Listing to Port

gnimmelshouseofmaps:

The First Feast
The feast is held in a nautically-themed basement, somewhere in a distant and unedifying part of town. A reproduction of the last feast on the Titanic is served by a host of waiters in Pierre et Gilles sailor-boy costumes. As soon as the doors are closed, the noise of a tremendous rainstorm can be heard. A drip develops in the centre of the table. The first few courses are accompanied by the sounds of water trickling under the door.
By the third course, the floor is covered with a thin skim of water. The guests splash their way to the toilet, then back to their seats. The outside door is locked. By the fifth course, the waiters are wading through a foot of water, their sailor costumes damp and see-through. For the eighth course, the table is winched clear of the rising waters. The guests stand to eat their asparagus vinaigrette. By the tenth course, the guests must swim to recieve their peach and chartreuse jelly, delivered through a hatch in the ceiling.
The jelly is spiked with a powerful sleeping draught. The guests awake the next morning, alone, on a bare raft somewhere in the North Sea.

The Second Feast
The invitation states, wear masks. To avoid confusion, you are informed beforehand in a splendidly-typeset letter as to who of the others will be wearing which mask. The room has black, glassy-smooth reflective walls. Once the meal is served, it becomes apparent that nothing is what you expected it to be. The water is vodka. Eggs are served which have the white centrally, surrounded by a layer of yolk. A cake is brought in that is made entirely from meat; a game course sewed inside the skin of chicken legs; chocolates that are made from cheese. The final course is the facsimile of a full roast dinner in cake, marzipan and fondant.

At the end of the meal, the masks are removed. No-one is who you were told they were.

When you get home, the door of your house will be curiously ajar and small items will have been moved from their usual places.

The Third Feast
The third feast is held in a library. You are familiar with this library, but you were never aware of the room the feast is held in. It is behind a curiously nondescript door, which seems as though it might lead to a broom cupboard but in fact leads to a high-ceilinged gallery filled with all manner of obscure volumes. The head librarian meets you there, carrying a tray of magnetic letters. The letter you choose determines the meal that is served to you.
One might choose P and be led to a purple parlour, where peacock pate, partridge with pickled pear and pomegranates would be served; or A, and be led to an alcove in which waiters dressed as angels would offer asparagus, artichokes, andouillettes and amaretto. Those who choose X are strapped to a cruciform frame and spoon-fed a limp cross of xanthan gum. The unlucky few who choose Z are fed zebra steaks laced with opium, and sleep for the majority of the meal. 
The next morning, the guests find a letter tattooed, discreetly, in the crook of their arm; but it is not always the letter they chose.

The Fourth Feast
The fourth feast is held in the room at the top of a tower, in a circular room with chequerboard windows of red and white stained glass. When the guests have taken their places at the round table, the ladder is drawn away and they are shut in.
After some time waiting, it becomes apparent that the cutlery is only a crude facsimile, and is in fact silver-painted biscuit and quite edible. The table decorations are inflatable and pressurised by soup. Shortly after this, the guests realise that the plates are fake, too; they form the second course. A valve is found whereby the windows can be drained of their central layers of red and white wine to reveal clear glass and the surrounding forest. A layer peels off the table to reveal the third course, and by deconstructing their chairs they are able to extract the fourth, which is hidden in the legs like marrow in bones.
By now it is well past midnight, and still no-one comes. Inspecting the walls, the guests find that some bricks can be removed. These bricks are chocolate-framed replicas, containing splendid puddings. The holes left by their absence form a ladder, by which they can descend the tower and go home.

The Fifth Feast
The first course is a food course. The second course is a sex course. They alternate in quick succession, until no-one can quite remember what they are supposed to be doing with their hands and mouths.

The Sixth Feast
The sixth feast is a replica of the funeral feast of King Midas. It is held in a remote country house, lit by dim lamps and perfumed with incense; a greek orthodox choir can be heard at times throughout the proceedings, although they are never seen. The black-clad waiters are hired magicians, sleight-of-hand artists and illusionists. Throughout the meal, they stealthily replace the items in the hall by exact replicas in pure gold, beginning subtly (table decorations, door handles, strolling peacocks) and ending with the cutlery as the guests are using it to eat dessert. As a finale, the waiters line up to pull the tablecloth out from under its contents. The guests laugh drunkenly over their honey wine, expecting a golden table; but instead the house disappears, and they are left, bereft of riches, on a low hill in the dim light of early sunrise.

