The clay abbot is eating with the help of fishermen's offspring who have been trained to gently operate his jaws and massage his throat to allow for the efficient passage of fish flesh and pasted herbs to the steaming vat of his belly. The food is good enough for the abbot but the wine, sullied by beetle larvae and their excrement, will be put out for the stable folk.
Boiled in tin pots, the abbot's drink shall instead be the spinal fluid of the fishermen themselves, harvested by the abbot's mistresses in their black gauze hoods and capes. By the time of the feast, these gorgeous skanks have retired to their richly appointed bedchambers to enter a catatonic state, dreaming of the fish who now swim free of fear.