𓌏 the kitchen [story]

It was on a warm day in late spring that a pickup truck drove up to the back of the restaurant. A man leapt fluidly out of the doorway and down the three stone steps to greet the slow crunching of large tires on gravelly concrete. The driver parked finally and opened the door, stepping out and landing heavily on the pebbles that had long since freed themselves from the rough road. The driver then opened the back, which had been covered by an oddly clean tarp of pristine verdant green.

“Trick or treat,” the broad man said, the safe password easily and casually drawing the other man’s attention. “I have your delivery.”

“Thank you,” said the lean man from the restaurant. He pulled now a titanic ice chest that must have only barely fit through the narrow doorway and gestured to it. “Please just place it here.”

The driver tipped his head slightly in a discreet nod as he lifted the massive bag from the back of the trunk. The bag swung precariously, but he handled it with experience and deftly folded over the five-and-a-half foot long contents of the bag to fit into the freezer box. “I have heard from a little bird that there is a new one?”

“Fresh meat,” the man said sagely. He giggled in a way that shook his somewhat narrow body like secretive hiccups — in fact, his laughs were easily mistakable for hysterical hiccuping fits. “This package will be his first one.”

The driver chuckled with a surprising softness, but it nearly sounded dangerous when the sarcastic undertones bled through at the end. “Remember though that two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.”

“Ironic that he could become the next secret, isn’t it?”

And with that, the driver entered his car as swiftly as a shadow in the corner of the man’s vision and was eventually only a mite of dust against the red sky, flying away in a single breath.

$$$

“How exhilarating,” gasped Vanessa. “I have never been to a Michelin star restaurant before!”

“I have not been either, so I’m glad that we get to have the experience together,” agreed Tony, raising his hand to point at a nearing motorboat. “Do you think that is ours?”

“I presume so.”

Their thoughts were proven to be correct as the motorboat arrived at the small dock and parked, the tides gently rocking it back and forth as a loving parent does a baby. The somewhat middle-aged sailor stood up from his seat and descended to meet the two. He introduced himself as Pierre with a friendly grin on his face, his left eyebrow creasing slightly more than his right in a jaunty arch. He beckoned them then into the back half of the boat and assured them that the ride would not be too long; it would be only about ten to fifteen minutes. He then walked back to his seat to take the wheel so that he could drive them to the restaurant.

Once the initial acceleration of the motorboat was over, the short trip was remarkably smooth compared to what Tony and Vanessa had expected. However, even the ride was a minor experience in contrast to the breathtakingly majestic views. The scenery rushed by like colorful snapshots of another world, acting as a window into landscapes laden with lush and glistening mountain sides carpeted thickly in verdant and sage shades, shimmering golden flowerbeds alight with an aura of rapturous sheen, and pale sand glowing ivory occasionally washing over with dark, glassy tides that broke as they crashed ashore as if in slow motion. The water was nearly black that blended into pale cerulean at the tips of the waves, and the mesmerizing foam of the water dissipated against the smooth white sides of the little boat.

Eventually the water turned a lighter and greener shade as the bottom drew close to the boat, now in the shallow portion of the wide lake where they would dock. Their time spent on the water must have been the full fifteen minutes, although Tony claimed that it had only been ten and Vanessa would allege five. As they walked only for a few minutes down the sandy path as Pierre had instructed, they talked to pass the time.

“You said earlier that a friend told you about this place, right?” inquired Tony as he stepped over a rock that was sure to trip him if he set foot anywhere too close to it.

Vanessa dipped her chin in affirmation, eyes wandering the lean, flexible trees as they swayed and often returning her attention to the textured sepia road. “Sara sent me the link to their website only a month ago.”

“Did she say anything else about what she thought of the restaurant after the whole experience? I’d like to know what to expect,” confessed Tony. “I’m feeling a bit nervous about this, since I had never thought about actually going to one of these more … privileged areas.”

Vanessa checked her phone briefly before shaking her head and pocketing it, the glossy clear cover reflecting the glare of the sun between her fingers for just a moment. “No, sorry. I haven’t gotten any messages from her since. If it makes you feel better, though, I’ve been feeling the same. From the beginning, I’ve been worrying that you would know exactly what to do and I would be completely clueless and annoying.”

“No, you’re good.”

“Ah — wait! Is that the restaurant there?”

