The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly

No, this post is not about things which have been taken out of Boy Abunda's ass. It's the title of a book I'm reading right now and which has been adapted into a movie directed by Julian Schnabel. For the movie which shares the title of the book, Schnabel won the best director prize in Cannes this year. If you've not heard of the book, you will be absolutely amazed on what it is about.

The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly is the title of the memoir of French journalist Jean Dominique Bauby. On December 8, 1995 and at the age of 43, Bauby, who was at that time the editor-in-chief of French Elle, suffered a massive (and not to mention catastrophic) stroke. He was in a coma for 20 days and when he awoke, he found that he had locked-in syndrome. Locked-in syndrome is like the phrase "global warming" or "venereal disease" in that it sounds benign but the reality of what it is would absolutely make you shit your shorts. Bauby discovered that he could no longer move his body from the head to the feet. He was totally paralyzed save for his left eyelid. Yes, his..left...eyelid.

You know that old chestnut about making lemonade when life gives you lemons? Well, it's rather insulting to use a cliche like that to reveal that Bauby decided to write a book about his life with locked-in syndrome. How did he do it? He used his eyelid to dictate what he wanted to say. As he writes in the book:

"It is a simple enough system. You read off the alphabet...until the blink of my eye I stop you at the letter to be noted."

The "you" is his assistant Claude Mendibil who went through the French alphabet on the basis of the frequency of use to make it a more time efficient endeavor. Regardless, it took 200,000 blinks to finish the book.

And so The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly is an intimate look at how it is to live life with a mind as sharp and brilliant as Bauby had prior to the stroke and have this trapped in a lifeless and unwilling body. The book's title makes this delineation clearer -- the diving bell is his body which has been dragged down into the ocean depths of immobility and the butterfly is his mind which flies through space and time unfettered and free. Ten days after the publication of Bauby's book in France (Le scaphandre et le papillion) back in 1997, Bauby died of heart failure.

I haven't finished reading the book yet. Although it only clocks in at 139 pages, I want to take my time to read it. Knowing all the effort that was put into it, it deserves nothing less than my undivided attention.

Le Francais de Balooht (The French Balut)

There's this podcast I listen to regularly called This American Life. It's actually a radio show produced by National Public Radio in the States. The show is incredibly low-concept -- just run of the mill, garden variety, average individuals (read: non-celebrities) relating on-air their extraordinary stories given a weekly theme. Of course, it's not just Joe Blow narrating in a monotone how long he had to wait in line at the Starbuck's this morning for his latte. There is some production involved but it's the amazing stories which are guaranteed to hold every listener's attention. Last week's theme was called Poultry Slam -- a tribute of sorts to the turkey with last Thursday being Thanksgiving in the States. So there was story about a turkey, a chicken and a wild migratory bird called the ortolan.

How did the ortolan come to be referred to as poultry? One of the three storytellers was Esquire writer Michael Paterniti who talked about an article he wrote for the magazine on the late French President Francois Mitterand's last meal before his death from prostate cancer. As he was dying from cancer, Miterrand pretty much sensed when the time would come for his meal of meals -- the very last one which he could experience given what of the five senses he still had. No more calorie counting. No more avoiding carbohydrates. The sky, ocean, and earth were the limits. So Mitterand could have anything he wanted for his last meal and so he decided on...Kentucky Fried Chicken. The end. No, just kidding. He went with the aforementioned bird which is about the size of an adult thumb.

The ortolan is native to Europe and western Asia but has been experiencing declining numbers in population that it's classified as a protected species. In France, their numbers are estimated to be at 15,000 pairs with laws in place against selling them. However, it's not illegal to eat the bird (did that sound right?). To describe the ortolan as a delicacy is to describe Beyonce's ass as "nice looking." There's more to it than popping the bird into your mouth and then having that gamy taste come back to you everytime you burp. First, there is the preparation. It is taken alive in the wild using nets. Yawn. So what, right? Well, then both of its eyes are poked out and then, for good measure against making an escape, it's put into a cage. The bird will then be fed with oats and figs with the objective of engorging it to four times its size. Not too bad, eh? But wait! There's more. Being plump and juicy at this point, the ortoloan can now be drowned to death in Armagnac -- a kind of brandy.

The bird is then roasted at high heat in an oven for about eight minutes. And then...Voila! Eet eez naw reh-dee to bee eetehn yoo fah-king mohnsther. French tradition holds that a napkin is to be put on an ortolan's eater's head. Why? The swishy reason is that the napkin is there to preserve the rarified aromas coming off the bird. The other reason which was put forth, I think, by someone not from France is that the eater is hiding from God.

Okay. Here we go. A rare bird purchased illegally and then blinded, engorged, drowned, and roasted? Check. A napkin on the head to preserve the bird's aroma and to hide from God's prying eyes because His x-ray vision doesn't work on something bought from SM Supermarket with the brand name Bonus? Check, check. But wait! There's more. Believe it or not, there is actually a technique to eating the ortolan. It is swallowed whole except for the beak which should protrude from the eater's mouth. The first tastes to assault the relevant senses would be bird meat and brandy. Then the bitter flavor of the guts follow. Finally, the piece de resistance -- as the brittle bones are gnashed to bits, they will also tear the gums and the insides of the mouth. At this point, the eater experiences the incredible trifecta of varying tastes: the combined splendor of the meat and brandy, the bitterness of the guts, and the saltiness of the gushing gums. Hmmm. Gushing gums.

The whole meal is supposed to last about fifteen minutes. According to Paterniti, however, Miterrand spat out the ortoloan even before getting to the crunchy bones cum bloody gums part as he was very sick to see it all the way through. And he did survive eight more days after this last meal. But true to his word, he did not anything in those eight days after his last meal of Le Francais de Bahloot.