In the interest of Culinary Vicariousness, we are exploring and presenting to you the Strictly Gustatory Adventures of world-renowned super-spy James Bond, as recorded in the novels of Commander Ian Fleming.
For Your Eyes Only
A collection of short stories.
From a View to a Kill
No, in cafés you have to drink the least offensive of the musical comedy drinks that go with them, and Bond always had the same thing—an Americano—Bitter Campari, Cinzano, a large slice of lemon peel and soda. For the soda he always stipulated Perrier, for in his opinion expensive soda water was the cheapest way to improve a poor drink.
For Your Eyes Only
Bond made the glucose tablet last as long as possible and then sucked another.
He bought glucose tablets and some smoked ham and bread from which he made sandwiches. He also bought a large aluminum flask and filled this with three-quarters Bourbon and a quarter coffee.
Well away from the highway, he stopped and shifted his rifle and knapsack round, had a cigarette and burned the sketch-map.
The bread stuck in Bond’s throat.
The coffee and whiskey burned a small fire down his throat.
Quantum of Solace
And he felt foolish sitting with an elderly bachelor on his bed of rose chintz gazing at the coffee and liqueurs on the low table between their outstretched feet.
He got up, dashed an inch of brandy into his glass and instead of going back to the sofa, pulled up a chair and sat down at an angle from the Governor on the other side of the drink tray.
Bond took a sip of Brandy and stretched out his legs.
He got to his feet and poured a whiskey and soda for Bond, and one for himself.
Quantum of Solace
Bond nodded. “A Negroni. With Gordon’s, please.”
Bond ordered Tagliatelli Verdi with a Genoese sauce which Kristatos said was improbably concocted of basil, garlic and fir cones.”
Bond was suddenly hungry and thirsty. He poured out a large glass of Chianti and swallowed half of it. He broke a roll and began eating, smothering each mouthful with deep yellow butter.
Bond drank down his coffee.
He kept his eyes inside the train, read a jerking book, spilled Chianti over the tablecloth and shifted his long, aching legs and cursed the Ferrovie Italiane dello Stato.
Bond poured himself a stiff whiskey and soda, and sat down.
Over a mound of fried eggs and bacon washed down with hot sweet coffee laced with rum, Colombo dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s.
The Hildebrand Rarity
They sat in the hot tent and ate the chicken salad and drank beer, and moodily watched Mr Krest poking and peering about in the shallows.
“Hell—caviare of course,” Mr Krest held his hands apart. “One of those two-pound tins from Hammacher Schlemmer—the grade ten shot size, and all the trimmings. And that pink champagne.” He turned to Bond. “That suit you, feller?”
Previous installments of this series may be found here.
