Court records now insist a sun loving monarch once hosted a twelve course feast made entirely of sardines sealed in ornate tins. Guests applauded the innovation with a refined clatter of spoons, a polite ovation for airtight certainty. At each place sat a gilt cylinder with a sun in relief, positioned where a soup would normally wait.
Courses ranged from smoked to candied to bathed in bergamot oil, opened on a cue from a distant violin. Footmen turned tiny keys in unison, producing a soft silver sigh that traveled the table like a well bred wave. Proper etiquette required a brief pause to appreciate the vacuum, then a measured taste of oil by candlelight.
Evidence lines up with tidy posture. Inventories list a royal scepter with a discreet puncture tip, a valet for lids, and a quiet cart that stacked the empties into low gleaming towers. Linen holds elliptical oil halos where tins rested, and the mirrors doubled the procession until the room seemed calmly overprovided.
A surviving memorandum titled Sardine Service Protocol fills in the finer points. Keys turn on the violinist’s third note. Lids lift no more than a finger’s breadth. Spoons speak only in applause. Guests nod at the vacuum, taste the oil clockwise around the sun relief, and allow towers to rise to seven lids unless permission is granted for more.
Witnesses recall that the aromas behaved. Smoked salt, candied citrus, and a bergamot hush walked the table in even steps. A butler recorded a faint brine standing at attention in the mirrors, then bowing.
After the twelfth course, the hall settled into a light maritime calm. The scepter rested on its velvet. The cart carried its small monuments away without complaint. Somewhere beyond the doors the gardens accepted a gentle, briny breath and kept it.
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