isn’t exactly easy to acquire.”
“Sounds illegal.”
“Eh, it adds to the flavor. Fun fact: this show alone drives seventy percent of the global market.”
“What accounts for that other thirty percent?”
“Now we add it to the mixture, cover it up, and wait.” The host extended his arms towards the audience. “We’ll go to a commercial break and once we are back, we shall see if this yeast is worthy enough to accompany us in our bread making journey. Don’t go anywhere!”
“I can’t wait!”
The crowd cheered.
The camera flew around the studio.
“Welcome back everybody. Aaarreee you ready to see the results?”
The guest assented with his head and clapped. The audience followed along, tapping with their feet in anticipation.
The host removed the cover from the bowl and showed its contents to all viewers.
A wave of disappointed boos rippled through the studio.
“Yes yes, indeed,” the host said. His hands on the counter, looking down. “Another night, same hour, same result, ladies and gentleman. We have proven, once more, that no yeast has been invented that’s capable of making my grandma’s old Darwin bread.” He lifted his head and brought his hands together. “Never mind that however! Tune in tomorrow to see what we’ve got cooking up on your favorite cooking show!”
“Thank you for having me. It was real fun—really educational.” The guest shook the host’s hand.
The audience clapped.
The camera zoomed out.
The outro music played.
TV screens faded to black.
People in the audience began to stand.
“Good show,” the guest said as they both watched the audience being ushered by the show’s handlers to exit in an orderly fashion. “I do have a question, if you’ll humor me.”
“Of course, anything for an autograph!”
Both men chuckled.
“So, what’s the secret? How did your family make this bread?”
“Believe it or not, obtaining rare lemur piss was in fact easier in the past.”
“I’m not talking about that. I mean the yeast—what happened to it?”
“Oh, well, that’s easy to explain. When my grandma died, the family lost access to her private parts.”
— Bastian Espada