We in Ottawa have heard [too] much this weekend about the Bilderberg Conference, just now wrapping up in beautiful west end Kanata. There seem to be two commentator camps: one that shrilly suspects high conspiracy, and another that (equally) shrilly pokes slaggish humour at conspiracy junkies. [see Earl McRae of the Ottawa Stun and some anonymously-puerile Petfinder editorialist demonstrating way too much conversance with wacko conspiracy theories to be anything less than suspect. (Step on up, either John Robson or Scott Anderson....)]
Actual Bilderbergers, famously, say nothing about what they actually do behind their famously closed doors. But as the Independent Observer said to me not too long ago, it's gotta be something -- they've been coming back at it since 1954, fer cripe's sake. And Top-Sekrit bunfests drawing assorted heads of state, billionaires, media moguls, oil barons, high-tech elflords, chairmen of the also-shadowy Trilateral Commission, et cetera, do kinda prompt one to ask what the attraction might be. I mean, these are guys who know better than any mere mortal that time is money. And the golf course was rained out all weekend...
Nevertheless, your humble, hairy correspondent believes he and the IO may have answers. One is that Bilderbergers, much like the Elgin Street Irregulars, are total wankers. With exponentially more money and power. What better way to say "Really, It's All About Us" than to hold a party and exclude everybody who doesn't know the Top Sekrit Handshake?
And what better way to say 'party' than to have the overpriced kitchen help sear a few burgers on the grill while everybody boogies like it's 1954 again, among the citronella-scented tiki torches? Which is what led your humble correspondent to the Brookstreet Hotel. Being a semimythical coyote, I was ignored by the thicknecked types clad in earpieces and cheap suits with suspicious bulges. Being a semimythical coyote, I also ignored them. Also the political discussions in the salon. I give not a rodent's rearmost for such things. I homed straight in on the kitchen, just followin' my pointy nose. And struck gold. Well, actually a garbage can, with a slightly smeared and aromatic recipe card.
Dare I say this is what keeps bringing 'em back?
The Legendary BilderBurger
1 lb -- minced AAA filet mignon, formed into a patty, and seared to blushing medium rare over select endangered rainforest hardwood charcoals.
Place on a President's Choice Gigantico (white bread) poppy seed bun, spread with with garlic aeoli spiked liberally The Macallan 25-year old single malt scotch whisky.
Garnish with:
1.75 oz. Beluga Malossol 000 Black Sea Caviar;
2 oz. black and white shaved French truffles, (none of that upstart Asian crap...)
a soupçon of dijon mustard,
hydroponic tomato,
pickle slices
fresh-ground black pepper to taste.
Serve with:
Fresh-cut fries and a side salad of assorted rare in-season (somewhere in the world) melon balls tossed with castor sugar and Pinar del Rio Gautier cognac, served in iced crystal.
Suggested beverage: Krug Clos du Mesnil Champagne, chilled.
What's it like? Who the hell knows? I only smelled the sucker. But is not wretched excess almost always tasteful...?
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