Have you ever eaten roadkill? I’ve eaten at many questionable establishments in my life, so the answer to this could actually be yes. However, this evening I will be making a deliberate decision to dine on animals flattened by Honda Civics and Eddie Stobart Lorries.
If I’m honest, I’m not too phased about the act of eating an animal that isn’t a cow or chicken. I’ve always found people’s hypocritical approach to the food they consume kind of funny but also really annoying. I will try anything once, or so I like to keep telling myself.
But honestly, I know nothing about any of this stuff and I’m not a nutritionist. I am a photographer, barely a writer and definitely not a food critic. My favorite food is Popeyes.
This all reminds me of a story my dad tells me: his best friend unexpectedly fed my older siblings rabbit stew when they were kids and only announced the fact it was rabbit after they’d eaten it. Apparently they were all distraught and inconsolable once they found out. I’ve always found that story really entertaining.
Anyway, I’ve been invited to a private dining experience in Kennington where I’ll be served several dishes made exclusively from roadkill. Petr Davydtchenko, a Russian performance artist, and Michelin star chef Masayoshi Haraguch are hosting the dinner.
I arrive an hour before the other guests to chat with Petr. Me and Petr speak about the reasoning behind his practice. Starting in 2016, he decided to move to the south of France, detach from society, and learn how to be completely self-sufficient. He mentions evading capitalism and embracing brutality. Every morning he would wake with the sun and cycle for thirty kilometers looking for roadkill. Donkeys. Badgers. Deer. Pheasants. Rats. Then there’s the animals we’re all a bit more fond of. Cats and dogs. Sad to think about, but still a natural part of life.
These were some of Petr’s findings during this time. He lived this way for three years. I feel almost jealous of his commitment.
The weirdest thing Petr tells me he’s eaten is, underwhelmingly, a porcupine. I’m only underwhelmed as I was expecting him to say something so exotic and bizarre I’d have to google it. But he goes on to tell me it took him hours to despine the creature. I wonder if it was worth it.
We then talk about making mincemeat from badgers and how he once made a prosciutto leg out of a donkey.
The best way to prepare a fox is to leave its body in a running stream for 24 hours, this will tenderize the meat, making it softer and easier to eat. For some reason, this feels like incredibly useful information and something I’ll probably tell my kids.
As guests start to filter in, I’m asked to put on a jacket and sign a waiver. I tell the man in the cloakroom that no one is going to read the waiver, but that they will all make jokes about how the food is going to kill them. I’m right.
The dining room is quite a sterile space, drenched in a giant red neon light. It feels deliberately unsettling. A cross between—and I’m annoyed that I’m referencing the most obvious movies for this article—The Menu and Hostel: Part II. The tables, facing one another, are excessively large and the benches even more awkward to scramble over. I can’t work out if they’re doing this to add to the experience and make us all feel trapped. I would assume so.
I’m sitting between Joep, a Dutch artist who is so unintentionally cool and funny I cant stop asking him weird questions to which he answers with even crazier responses, and someone who’s name I’ve forgotten but is an actual food critic. The food critic swirls around his wine glass constantly throughout the evening, playing a dangerous game with the liquid and the rim of the glass. One of my friends from back home does this and I find them both equally annoying for it.
The first course is served. It’s a jelly concoction made from several animal fats. I can’t eat the jelly—it’s making my brain freak out. This is nothing to do with the contents and purely to do with the texture. I immediately start thinking about the scene from Skins where Cassie plays with her food, dancing it back and forth on the plate so that everyone thinks she’s eating. Someone then tells me that this is a tasting menu and you don’t have to lick your plate clean. I drop my spoon and finish off the glass of wine, hoping the waitress tops me up.
The second course is pheasant, presented like a peking duck wrapped in a banana leaf and pancake. This is by far the nicest thing I eat that evening. I’m told that Santiago Sierra is sat across from me.
For some reason I started speaking to the food critic and Joep about DMT. We talk about how your brain naturally releases the chemical whilst you’re dying, or so I think it does. I tell them that I want to die slowly, so I get the full DMT experience. I’d be devastated to miss out on that. Apparently drowning is the best way to go. I tell them that surely an instant death robs you of the DMT experience. We all think about it for a minute and then the third course is dropped in front of us.
This evening is drenched in death.
A rabbit dumpling. All I’ve written in my notes for this is “fire.” So I must’ve enjoyed it. I’ve also written “I’m drunk” three times throughout my notes. The wine was constant, and according to Joep, really good. I also remember struggling to use chopsticks and being incredibly embarrassed.
Someone across from me starts talking loudly about how Petr spent an entire year living exclusively on rats. There was an infestation at a school in Cologne and so he went to help.
The fourth course is deer leg, the bone brandished with a number. 0914. Joep turns to me and asks if I know where this came from, before saying “the M25” and laughing loudly to himself. I don’t like the deer. Unfortunately for me, the next course is also deer.
I asked Joep if he’d like to go for a cigarette with me before the fifth course is served. He obliges and says we should ask the ladies across from us if they’d like to join too. They tell us they work for The Sun and I’m almost in awe. You never meet a Sun journalist. They’re also really quite glamorous. I feel like this evening could go in many different directions and I’m not too sure how to proceed. Everyone seems to want a cigarette and most of the 16 guests seem to be chain smoking outside. I feel bad for what I’ve started and then we’re all asked to go back inside.
The fifth course, deer again, is served. It looks almost like a brisket, which excites me. But I can’t work out if I like it. I can still taste it, right now, as I’m typing this out 5 days later. It was just very heavy. For some reason I felt really cannibalistic eating this course. I don’t know why.
After the deer, we’re all given an animal fat sake, served with cherry blossom. I’ve written “fatty disaster,” which I think is quite funny, but I can’t remember why. I’m not a huge fan of sake and this was also super savory. I’m more of a flaming sambuca kind of person, if that helps paint a picture.
After this we’re all ushered upstairs for more drinks and Joep shows me a book about sex. A man makes me a cocktail with amber mead or something along those lines. I remember him being quite intense about the ingredients and thinking to myself that unless he’s about to feed me snake venom and shark blood I am not going to be impressed.
Regardless, I quite like all the nefarious undertones to this dinner. It all feels quite performative, but I’m also really enjoying myself.
My friends are asking me when I’m going to be done so I can go meet them at the pub. I finish my drink and thank Petr for the experience. I mean it. I really enjoyed chatting with him, he’s incredibly fascinating. I think I understand the intentions behind his art.
I spend the rest of my evening telling everyone I meet how I’ve eaten roadkill for dinner in a bid for them to find me interesting. It doesn’t really work and I think it’s just irritating my friends.
