How to Feed a Dictator: Saddam Hussein, Idi Amin, Enver Hoxha, Fidel Castro, and Pol Pot Through the Eyes of Their Cooks - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Witold Szabłowski is the author of What’s Cooking in the Kremlin and Dancing Bears. When he was twenty-four he had a stint as a chef in Copenhagen, and at age twenty-five he became the youngest reporter at one of Poland’s largest daily newspapers, where he won awards for his features on the issue of immigrants flocking to the EU and the 1943 massacre of Poles in Ukraine. He lives in Warsaw.

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"Amazing stories . . . Intimate portraits of how [these five ruthless leaders] were at home and at the table." -Lulu Garcia-Navarro, NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday



Anthony Bourdain meets Kapuscinski in this chilling look from within the kitchen at the appetites of five of the twentieth century's most infamous dictators, by the acclaimed author of Dancing Bears.



What was Pol Pot eating while two million Cambodians were dying of hunger? Did Idi Amin really eat human flesh? And why was Fidel Castro obsessed with one particular cow?



Traveling across four continents, from the ruins of Iraq to the savannahs of Kenya, Witold Szablowski tracked down the personal chefs of five dictators known for the oppression and massacre of their own citizens-Iraq's Saddam Hussein, Uganda's Idi Amin, Albania's Enver Hoxha, Cuba's Fidel Castro, and Cambodia's Pol Pot-and listened to their stories over sweet-and-sour soup, goat-meat pilaf, bottles of rum, and games of gin rummy. Dishy, deliciously readable, and dead serious, How to Feed a Dictator provides a knife's-edge view of life under tyranny.

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Snack

The first time I saw Brother Pol Pot, I was at a loss for words. I was sitting in his bamboo hut in the middle of the jungle, gazing at him. And I was thinking: what a beautiful man!

What a man!

I was very young then, so don't be surprised that's what I was thinking, brother. I was there to report to him on how people were feeling in the villages I'd passed through on my way to his base, and I was waiting for him to speak first. But he didn't say anything.

Finally, after a long time, he smiled gently at me. And at once I thought, what a beautiful smile he has!

What a smile!

I couldn't focus on what we were meant to be talking about. Pol Pot was very different from all the men I'd ever met before.

We met in the jungle, at a top secret base for Angkar, the organization we belonged to. In those days everyone still called Pol Pot Brother Pouk, which in Khmer means "mattress." For ages I wondered why he had such a strange nickname. I asked several people about it, but no one could tell me.

Many months later, one of the comrades explained to me that he was called Mattress because he always did his best to calm things down. He was soft. And that was his strength. When other people argued, he'd stand in the middle and help them to reach an agreement.

It's true. Even his smile was gentle; Pol Pot was pure goodness.

We had only a very short conversation that time. And when we were done, his adjutant took me to one side and said that Brother Pouk badly needed a cook. He'd had several, but none of them was right for him. So he asked if I'd like to give it a try.

"Yes," I said, "but I don't know how to cook."

"Surely you know how to make sweet-and-sour soup?" asked the adjutant, amazed, because it was the most popular soup in Cambodia.

"Give me a pot," I said.

And when he took me to the kitchen, I found that I knew perfectly well how to make that soup. You get some Chinese long beans, sweet potato, pumpkin, marrow, melon, pineapple, garlic, some meat-chicken or beef-and eggs. Two or three. You can add tomatoes, too, and lotus roots if you wish. First you boil the chicken, and then you add sugar, salt, and all the vegetables. I'm afraid I can't tell you how long you have to cook it for, because we didn't have watches in the jungle and I did everything by feel. I think it's about half an hour. To finish, you can add some tamarind root.

I also knew how to make papaya salad. You cut the papaya into very small pieces and then add cucumber, tomatoes, green beans, cabbage, morning glory, garlic, and a dash of lemon juice.

But the first time I made it, Pol Pot didn't eat it. Only later was it explained to me that he liked it prepared the Thai way: with dried crab or fish paste and peanuts.

