On the plain of Erebus in the kingdom of Hades, close by the black and atrocious river Styx, I light a cooking fire and call my dinner by its secret name. Blind river bass, the size of feral tomcats and with ugly heads like mason’s trowels, flop ecstatic at my feet. Strange they may be, but they taste well enough—and in this barren, scentless place the smell of a pan full of oil and spices is like warming sunlight in a winter room. With the mud of Erebus on my fingers, I know all manner of local trivia: the last decent cook to pass this way in full possession of herself was Agata of Delphi, five hundred years ago. She was hunting for her husband, but the wretched man was alive and living in Macedonia with a snake dancer. She cooked the memory of a bird, a goose-like thing from ages past, and by it bought this bitter confirmation of life. Sometime later, with a fruit pie, she gained conveyance to a lesser heaven, and there is served by men with sculptors’ hands, and converses with naiads. I don’t know whether she still does lunches, but all things are possible.