The Gala Dinner at the Forgers Club

Welcome back to_ Stranger Than Flicktion_, our Flickr-inspired column. We provide writers with five random food-related Flickr images and ask them to construct a fictional short story in under five days. _In this edition, Emmanuel Giraud guides us, blindfolded, into the halls of a secret society, where the wine is real but the truffles aren't._

Tonight is the winter solstice. The air is biting cold. This industrial neighborhood appears nondescript, soulless. Nothing about this immense gray warehouse distinguishes it from neighboring buildings, and yet a stream of taxis and private cars pulls up in front of its massive locked doors, dropping off dinner guests one after the other. Dark cashmere jackets, duffle coats in deep, charcoal hues, and heavy, glimmering cloaks line up at the entrance. Two sharp knocks, then three longer ones. Whisper a password into the bouncer's ear, and access is granted into the holy cavern.

Tonight is the winter solstice, and the Aquaviva brothers are hosting the Forgers Club gala, as they do every year. Don't bother trying to identify the members of this secret society, for it convenes genius counterfeit artists and first-class forgers—everyone here is known by an alias, obscure pseudonym, or other sly, mysterious nickname. Different languages resonate throughout the foyer as old friends and acquaintances reconnect. A Korean comrade is greeted with respectful bows of the head; the Club's British chairman is offered hand-kisses; a Ukrainian colleague receives warm embraces. Then, one by one, guests snag a crystal glass and head toward the cellar. Near the entrance, the Club's motto shines in gold letters: "In an upside-down world, the real is a delectable moment of the unreal."

Tonight is the winter solstice, with a waxing moon high in the sky. Conditions seem optimal for a formal tasting of the Aquaviva brothers' new wine blends. Surrounded by large oak barrels and ancient wooden vats, Ange-Aristide, pipette in hand, offers guests a taste of his latest counterfeits. "We are now entering a 'fruit' phase," remarks the eldest brother, Clément-Baptiste, who, in a matter of years, has become one of the leading specialists in biodynamics. To be clear, we are far from the realm of simple label trafficking: These are not small-time crooks looking to maximize profits by reselling fakes under some prestigious appellation. In this circle, forgery is elevated to the ranks of fine art. The fact that their cabernet-sauvignons and merlots—whose grapes are normally from Bordeaux—have been planted in the heart of Burgundy's Clos Vougeot, right under the noses of the region's top winemakers, is a testament to the brothers' exceptional talent.

The dark, dense, voluptuous liquid being served is utterly disconcerting. The tannin, the astringency, that grilled pepper undertone typical of cabernet—it's all there, and yet here is a blend that possesses all of the characteristics of a grand cru wine from the Côte de Nuits! This vermentino grape, harvested by the village of Chateau-Chalon in the Jura region, is equally astonishing: After six years and three months of maturation, it'll be sold in Corsica as a Patrimonio. Same with this Pauillac—the very first grand cru classé—that has been savagely given the 19th-century "hermitage treatment," with beautiful syrahs from the northern valley of the Rhône added to the mix. These are audacious counterfeit wines, capable of duping top critics and seasoned enthusiasts. These wines are an ode to precision, pleasure, and contradiction, leaving behind sumptuous aftertastes tinged with sarcasm.

Tonight is the winter solstice, and it is time for dinner. The large room bordering the Aquaviva cellar makes for a most ostentatious display. The walls are overloaded with ancient canvases and contemporary works, presenting a tangled arrangement that does not seem to follow any particular logic. Naturally, the paintings are all fakes, but they are falsi d'autore—master fakes, to borrow the term coined by Siena painter Icilio Federico Joni. Little-known Titians, lost Caravaggio canvases, and, at the very end of the room, an unknown fresco by Piero della Francesca. Even Thomas Levy-Lasne, the young contemporary artist, is represented here, with a series of works he's never actually had the time to paint. The vivid colors of his paintings are reflected in the piles and piles of exquisite dishes served across the buffet tables: pyramids of crayfish, lobsters en Bellevue, oysters Rockefeller, oreiller de la Belle Aurore, antelope terrine, mock turtle soup…

As guests begin to pick at this baroque assortment, something suddenly grabs the attention of each and every member of the Club. Jean-Pierre Duàngong, speaking with a strong Belgian accent, unveils his latest creation atop a cheap-looking tablecloth. That which appears to be a gigantic black truffle (tuber melanosporum) is in fact composed of an expensive white Alba truffle (tuber magnatum pico), which was express-shipped to China, treated with vegetable charcoal, carved—with diamond precision—to resemble a melanosporum, then sent back on a plane to Europe on the very same day. The work is labor-intensive, and more importantly, completely counterproductive, since white truffle has four times the value of black truffle. Entitled Carbon Imprint, Jean-Pierre Duàngong's prank pulls as much from Belgian surrealism as from Georges Bataille's theory of waste and expenditure. It is a gratuitous, costly, deliciously absurd creation, whose intoxicating fragrance enraptures the audience.

Tonight is the winter solstice, and Maryia-Antonina Alekséïevna sits wistfully at the end of the table, drowning out her melancholy with long sips of Champagne. All around her, Club members can easily remember the masterly forgery she presented during last year's gala: Her analog photographs were exact copies of the digital shots of Richard Prince, who had, in turn, repurposed images found on Instagram. This dizzying mirror effect had earned Maryia-Antonina the Forgers Club's international grand prize. Today, however, no one knows what the Russian falsification princess has in store. She stares blankly across the room, half listening to Pierre Ménard's presentation of Don Quixote 2.0—now available on tablet. She pours herself another glass of Champagne.

Tonight is the winter solstice, and Maryia-Antonina Alekséïevna finally decides to breaks her silence. "I won't eatttt a single bite of anythingggg that is presented tonightttttt!," she announces categorically. People seem surprised, concerned, even offended. Smiling with the corner of her mouth, the young woman seems pleased with the public's reaction. "I am alllllllergic to oyyyyysters," she eventually reveals, proceeding to list, with stunning accuracy, the symptoms of anaphylactic shock. Considering the risk of cross-contamination in the kitchen, she explains, she will not ingest a single bite from the buffet. She shows off her Russian medical certificates, narrating the miserable fate she would surely suffer, should she happen to kiss a man—or woman—whose lips had so much as touched the deadly mollusk's shell. She twirls, grins and gyrates until the chairman breaks into applause, taken aback by the virtuosity of her theatrics: "This is the most amusing farce of the year!" he exclaims. Blushing, she suddenly realizes that this fake allergy was the best way to remain the center of attention.

Applause.

Collapse.

Tonight is the winter solstice, and Maryia-Antonina Alekséïevna will not recover from the glass of Chablis she has just mistakenly pressed to her lips. Pushing the absurdity of the performance to its paroxysmal heights, she has somehow managed to falsify the falsification. The white wine's signature minerality, which stems from the ostrea virgula, a fossil oyster found all over the Chablis region, would be her death sentence.

In an upside-down world, the real is also a painful moment of the unreal.

This article originally appeared in French on MUNCHIES FR in January 2016.