Thus, if the Cook Book and Food Reviewer Writers and Publishers Conference is yin and is taking itself seriously down on Canal Street, then Eat Beat is yang and is poking fun at it down at the Cavé in the Faubourg Marigny section of town.

The Cavé is a dark low ceiling nightclub known for its poetry slams, new music and performance art in the lively entertainment scene of New Orleans. It isn't always good entertainment that comes out of the Cavé, but it is always different and on the edge. The Cavé's poetry slam nights are one of the city's most popular venues in the alternative arts. Emceed by word artist Jasmyn (just Jasmyn), it brings out the young, the old, the gay, the questioning and the angry to rant, rave, sing, glorify, vilify, and chant poetry to their own chosen beat or to the talented house band trio of bass, drum and piano.

So when Food Con came to town to promote workshops of writing about food, cooking, restaurant management and marketing, assembling and selling cookbooks, and showcasing the major magazines devoted to food, wine and cooking, Jasmyn decided to turn her regular poetry slam night into a night of celebrating food and the art of eating, which in the alternative art world also means ranting against the food industry and pushing the boundaries of good "taste." Thus was born the Flambeaux Hambeaux Slam, which immediately was nicknamed by the bohemians still living in the French Quarter, Eat Beat.

It's meant to be a grand opportunity to poke a hole in the stuffed shirts down at the Marriott. But in its own way, it is also another opportunity to celebrate food and art and the mixing of the two. Eating, talking and art mix perfectly in New Orleans, even at a place like the Cavé. But a Carson Fontainbleau's kind of place, it is not.

Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi was going to be late. Before leaving her car in an illegal parking spot off a dark side street, she put a call in to Mary Dan to see how Curtis was doing. Both Mary Dan and Joannie had stayed behind at the den to help finish up some details for the wearable arts festival the next day. Curtis was scheduled to do his community service hours by helping with packing and piling boxes into a van. He was also going to sneak in some time to work on tracking down Monterey De Queso's suspect web address.

Mary Dan was just driving back from dropping Curtis off at his group home. She said she had a note from Curtis to pass on to Cay.

"Let me pull over here, Cay. It's difficult to read the boy's writing while I'm driving." Cay heard some noise and the muffling of the phone, then Mary Dan came back on the line.

"Back love. Let me get his note. " There was a rustling of paper. " This is what he said. ' Web address is front for address that links to angelfire.com but computer accessing site traced to server hosted by Picayune."

She continued, "And he says, 'weird password.' " She stumbled here, " 'Ostreophagous1'. I'll text it to you so you know how to spell it." She paused. "Does that make sense to you?"

Cay responded. "I think I do. It means that Ivan doth protest too much."

"Curtis is coming back to help tomorrow at the show. Let me know if there is anything you want him to do. Nice young man. "

Cay waited for the text to come in and jotted down the password on the back of latte receipt and stuck it in her wallet. She'd look it up the next day to see if it meant something or was just a made up word.

Walking into the Cavé, Cayenne descended uneven and worn wooden stairs. She found herself constantly ducking to avoid hanging shrouds of worn lace, looping Mardi Gras beads, and posters hung from the ceiling. The club was named appropriately, she thought, as she peered through the dim light and haze from cigarettes and other smoking material, trying to find the table of the Krewe du Couture.

She stopped a moment to get her bearings and looked around. The nightclub continued the cluttered theme of things hanging from the ceiling and the wall, with an added layer of Mardi Gras decorations including more beads, feather boas hanging from the ceiling, and untraditional Mardi Gras masks fashioned by the dozens of artists who took up Jasmyn's call to create a mask.

Cay stopped to read Jasmyn's handlettered call for submissions which hung on the wooden wall between a peacock colored feathered mask and another flyer announcing the upcoming band schedule for the club.

Of a tortured soul
Create a mask that tells us
Of Mardi Gras angst

Grizzled, screaming, tortuous masks of feather and bead, sequin and twisted paper maiche screamed from every suface in the Cavé. Combine Halloween and Mardi Gras and you'll have a good idea of the mixture of pain and joy that dripped from the ceiling at every turn.

"You're not in Kansas anymore," Cay said to herself as she scanned the room. She spied the Krewe in the large center table at the back of the room and pushed herself passed people in various costumes representing pirates and wenches, vampires and goddesses, Roman deities and goth princesses.

