“It’s hard to blame anyone for not liking anchovies …
But it’s harder to imagine living without them.
There would be no...pan bagnat, no pissaladiére...no pasta puttanesca...
The misunderstood anchovy can add the essence of the sea”
Amanda Hesser, “A Little Fish, Much Maligned,” The New York Times
"Do not expect too much of the end of the world"
Stanislaw J. Lec
January 2, 2024
It’s almost twenty years since the so-called Valentines Day War between Trinidad & Tobago and Bhutan (a rapidly escalating imbroglio concerning tourist visas) turned 99.9% of the earth’s population into toaster-oven detritus. (As the world divided into hostile camps, it soon became apparent that 143 nations had secret nuclear weapons programs.) And now our Edenic community of God-chosen survivors faces the greatest challenge of its existence. The words drip like hemlock from the trembling lips of my Minister of the Interior’s ashen face: “Mr. President, the pan bagnat is finished … and we’re down to the last tub of pissaladiére!” I cannot repress a ululating moan of despair, in which Minister Lou joins me for the better part of the afternoon over cocktails, and indeed, it does make us a feel a little better to give full throat to our woe. But once the wailing peters out, we cannot avoid the dreadful specter of unhinged bestiality that had once before almost destroyed our fragile Shangri-La, when first the capers and then the imported salumi ran out; a horrific concatenation of events now referred to as “The Time of Troubles” or, among the fundamentalists, “The Cleansing of the Ark.”
I lost my beloved Jeannine in the chaos that resulted. Though I still keep my eyes open when rooting around in the storage closet, after fifteen years, hope is starting to dwindle.
After a good, long, honking nose blow, Lou and I exchanged glances pregnant with apprehension: the mutants, in particular, fiercely love their pissaladiére, and I made some promises during the last election that now, in retrospect, appear imprudent. I hadn’t realized how difficult it was to farm canned fish fillets – in point of fact, they’re more finicky than pandas. Luckily, the others don’t yet suspect how badly … I misunderstood the anchovy.
January 17, 2024
The special forces team has not returned and, at this point, we must assume they’re not going to. The Council of Elders (Lou & I) had hoped that sent forth wrapped in tin foil, waving prayer flags and singing hymns, they might just make it to the Market Street Safeway and return safely with a precious cargo of tiny roll-top cans. Of course, we knew it was a last-seconds-of-the-fourth-quarter Hail Mary pass born of desperation, and to be honest, I adjusted my expectations appropriately when, upon the opening of the hatch, their heads exploded from the radiation. I feel badly about that, but then again, they may well be the lucky ones: even now, if sacred books speak true, these immortals are being fêted in Valhalla amid mountainous portions of Caesar salad, abundantly strewn with crispy herb croutons. No anchovy shortage in paradise.
Here on earth, the last of the pissaladiére is gone. And it’s too late to tunnel. Dear Father in heaven! Why hast Thou forsaken us?
January 22, 2024
The people’s faces are not yet openly mutinous, but the mutants sense that something’s not right. They sniff suspiciously at their plates and trade swift, indecipherable glances. “Yum, yum! This is your best yet, Uncle Lou! So rich, so tasty!” I exclaim. Under the emergency powers granted me by The Council, I secretly ordered Lou, as Minister for Cuisine, to add a can of common Norwegian sardines in soybean oil to the puttanesca sauce in hopes of approximating that exquisitely saline tang food writers call “essence of the sea.” Lou pops his ancient head out the door of the kitchen to deliver a wide, sickly smile and an over-exuberant, double-handed thumbs-up. Personally I can’t eat a bite – I hate sardines, having once eaten several pounds of them on a bet – though I make a big show of hefting my fork, smacking my lips, unbuckling my belt and rubbing my distended belly. This terrible knowledge I bear has destroyed my appetite, but I’ll sneak down later for a quick Brie and black truffle soufflé. Hungry or not, I must keep up my strength for the sake of my people.
February 2, 2024
The truth is out. The mutants got to Lou and then broke him like a garlic-sesame breadstick. Barricaded in the de-radiation chamber, I hear the bellows of rage and screams of terror, the wanton destruction and unholy violence taking place in the other three rooms of our underground utopia. It is the End: I know that now. I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out the last of the little silver containers, hoarded against this black day. I detach the key and fit it upon the protruding flap of metal. I roll back the ingenious tin top to reveal the layers of petite fillets within, metaphorically swimming in oil. Tears start helplessly from my eyes, the breath catches, a choked sob in my throat. To think, dear Polonius, for want of an anchovy, our great, shining dream has come to ashes.
I’m so very tired, and sick with guilt (why, oh why didn’t I stockpile more anchovies!) – though to be fair, it’s unclear how I might have guessed that the in-laws (aka the mutants) would drop by for a visit on the fateful day Bhutan launched at India (the only ally of Trinidad and Tobago its one missile could reach) … But none of that matters now. Nothing matters. There’ll be no more pan bagnat, no more pissaladiére or puttanesca. One by one, I let the anchovies dissolve like briny Eucharist upon my tongue. I drink the clotted, brackish oil and lick the can. Such suchness! I cannot imagine life without it.
They are tearing through the barricades, howling insanely for my life blood. They know not what they do … and I forgive them. My heart sings with love as I take the ball-peen hammer to the first eager fingers to break through the boards.
It is finished. I leave this diary for whomsoever may find it.
All that is needful now is a playful twist of the hatch.
I’m coming Jeannine, my darling!
Oh, the Light! The glorious Light!
Henry E. Panky
An Anchovy Among Humorists
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