I also knew how to make mango salad, how to bake fish, and how to roast chicken. Clearly as a child I'd watched how my mother did the cooking. Brother Pouk didn't expect any more than that. I was fit to be his cook.

I went into that kitchen and stayed there until nightfall. I made the lunch, then the supper; then I tidied up and washed the pots and pans.

And that's how I became Pol Pot's cook. I was very pleased that I could help. I wanted to stay at the base for the revolution. And for him, gentle Brother Mattress.

Breakfast

Thieves' Fish Soup

The Story of Abu Ali,

Saddam Hussein's Chef

One day, President Saddam Hussein invited some friends onto his boat. He took along several bodyguards, his secretary, and me, his personal chef, and we set off on a cruise down the river Tigris. It was warm-it was one of the first spring evenings that year. At the time we weren't at war with anyone, everyone was in a good mood, and Salim, one of the bodyguards, said to me, "Abu Ali, sit down, you've got the day off today. The president says he's going to cook for everyone. He's going to make koftas for us."

"A day off . . ." I smiled, because I knew that in Saddam's service there were no such words. And because there were going to be koftas, I started getting everything ready for the barbecue. I minced some beef and lamb and mixed them with tomato, onion, and parsley, then put it in the fridge so that it would stick to the skewers well later on. I prepared a bowl for washing one's hands, lit the fire, baked some pita bread, and made a tomato and cucumber salad. Only then did I sit down.

In Iraq every man thinks he knows how to barbecue meat. He's going to do it even if he doesn't know how. And it was the same with Saddam: people often ate the things he cooked out of politeness; after all, you're not going to tell the president you don't like the food he has made.

I didn't like it when he got down to cooking. But that time I thought to myself, "It's almost impossible to ruin koftas." If you have the meat ready, you squash it flat onto the skewer, press it with your fingers, then place it on the fire for a few minutes, and it's done.

The boat set off. Saddam and his friends opened a bottle of whiskey, and Salim came into the kitchen for the meat and salad.

I sat and waited to see what would happen next.

Half an hour later, Salim came back carrying a plate of koftas. "The president made some for you too," he said. I thanked him and said it was very good of the president, broke off a bit of meat, and wrapped it in pita bread. I tried it and . . . felt as if I'd burst into flames!

"Water, quick, water!"

I threw a glass of water down my throat, but it didn't help.

"More water!"

It was no good. I was still on fire. My cheeks and jaw were burning, and there were tears pouring from my eyes.

I was terrified. "Poison?" I thought. "But why? What for? Or maybe someone was trying to poison Saddam, and I've eaten it?"

"More water!"

Am I still alive?

"More water."

I am still alive . . . So it's not poison.

But in that case, what was he playing at?

It took me a good quarter of an hour to wash down the spicy flavor.

That was my first encounter with Tabasco sauce.

Saddam had been given it by someone as a gift, but because he didn't like very spicy food, he decided to play a joke by trying it out on his friends. And on his staff. Everyone on the entire boat was running around pouring water down their throat, while Saddam sat and laughed.

Twenty minutes later, Salim came back to ask if I'd liked the food. I was furious, so I said, "If I'd spoiled the meat like that, Saddam would have kicked me in the butt and told me to pay for it."

He did that sometimes. If he didn't like the food, he'd make you give back the money. For the meat, the rice, or the fish. "This food is inedible," he'd say. "You've got to pay fifty dinars."

So that's what I said, never expecting Salim to repeat it to the president. But when Saddam asked him how I'd reacted, Salim replied, "Abu Ali said that if he'd made something like that, you'd have kicked him in the butt and told him to pay for it." That's what he said, in front of all Saddam's guests.

Saddam sent Salim back again to fetch me.

I was scared. In fact, I was terrified. I had no idea how Saddam was going to react. You did not criticize him. Nobody did that: not the ministers, nor the generals, let...