He is the greatest culinary critic in the world, the Pope of Gastronomy, the Messiah of sumptuous agape. Tomorrow he's going to die. He knows it and he does not care: at the gates of death, he is in search of a flavor that trots through his heart, a flavor of childhood or adolescence, an original and wonderful dish that he feels is worth more than all his past gourmet treats. Then he remembers. Silently, sometimes frantically, he sails along the meanders of his gustatory memory, he plunges into the casseroles of his childhood, he paces through the beaches and vegetable gardens, among countryside and perfumes, smells and flavors, fragrances, aromas, game, meat, fish and the finest liquors... He remembers - and he does not find. Not yet.