The Krewe was looking pretty wild themselves, draped with their performing costumes jangling with coins and flowing with gauzy, translucent silk scarves. Everyone at the table was in some kind of tribal dress, except for Marcy, who wore a black flippy skirt, with a black beaded bolero jacket over a red silk tee.

"Where y'at, girl? Are you not dancing tonight?" Cay asked as she plopped herself into the last remaining chair at the table.

Marcy shook her head and smiled. "Not enough room on the stage for all of us. I bowed out." She looked around to see if Kenois was looking, then wiped her forehead with her hand in a mock sign of relief.

The Cavé was packed and bustling. The noise level continued to grow as waitresses scurried around filling orders for food and drinks, and Cay waved down one to order a Scarlett O'Hara. At the front of the dark room stood a small stark stage with an old fashioned clunky microphone at its center. A free standing glass wall stood at the left hand end of the stage and on the back wall, a bright neon sign flashed "EAT" in orange colors. Another sign on the back was darkened, but Cay could see that when lit, it would declare, "OPEN."

Cay had barely removed her coat and positioned it onto the back of her chair, when the band switched into a slow, lonely jazz tune. Jasmyn entered onto the stage, opening the fake door, ringing a bell attached to it, and closing it behind her . The crowd settled down a bit, drawn to the figure in front of them. Jasmyn (just Jasmyn) was dressed in a typical greasy spoon waitress dress, black cotton, buttoned up the front with a Peter Pan collar with a big tricked out nametag that said Janice. But that's where the waitress outfit stopped. She wore leather motorcycle gloves wrapped with chains and metal bracelets up her arm. Her waitress dress was unbuttoned low and a snake tattoo slithered across a full breast from beneath a black lace bustier. She wore a black forties style hat that perched on the side of her head, cascading black feathers, net, and a antique soup spoon crusted with old jewelry pieces and tarnished metal work. Her eyes were shadowed in bright amethyst and a matching shade of lipstick, giving her an "Elizabeth Taylor gone bad" look.

Jasmyn walked over to the neon OPEN sign, and as the three piece combo to the side started riffing more loudly on some jazz tune and the drum played the high hat with brushes, she reached over with her gloved hand and pulled the chain to the OPEN sign. She moved toward the center stage in front of the clunky microphone and adjusted it to her height. Her husky voice boomed through the Cavé.

Thank you for coming
Tonight We Celebrate Food
Eating Drinking Love

Love of food, of fork
Spoon, knife, bread, sensuous bite
Cup to thirsty lips

Performers will dance,
Read, Enlighten, Celebrate
Sing of mouth's delight

Welcome to Eat Beat
The underground to Food Con
Enjoy! Hunger! Sate!

She looked at her order pad.

Here's beat from the Street
From the French Quarter Alleys
Lé Rhythm Kitchen

She pointed at pointed at the drummer who hit a bell and yelled, "Order up!" then went into a hard driving rhythm on his set. From both sides of the stage, a group of young black men and women in hip hop dress stormed the stage. Each was carrying a variety of instruments, spoons, pots, pans, whisks, measuring cups, pie tins, salt and pepper shakers filled with marbles. As the rhythm of the dancers took over, the house band faded out.

As Lé Rhythm Kitchen pounded away, Cay searched this room to find where Ivan McNalton sat alone at a small table near the stage, nursing what looked like a Manhattan. Cay started to rise to go over and sit in the empty seat next to Ivan when a red flash darted through the crowd and bulleted its way toward that seat. Cayenne looked on in amazement as she realized that this clubbing gal was really Costanza Collens.

"What the hell?" Cayenne asked under her breath. Costanza was dressed in a tight fitting sleeveless red sparkly dress with her face heavily made up and carrying a large leather bag which she shoved under the small table. She leaned over and kissed Ivan before she waved the waitress over and ordered.

"What is she doing here? " Cay said, louder this time. Marcy leaned closer. "What? I can't hear you?"

Lé Rhythm shifted into an even louder, Cuban like rhythm and several people in the audience were up and dancing in front of the stage. She was startled by a hand on her shoulder, and turned around to see the kind face of Jacques Teutite.

"Jacques! How good to see you!" Cay forgot her spying and jumped up to kiss Jacques on both cheeks.

