Unsettling + beautiful: Kate Brown's Fish + Chocolate

Comics review.

Fish+ Chocolate

Kate Brown

SelfMadeHero, 128pp, £14.99

Fish + Chocolate is unsettling. Part of the reason I feel that way might be the route I have taken through the work of Kate Brown, the creator of this collection of three short stories. The majority of Brown's work to date has been for the all-ages comics the DFC and its spiritual successor the Phoenix, where she created adventure stories with a slightly darker twist than most work for children. Spider Moon, serialised in the DFC Weekly, was cruelly cut short by the cancellation of its parent title, and only reached the end of the first of an intended five-volume run, but the Lost Boy, about a shipwrecked young boy and his lemur, launched with more achievable aims, and finished its 35 episode run last August. (Owing to the impressive tautness of the Phoenix, those 35 episodes only amount to 70 pages)

The Lost Boy was one of the slower stories in the first six months of the Phoenix, taking too long to subvert the boy-goes-on-treasure-hunt plot with the menace of the islands other inhabitants. Those shadowy figures would become the focus of the story, but I fear by the time Brown played her hand, the immediate thrill of Daniel Hartwell and Neill Cameron's Pirates of Pangaea may have proved more seductive. (The latter also had pirates and dinosaurs, basically rendering it eight-year-old kryptonite)

What the Lost Boy really had going for it, though, was Brown's art. Expressive characters — well, character — and beautiful foliage (it's a niche talent, but it's a talent nonetheless) combined with her keen understanding of the ability of the palette of a work to set the mood to instantly evoke the tropical paradise her hero was stuck on. That's an important skill, given the constrained space she had to work in.

In Fish + Chocolate, we get to see Brown in the exact opposite mode. Where Spider Moon was for all ages, the three short stories contained here are emphatically adult in tone, and one is fairly explicit to boot. And where the Lost Boy was compressed down into just two pages an episode, these are decompressed, allowing her art and characters room to breath.

The best of the shorts is the opening one, "the Piper Man". It's a loose retelling of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, set in the modern day with a single mum and her two kids. We all know the ending of the fable; but we also all know the stereotype of the creepy weirdo who plays with other people's children. It's a stereotype that many—including the mother in the story—aren't quite comfortable with, but who's going to be the one to let their principles get in the way of their children's safety? And so the conflict isn't just between the mother and her kids. It's also an internal one, as she tries to summon up the courage to keep the piper man away for good.

"The Cherry Tree" doesn't wear its plot on its sleeve in the same way. It still concerns the relationship of a mother and her child (as do all three stories in the book) and in the end, tragedy ensues all the same. But the menace here is entirely conveyed through tone and setting. Prisca and her mother have moved into a new house with a cherry tree in the garden, which, both passively and actively, enters the daughter's live. But Prisca is left to her own devices, and the negligence takes its toll.

Both Cherry Tree and Piper Man also use the same mastery of colouring that Brown demonstrated in Lost Boy to great effect. As the stories go on, and menace creeps in, the colour slowly drains from the palette. The difference, when you look back and forth, is stark; but you barely notice it when reading through. The similarities also demonstrate attention to the placing of the two stories in the book. In Piper Man, the menace is explicit, and the desaturation serves to emphasise that, but by Cherry Tree, the same effect is already mentally associated with menace. The pages thus unsettle, without any good reason why. Until the end of that story, that is. That pattern is subverted in the final story, Matroyshka, which begins desaturated after tragedy has already occurred. It's a gut-wrenching depiction of mental illness, but ultimately a hopeful one as well.

Fish + Chocolate is the work of a phenomenally talented author. Were it not frequently wordless, it would be called "literary"; were they not telling stories, the images alone would be art. Instead, it's just damn good comics.

Fish + Chocolate is the work of a phenomenally talented author.

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

Photo: Tashphotography / Stockimo / Alamy
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The Negroni fools no one – it’s easy to make and contains nothing but booze

It is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

The cocktail is designed to lie about its origins; no wonder it reached its apogee during Prohibition, which forced everyone with an unrepentant thirst to lie about their cravings. Even today, when only extreme youth, religious belief or personal inclination prevents a person from draining the bar dry, the cocktail continues its career of dishonesty. It hides ingredients or methods. It provides a front for poor-quality booze. And it often dissolves, within its inscrutable depths, mountains of sugar, enabling drinkers to pose as sophisticates while downing something that tastes like a soft drink – to get drunk without leaving the playpen.

This is why I love the Negroni, which fools no one. It is easy to make and contains nothing but pure booze. Despite being a third sweet vermouth, it isn’t saccharine: the other two thirds, equal measures of gin and Campari, may have something to do with this. And it is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

They say it was invented in Florence at the request of a Count Negroni, who wanted a drink unsullied by club soda – a drink stiff enough to get a man back on a bucking horse, perhaps, since this Count may have been a rodeo rider. I prefer to believe that the Count, if Count he was, came in, tossed down enough strong liquor to start telling stories about his American adventures, and, when he finally staggered out into the night, the exasperated bartender poured three straight shots into a single glass and baptised this wondrous reviver in grateful homage to the fabulist who had inspired it.

In a former glue factory a very long way from Florence or America, the East London Liquor Company now makes very good gin – Batches One and Two, the former tannic with Darjeeling as well as cassia bark, pink grapefruit peel, and coriander seeds; the latter redolent of savoury, bay, thyme and lavender. Transforming these plants into excellent alcohol seems an improvement on boiling down horses for adhesive, and the company also makes superb Negronis from Batch Two.

We sit outside, in a carpark made marginally more glamorous by border boxes of Batch Two botanicals, and marvel at the transformation of this grimy part of East London, next door to a park intended to give Victorian working men brief respite from lives all too lacking in myth or fantasy. It is a reincarnation at least as miraculous as the transformation of three strong and entirely unalike spirits into the delectable harmony of the Negroni. The sun shines; a fountain plashes. Nuts and charcuterie arrive. All is right with the world.

I leave my herbaceous bower and dangerously pleasing drink for a peek at the large copper distillery behind the bar, walking in past the fountain, a whimsical stone construction that pours vermilion liquid into two, tiered basins topped by a chubby putto clutching a rather reluctant fish.

And then I stop. And double back. Vermilion liquid? It is, indeed, a Negroni fountain. There are even slices of orange floating in the basin. I dip a finger: the taste is slightly metallic but still undeniably that potent mixture of booze, botanicals, bitterness, and just a hint of sweetness. A streak of citrus from the orange slices. It turns out that the world’s most straightforward cocktail lends itself to a decadent neo-Renaissance fantasy. There’s a message here, one forthright as a temperance tract: without imagination, we would have no lies – but no Negronis, either.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder