Elephant milk
In our group of friends, Pisa was by far the least “foodie”. She didn’t know anything, neither the “terroirs” ot the means of making food. No one would dare challenge her lack of knowledge when she was offering to go try the newest trendy “Gourmet burger” or such tacky restaurants. Everyone was embarrassed that she couldn’t see the difference between these gimmicky places and the authentic restaurants we were accustomated to.
It was the sophistication of her sartorial taste that had won her acceptance in our gang. In this area, she surpassed all of us. Thanks to her contacts in the fashion world, she had privileged access to rare and unaffordable pieces. Generously, she handed them out to us when she was no longer wearing them. But none of us ever managed wearing them with such grace as Pisa.
Pisa’s sense of beauty, like many people working in fashion, was superficial. It was bursting out when it came to choosing clothes or flowers, or decorating a room, but when confronted with something sensory, like food, it just seemed bigus. She managed to look casual in thousand pounds haute couture gowns, but when faced with food, her demeanor was feeling forced, snobbish. If she asked questions about the products, it was only to pretend an air of passionate “foodie”. She took little interest in the answers: her complete ignorance of gastronomy was preventing her from undertanding them.
She had such hard time learning the vocabulary of gastonomy, such as the names of dished and ingredients. It took her a good ten times ordering it before understanding that named that way (and not “big mozzarella”). Once this word mastered, she did not fail to repeat it on every occasion, with a grave inflection in her voice, as if it was a secret code between “foodies”. Whatever the menu and the type of cuisine, she would ask in each restaurant if they had burrata, as if to make the waiter understand that she was “in the gang”. This question usually had the opposite effect, that of making us look like amateurs. One evening, exhausted, I ended up asking Pisa not to ask for burrata in every restaurant again.
We were all surprised when Pisa told us that she had decided to leave the world of fashion to start a new career in cheese-making. She was going to settle in the countryside, and make burrata “in permaculture”. I was amazed that she knew that word. A few month earlier, we had visited a permaculture farm together. Once again, she had asked questions, and once again, I thought that she was just faking interest. In the gang, we were often talking about quitting our jobs to embark on our true passion, food. But in the end, it was Pisa, the least passionate and the most urban of the group, who was launching out first.
Later, I understood that when we visited the permaculture farm, an image had deeply influenced Pisa’s mind, to the point of having her decide to embark in burrata production.
This image was one of a buffalo: buffaloes were raised on that farm. Until then, Pisa, a true city-girl with surface level interest in cheese, didn’t even know that such animal existed. An animal larger than a cow, whose milk can be made into cheese. A cheese even more popular than cow’s milk cheese.
“The larger the beast, the better the cheese”: such was Pisa’s thinking when she decided to bring in a female elephant. She thought that by using elephant milk, she could make “football sized burratas’’. She went to Thailand to bring back the elephant by boat. This venture cost her all of the grants she had received for a year, as well as a good part of her savings. To receive these subsidies, she had also lied to the Ministry of Agriculture, by failing to say that she intended to raise an elephant for her milk.
In the first weeks, the animal, disoriented and angry, destroyed a section of wall of Pisa’s house, fled into the neighbour’s fields, and ate most of his harvest of pears. Not only did Pisa go into debt to repay the damage, but she became an object of hate for the villagers too. Problems were starting to appear. Winter arrived. The elephant, unsuited for the climate, fell seriously ill. Pisa observed her condition deteriorate within weeks, with growing concern. As her business was not legal, she feared that bringing in a veterinarian would cause the animal to be taken from her. This is what happened, eventually. The elephant was saved at deaths door, being entrusted to the Zoo of Arles.
As for the “football-sized burratas”, Pisa succeeded in making some cheeses, but she didn’t let us taste them. She had great difficulty in milking the hostile elephant, whose dried udders secreted at most a few drops of an acrid, inedible milk. THE END
Les nourritures extraterrestes, 144 pages
Stories and drawings : Stephen Vuillemin
Publisher: Denoel Graphics
“Imagine a postmodern Roland Topor, deeply connected to Japan, producing art like nothing you've ever seen—somewhere between the Ligne claire style and the master of trash woodblock prints, Toshio Saeki. Imagine a world where cars take on the form and adornments of their deceased drivers, offering themselves body and engine to those who loved them. A world where children gifted a grotesque stuffed animal grow up to seek those same revolting features in their soulmates. A world where money transfers occur by inserting your tongue into the recipient's ear. A world where indulging in the secret eroticism of bee stings can lead to international fame, and where elephant milk burrata becomes the object of a strange obsession.
This is the rare and spicy extraterrestrial cuisine served up by young chef Stephen Vuillemin, who has been perfecting his recipes over months on Instagram and in magazines. So, take a seat! It's time to savor the subtly twisted universe of S. Vuillemin, with its impossible perspectives, improbable logic, and unstoppable humor. A sarcastic and uninhibited deconstruction of our ultra-modern follies.”
“I’ve always dreamt of having this book on my shelf”
Ugo Bienvenu
"A work to explore and an artist worth following…"
BD Gest
Awards:
-Finalist for the Wolinski prize 2024