"Monsieur! Monsieur!" The women around the table crooned and all rose to exchange kisses and hugs to their favorite designer and store owner.

The din was so loud, there wasn't a chance to chat, but Cayenne was able to hear Jacques shouting in her ear, "I designed the outfits for the next act. I'm here to see how my lovelies will perform." He blew kisses to all at the table and returned to his seat near the back wall.

It was a relief when Lé Rhythm Kitchen stopped their banging and the softer jazz of the trio took over. Without announcement, the stage lights dimmed and the next performers silently took the stage. Two shiny leotards moved to positions on the east and west sides of the stage.

A soft drum roll of brushes starting playing and crescendoed, and the piano emitted a playful, almost mazurka beat.

Suddenly a spot light shone to the left of the room, illuminating Jasmyn standing on the bar top, legs spread wide and a wireless microphone in her leather-and-lace clad hand.

Friends and Companions
From the Rumble of the Streets
To our next showcase

Tonight's Debut of
Youth's ubiquitous nectar
Green Jello, the Dance

The scene on the stage changed to a weird hazy green light as the two bodies came clearer into focus. The almost alien looking forms shone in shiny spandex from the web-like feet to a tightly fitting cap covering their head. Then the bodies seem to melt to the floor as if their spines had suddenly been removed. The blobs in the eerie light flip-flopped across the stage toward each other like oil floating in water. Jacques' outfits seem to come alive in the light but the humans within seem to disappear into water flows travelling across the stage. The blobs moved toward each other and reached out two human hands, then one form piggy backed onto the other to form a continuous summersault.

"What is this?" Cay whispered to Marcy. The room had grown quiet at the sight.

"Contortionists, " Marcy read from the written program by the dim lighted candle at her table. Even as the bending sisters slithered and slimed, wormed and wiggled around the stage, the lime green leotards seem to shake and vibrate, adding a wiggling, undulating layer to the impossible bending, folding and rolling of the bodies on stage . Cay raised her glass in admiration. Jacques, you have done it again! But when the waitress stopped at their table, Cay held off on ordering a second drink because the contortionists had made her feel somewhat queasy. The crowd gave the Bent Sisters a hearty applause as the duo finished their gymnastics and took their first normal movement of the evening - a bow.

"We got to go," Kenois said, jumping up . "We're up after the next act." There was a flurry of activity as the women grabbed bags and purses and extra scarves and scabbards containing dulled scimitars and pushed through the tightly set tables, hurrying to the shared dressing room behind the stage.

"Break a leg!" Marcy called after them

"Be careful!" was Cay's wish.

The band played some soft jazz as the next act settled in on the darkened stage. No announcement from Jasmyn this time. Just a shuffling in the background while Cay watched shadowy figures wearing some kind of large headgear. When the lights came up, four gorgeous, impossibly tall women dressed in white jeweled, low cut, tight fitting gowns, and feathered headdresses that formed orbs about each of their heavily made- upped faces, lined up from tallest to less tall. The tallest stepped forward and announced in a sexy deep voice, "Hi y'all. How y'all doing?"

The crowd shouted back, "Good! Fine! Great!"

"Darlings, now listen close, We are the Tee-SPoonZ and we got some sugar coming your way now."

"Are those men or women?" Cay whispered to her friend next to her.

"These guys are great!" Marcy answered back. "They have a show at Rubyfruit Jungle every Monday night."

The quartet broke into tight acapella harmonies with a gospel blues flavor, their words infused with food references and spiced with double entendre.

"What goes in my oven
Don't come out the same
You think you got ham
But you really got game
Woo-woo-woo- woo!"

The crowd was loving it and alcohol fueled their enthusiasm. They hooted and hollered, clapping along as the quarter sung in perfect harmony.

Cay's eyes again travelled where Ivan was sitting. She saw Costanza gather up her bag from under the table and head toward the dressing room . Cay was surprised to see that Costanza was in the show. It didn't seem to fit her Food Con organizer image of efficiency and gatekeeper of a man of the statue of Fontainbleau. She was also surprised to see that before she left, Ivan leaned over and gave her a kiss. Not a friendly, "Good to see you" kind of kiss, but a real one, right on the lips.

