He set the plate before her. It steamed, smells of carmelized meat and cinnamon wafted up to her nose. "This is my lust."
He still spoke with inflection, they had not dined upon his theatricality, his sense of timing, his desire to surprise. There was an order to these things, and while he still had that order, he would continue. The assembled guests mumbled their appreciation, though Dowager Harriet was still chewing through the last bites of his shame.
When the Boddhisatva-to-be had announced this meal, the good and great had tittered that he had finally lost his mind. Spent too much time in the Orient they said, picking up strange habits and frightful manners. But his parties were still the talk of society, and you never knew what monster or wonder might appear for the guests. And the Boddhisatva-to-be had said that this would be a most special meal.
So far the guests had dined on cruelty (which looked much like tripe in a sauce of onions and piquant peppers), propriety (which were a tuber of some sort, dabbed in butter and salt), and of course anger (which was a blazing meal of spice and textures). And with each bite, the guests seemed a bit more solid, a bit more.
But the Boddhisatva seemed less substantial, less bound. He would have smiled, if his smiles were not steaming in the kitchen. To give it all away, he must give it to someone. And who better than these people. To use a false word.