Ah, yes. The Zelephant. A name that now whispers only through the dusty data-archives of extinct megafauna and the tear-stained memoirs of truly discerning palates like my own. I, Chef Executif Valerius Rex, formerly of the W Corporation Celestial Boardroom’s private kitchens (a position, I assure you, of no small import), am perhaps one of the last living souls to have truly understood this magnificent creature. Not as some noble beast of a vibrant ecosystem, of course—such sentimentalities are for poets and planetary survey teams—but as the ultimate expression of culinary potential.

Its meat! Oh, the sheer, unadulterated essence of it! Light, yet unctuously buttery. Infused with a delicate sweetness reminiscent of spun starlight or, as some of the more pedestrian executives would crudely put it, “cotton candy.” But it was so much more. It possessed a gamey richness, a profound depth that spoke of ancient forests and shimmering, bio-luminescent rivers. Unicorn meat, that rather déclassé novelty item, was mere child’s play by comparison. Zelephant was the truth.

Back in the glorious zenith of the W Corporation’s reign, circa 33,010 CE, procuring a prime loin of Quarnivorian Zelephant was, naturally, an undertaking. Quarnivor itself was a… spirited little planet on the fringes of the Orion Spur. Rather pretty, in a wild, untamed sort of way, before our Resource Division began its admirable work of optimization. The natives, as I recall, were becoming rather agitated about something or other—planetary degradation, the dwindling herds, the usual complaints one hears from populations that fail to grasp the larger economic picture. Their “Sporks,” as they called their little protest groups, were a mild nuisance, easily swatted aside by Asset Protection.

My sourcing agents, true artisans of acquisition, would often regale me with tales of their expeditions. Braving primitive planetary defenses, navigating treacherous local politics (which usually involved a generous dispersal of W Corp “goodwill credits”), and, of course, selecting only the most perfect specimens. One simply cannot rush the selection of a Zelephant. The marbling, the subtle iridescence of the fat, the aroma of the living creature… it all contributed to the final masterpiece.

It is a tragedy of galactic proportions that Quarnivor, and by extension the Zelephant, met such an… abrupt end. Some blame the Sporks for escalating things, others the rather unfortunate overzealousness of the local factions with their newfound playthings. Frankly, the details are tiresome. What matters, what truly wounds the soul of any being with a modicum of taste, is that the Zelephant is gone. Wiped from the cosmic menu by short-sightedness and, if I’m honest, a rather boorish disregard for the finer things in life.

But I digress. You are here for the recipe. A memory, yes, a ghost of a flavor. But even a ghost, when properly prepared, can offer a taste of divinity. This was a dish I prepared exclusively for the CEO’s most intimate gatherings, a testament to the power and refinement of the W Corporation. Should you, by some miracle of temporal distortion or black market necromancy, acquire a Zelephant loin, this is how one honors it. For the rest of you… well, I suppose the terrestrial substitution will have to suffice. It will be like comparing a child’s finger-painting to the celestial frescoes of the Andromeda galleries, but one must make allowances for the impoverished realities of modern existence.