She pushed herself out of her chair to grab her opportunity to confront Ivan. But he was already getting up out of his chair and heading to the restroom. It wasn't until the Tee-SPoonZ finished with their second song, "Roll Me Out, Baby, on your Cutting Board of Love," that he was back at the table. While Jasmyn announced Kenois belly dancing troupe ("Uber-Undulates," Cay heard her say), Cayenne weaved her way through the crowd and inserted herself into the chair next to Ivan. A waitress came by at that moment, and she ordered another drink, trying to buy time. Strange reedy Arabian music emitted from the sound system and the troupe began its set with a set of brisk Egyptian walks toward and away from the crowd. The club patrons started clapping with the rhythm.

"Mr. McNalton, my name is Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi, Can I ask you a few questions?"

"Oh, it you from the Beer Fest. This is not a good time." He brushed her away but she tried again.

"I realize it's not the ideal time. But you haven't returned my phone calls or my emails. I need to talk to you about Monterey de Queso and his accusations that you are stealing his original work."

The Krewe du Couture troupe now was balancing the scimitars on their heads. Cayenne noticed out of her peripheral vision with dismay that the shiny blades sparkled under the house lights. They were not performing with sheafs tonight.

"Listen," Ivan turned to her and punctuated his words with a sharply pointed index finger. "That man is obviously insane. That was my recipe that we created specifically for the book I am writing on using Abita beers in cooking. I did not steal it from anyone."

"We?"

"My ... my... publisher has been integral to my work," He looked away from Cay's gaze over her should and began to look alarmed. Cay thought he was getting riled from her questions and pushed forward.

"Who is your publisher, Mr. McNalton?" She leaned in closer for the answer, but the waitress came back with her drink at that moment. She fished a ten out of her pocket and waved her away.

Cayenne was never able to get an answer because at that moment all hell broke loose. The belly dancers on stage were twirling the swords on their heads in perfect harmony, and the crowd was going crazy, watching the whirling blades rotate like a trailer park of Cuisinarts. The look of joy on Kenois's face was joyous and ebullient, but then Samantha sneezed. Her bowed head and sudden jerk caused her sword to slip and caused a massive chain reaction that lead to flying saucers of blades soaring into the audience. There were screams and pandemonium as patrons dodged Frisbee- like swords and hid instinctively under the crowded tables.

That's where Cay headed when she ducked, while Ivan darted toward the back of the room. The troupe look horrified except for Kenois who was able to keep the sword twirling on her head and continued with a beatific look of trance on her face. The light man brilliantly focused a spot light on her and her whirling dervish of a sword, while the rest of the troupe sheepishly mined through the crowd to retrieve their weapons. The music ended, and there was hesitant, tepid applause from the crowd as they exited their places of safety and looked around. Cay also came out from under the table and saw that Ivan had moved nearer to the stage, and was now sitting at the table of Dixie Fouton, who was President of the Council On Underground Arts, who was dressed totally in black except for a bright blood drop of bougainvillea in her hair. She worked her way back to her original seat. Seems like drama was always interrupting her conversations with Ivan McNalton.

As the crowd settled, the spotlight turned back on Jasmyn, now seated on top of the piano, her torn stockinged legs swinging to the band's beat, which now played slow and thoughtful. She applauded wildly, the microphone in her hand sounded like a dead thump which each clap of leathered hand against leathered hand.

Fabulous my friends
A dance to the bitter end!
We are reminded

She rambled on a bit, philosophizing about the symbolism of the sword in our daily lives and praised the dance as an amazing piece of performance art, representing how normal people are cut off from the roots of their food and the ability to express themselves in dance, though solitary pockets celebrate alone and in great joy. No one in the traumatized crowd really quite got what she was trying to say and no one really bought the thought that this was a purposeful piece of art to send swords flying through a crowded nightclub. But everyone was glad that they still had their heads intact. Alcohol sales spiked.

Finally Jasmyn introduced the next act.

But sex and eating
Are entwined philosophies
Lesson for our time

Let's take a journey
Over there where fantasies
Will often come true.

The lights on the stage light to dim status and the piano player starts in on a Tin Pan Alley song that Cay recognized as "Ten Cents A Dance." The silhouette of a woman carrying a chair comes out, and places the chair at the front center for the stage, the back facing the audience. Then she sits splayed leg and backwards and dips her head, tipping forward a black top hat, reminiscent of a scene out of Cabaret and in classic burlesque style.