The Seventh Feast
Jaded and tired, the guests meet on a ship in international waters. After making certain preparations, they secretly draw straws and then retire to their cabins. Later that evening, avatars of each guest meet at a virtual-reality table, where they share their thoughts on the splendid meal that is being served to each, individually, in separate parts of the ship. The guests know that one of their number is not real, but is instead an AI which has been supplied with certain knowledge about that person. The missing person forms the prime ingredient in the banquet they are eating.

Nostalgic for their first feast, they later sink the boat.

On the road at the moment, so here is an old list-like thing from t'other blog.

Before the entrance of the diners, the hall is prepared. The shutters are gilded and bolted shut. Great basins of clover are placed in front of them. A chandelier of beaten gold is raised, and a choir sits in the upper balcony and chants plainsong. A fire is lit in the hearth, over which some unidentifiable large meat object is placed for roasting.

1. Entrance of the diners. Each is served a thimble of champagne and three compliments, which are delivered by lissom young gentlemen in satin jackets. Each diner takes their place at the table and is draped in a large velvet cloak. The cloaks are curiously uncomfortable; they are much too hot for the hall, which is already a little stifling, and they are covered on the inside with large, stiff patches displaying the logos of the banquet sponsors.

2. A great black dish is brought to the table. It is made of cast iron and requires ten servants to carry. These servants are dressed as chimney sweeps and after their brief service they will be thrown out on the street with pay of one Cornish pasty each. The central lights are dimmed, and candles are lit amongst the clover basins. The lid is removed, to great fanfare. Hundreds of bees fly out. The host explains that this course contains no food, but that a delivery of bees is required to pollinate the clover. Water is served.

3. There is a parade of gentlemen in sharp suits through the room. Goodness, but they are well-dressed. A jester, dancing before them, showers the air with cocaine. The gentlemen pass through the room into some other room beyond high table, and we do not see them again. Slices of bread are served, but run out before the bottom of the table is reached. The diners are encouraged to fight for the bread; after ten minutes, those without bread are deemed to obviously not want food, and are thrown out.

4. The choir sings works by John Tavener and Arvo Part. Three banquet supervisors make the rounds of the table, asking for contributions for the choir, who are volunteers. Great flat black pebbles are served, with a single walnut half on top and a drop of salad cream. The supervisors explain that, for a fee, diners may get the pebbles monogrammed in gold and take them home.

5. The fourth course: representatives of major fast-food chains wheel golden trollies around the hall, offering a selection of iconic meals for fifteen pounds each. The choir sing a medley of jingles designed to increase hunger and promote careless purchases. Meanwhile, a group of cheeky young bucks of long and certified pedigree creep beneath the table and anaesthetise the feet of the diners, before stealing their shoes.

6. Diners are given a form to fill in to determine if they are worthy of dessert, citing income, work ethic, and a time they solved a personal challenge in an enterprising way. The five souls deemed worthy get to sit at a small table in the centre of the room and eat flaccid chocolate mousse, with everyone else gathered around to observe their shining example.

7. End of the banquet. A selection of bright, humming and flashing fluorescent tubes are switched on. Two Tudor-esque servants wander in, scratching their arses. They douse the fire, retrieve the roasting meat and take it through to the back room. The cloaks are removed and the guests presented with dry-cleaning bills. On the way out, they are offered employment as servers in the back room for the rest of the evening, but are unable to accept; indeed, most are having trouble even walking (given the foot anaesthetic, their lack of shoes, and the fact that the floor is strewn with dead and dying bees). This is entirely OK, provided that they pay a surcharge.

The next day, the newspapers report positively on the entrepreneurial spirit of the young bucks, recounting as a footnote that some wasters of no consequence were caught stumbling down the road.