When the light roll up, Cay realized it is Costanza. She's dressed in blood red and midnight black, a tight fitting red fringed bra, a black fringed shimmy belt, its fringe draping over her black net stockings and two red and black Sally Rand fans, propped up against her shapely hips. As the trip crescendo, she rose, placing the fans in one hand and brushing them in front of her silky scarlet panel skirt, smiling invitingly at the audience.

She snapped her hat off and winged it into the crowd, then turned her backside to the crowd, peeking over right shoulder like a bad ass version of Betty Grable, then shook her booty to first the left part of the crowd, and then the right. As the bridge came around in the song, Costanza began to belt out her song, she sang an original song with a voice that reached out and filled every corner of the nightclub.

"I work down at Boudreau's kitchen
dripping in grease and heat.
It isn't no place to get rich in,
but I'm free to grind his meat.
I slice an' dice an' sear him,
and strip him down to the bone,
but try as I might to get near him,
without payment I'm still alone.

"Ten cents a pound,
that's what I pay him,
so I can lay him down.
Ten cents a pound,
like lamb chops and ham hocks,
and pork stocks, I suck 'em down.

"Schnitzels and sausage,
are holding me hostage
until I can pay off their ransoms.
I'm hoping and dreaming
of sweet milk for creaming
and frosting their sweet and hot-crossed bums.

"Sometimes I think I've found my hero,
but it's--as you know--quid pro quo.
I pay for whole steaks or ground round
come on, big boys, ten cents a pound.

The crowd was on their feet and gyrating along with the song. New Orleans loves a good burlesque song and Costanza played the crowd to perfection. Even after Costanza's act ended, they stayed on their feet for minutes, clapping and cheering and shouting for more.

Cay almost pitied the next act, which was a rail thin young man, dressed in jeans and holding his notes in his hand. A slam poet, he started snapping his fingers in a set rhythm and motioned to the drummer to pick up the beat. Then he started by screaming his first line. "I am your colon, LISTEN TO ME! Churning, yearning, choking ..."

Luckily, Cay was distracted from the rant by the Krewe du Roux troupe making their way back through the crowd. The women carried bulky bags and skirts and the infamous swords and bumped and banged their way through the crowd back to the table where Marcy and Cay were sitting. The crowd cringed as they passed, and some grabbed their heads. Kenois was oblivious to the panic around her. She wore a huge smile on her face, though the others looked rather sheepish.

"That was great! That was terrific!" she said, plopping several cloth bags, a small train case and a large black leather bag on a chair.

"Yeah, great!" Andreah said, sarcastically.

"We really cut 'em up!" Dinah joked, and collapsed in her chair. Then she looked at Kenois stack. "Is that your bag?"

Kenois inspected it closer. "Gosh, I must have picked it up by mistake in the back. It's a mess back there and tiny. I wonder who it belongs to."

Cay leaned over the table and pointed, "That bag look familiar. Look inside to see if there is a purse or a wallet. Maybe there is some ID"

Kenois dug around and pulled out a small leather zipped purse. She opened it up and tugged on the tightly packed purse. Several cards spilled out on the table. Kenois grabbed a driver's license and Marcy grabbed what looked like a Social Security card, and both fought for the very dim light emitting from the sputtering candle.

"Costanza Collens," Kenois read. "Hey, that was the sausage sister who was right behind us. I must have accidentally grabbed her bag."

"Huh, that's funny," Marcy said. "This card is pretty old but this one says Lena Levandowski. Who's that?"

Cay looked up and saw that Costanza had returned to Ivan's empty table looking upset and distraught, even as people congratulated her as she passed their tables. Upon seeing her and her distress, Ivan bee- lined back to the table. Some words passed and it was obviously that Costanza was very upset and looking around as if missing something.

"I know who that belongs to. Put the cards back and I'll take it over to her and explain."

Cayenne lugged the heavy bag over to the table and upon spying what Cay held in her hand, an obvious flood of relief flowed over Costanzia's face. She extended a blood red, silk glove toward Cay and Cay wasn't sure if it was to shake her hand or retrieve the bag. "Thank you! Thank you! I was beside myself thinking my bag was stolen, Miss….""

"Del Roi. Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi. The belly dancers accidentally picked it up in the back."

Costanza paused, looking past Cay's shoulder to where the lively group of women sat, Then she focused back on Cay. "Ah yes. Cayenne.. We've met before. At Food Con." Her demeanor markedly changed. "I wasn't expecting any Food Con people here tonight. Well, again, thank you very much," she said, indicating the bag, and turned to sit down.

Cayenne took a chance and made a leap. "Mr. McNalton tells me you are publishing his cookbook about cooking with Abita beer."

Cayenne's guess was confirmed as Costanza shot a look filled with poison toward Ivan, who visibly shrank from her glare and shrug his shoulders, mouthing the words, "I didn't tell her."

Cayenne continued, "I'm wondering why the recipes of Monterey de Queso have found their way from Carson Fontainbleau's publishing company into the pages of Mr. McNalton's cookbook."

She watched carefully for a reaction. It was not the one she expected.

Costanza's face went blank for a moment, then it visibly change from anger to charm, as if she was purposefully channeling a personality full of great charm and reason, choosing her outer appearance and her words both carefully. She motioned Cay closer as if imparting an intimacy to her. " I'm probably talking out of school, but I helped broker those recipes as a favor to Mr. Fontainbleau since he was a friend of the De Queso family. Poor Monterey. He is an excellent vendor of cheese," Cay noticed a slight tick in Costanza's cheek when she uttered the word cheese. "The poor man does not have a good palate. I always try those recipes and I'm afraid the man doesn't have what it takes. But a lovely family." She slung the strap of the black bag over her shoulder and leaned over and patted Ivan's hand.

"Ivan, dear, I'm exhausted. I'm heading home. Now go right home after the competition. You still have some studying to do for Food Spell tomorrow." She turned to Cay almost boasting, " Ivan is in the Food Spell competition tomorrow. It's a fundraiser by Food Con to raise money for the soup kitchens in town. I'm afraid Ivan's not favored to win, however. Usually Carson Fontainbleau blows everyone away. He has been around longer than anyone so remembers the really old words." She laughed at her little poke at her employer. "Nice to meet you, Miss Del Roi."

Cay once again worked her way through the tight crowd toward the table and barely reached her seat when the lights went down again. There was a rustling sound then a spotlight shown slowly on the center for the stage where there stood a huge papier-mãché oyster. The music switched to a clanging clashing bebop kind of jazz. Then a loud clash of the cymbals, as the top lid of the oyster slowly rose by itself. From a tightly curled position, a figure gradually unfolded and stood straight on the bottom of the shell. It's Jasmyn herself, in a glimmering body suit and she had gossamer wings that when she raises it over her head makes a perfect shimmering pearl.

She circled once around the stage as the band played then stood center, her gossamer wings crossed in front of her. Then she spoke.

Rude awakening
Head pounding from days of drink
What will be my cure?

Towel in my left
Knife held firmly in my right
Five oysters slide down

What an odd creature
Hard outer shell like insects
Covered in sharp spikes

But the flesh is moist
A salty treat with butter
Now my fork is bent

Then she spread her white wings to either side and dropped her voice to a whisper.

Is it brown or black?
Rich, sticky and loaded up
Gumbo of my dreams

Hot steaming odors
I inhale and lift my spoon
Damn! I burn my tongue

After saying a noisy good-bye to the Krewe du Couture, and following a group of people back to the direction of where she parked, Cay sat in her car reviewing the events confusing events in her head. The web site belonged to an address from Ivan's computer, but his protestations seem genuine unless he was a really good liar. And what was Costanza's role? She had access to Rey's recipes, but it didn't make sense that she would steal them when she could publish them through Fontainbleau and have an automatic success. Maybe Rey's recipes really were awful and he was just deluding himself. But the tangy lingering memory of that bite of Port and Porter Stew left her doubtful. She thought a bit more, sitting in her locked car parked on the dark streets of New Orleans. Then she picked up her phone and dialed. Its blue light cast an eerie glow through the black shadows.

"Hello?"

"Mary Dan, this is Cayenne. I'm sorry it's so late but I have a question for you. Did you say that Curtis was coming back to the den tomorrow to help you some more?"

"Yes, I'm picking him up to go over to the event with me."

"Can you ask him to research the name Lena Levandowski? Don't have much more than that, but ask him if anything unusual pops out."

February 17, 2009. R-O-Q-U-E-F-O-R-T. Roquefort.