Tony raised his gaze from the tiny scarlet flowers surrounding the path and inhaled pleasantly, savoring the cool air. There was a short set of polished maroon stairs twisted with pure white veins leading up to the grand entrance. The tall spruce doors were lit impressively by the lanterns that sat on every step of the maroon-and-white marble, and immense windows with stained edges lined the walls so that the softly lit interior was visible. Vanessa wordlessly pointed at the detailed wooden furniture and glowing candle atop every table. Each table had a draping maroon cloth over its surface to match the stairs, and Tony whispered of the warm red decorations that accented every small detail of the restaurant.

A waiter quickly found them as they checked in about their reservation, which had been confirmed at surprising speed, considering that a place with three Michelin stars was sure to be constantly busy. He led the two to a table, which was labeled with a steel plate with the word “reserved” engraved into it in thin, delicate print, and handed them their menus. He then whisked away the metal plate with brisk surety and tucked it into his pocket.

“Hello, I’m Marco. Is this your first time here with us?” he asked with a practiced lean forward. His voice, Tony and Vanessa both noticed, sounded familiar, although it had a slight French lilt that threw them off.

“Yes,” said Vanessa, shaking free of her thoughts.

“Fantastic. If you have any questions, please let me know. I will be walking around checking on all of the tables in a few minutes, so it would be best if you could look through the menu now and ask me then. I hope you enjoy eating here at Sanguior.” He smiled with a crease that was more prominent in his left eyebrow rather than his right. He then turned away and walked, perfectly paced, back to a counter with some other waiters.

It was at that moment that the two both had a chance to stop and pay attention to the restaurant, inhaling its luxury — and it was then that they smelled it.

The most lovely smell flooded them, soaking and nearly drowning them in it, but in a pleasant way like sinking into a pile of blankets or drifting in and out of a wonderfully heavenly dream. They could only breathe in the sheer euphoria of the air now, and they both felt their minds spiral into a sort of emotional high that lifted them into the air and spun their thoughts around giddily.

The smell was all of the finest meats in the world, sprinkled with a pinch of black pepper. It was Vanessa’s favorite perfume, only she couldn’t remember what it was. It was Tony’s first house, although he only had faint memories of it. It was home, a perfectly cooked meal, a dream that spilled itself into life, a whole world visible through an open doorway, and simply a sensation all at once.

The incredible fragrance wasn’t just a fragrance, for just that moment, and the two both let it swallow them.

Then, they woke up from that home, meal, dream, world, and sensation and peered at each other with wide smiles on their faces. “You felt that too?” their expressions both asked and answered in a sort of blissful daze.

“If that’s just the smell,” began Tony.

“I can barely even stand to wait for the meal,” breathed Vanessa, stretching her fingers and rotating the one dainty gold ring around her finger that was so thin it was nearly invisible against her skin.

They quickly scanned through the dark brown menu with rich burgundy stained details and decided on a medium rare steak for Tony and just a medium one for Vanessa, seeing as how Sanguior was the most well-known for its marvelous steaks.

“Wonderful,” said Marco, picking up their menus from their hands. “Now, you ordered the Caesar salad — a classic — cream of mushroom soup,  grilled prawn to share, a medium top sirloin, and a medium rare filet mignon. Did I get that right?”

“Perfect, thank you, Marco,” said Tony.

Marco simply smiled another knowing smile. “Of course. I’ll have that prepared for you right away.”

$$$

Like nails gently stroking a chalkboard, threateningly poised yet perfectly applying just the right amount of minacious pressure, the speakers’ soft music faded away and a voice began to speak:

“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, but we have an announcement. Dear esteemed guests, this is a reminder that the restaurant will be closing at twenty-three hours sharp tonight. We advise that anyone here begin to leave thirty minutes early so that you will not get locked in. For reference, it is now twenty-one hours and fifteen minutes. We will be repeating this announcement in half an hour. Thank you.”

“Locked in?” questioned Vanessa, partially to herself.

Tony tilted his head to his right. “I thought that was quite strange as well. I wonder if people really have gotten locked in overnight.”

“I would have thought that they would check to make sure there were no more people left inside of the building before locking the doors,” said Vanessa, “but I do suppose that in such an imposing building it would be easy to lose maybe just one person.”

Even after this justification, however, the announcement had already been sure fuel to the nagging suspicion that slightly tugged at Vanessa. She attributed this to her paranoia and wild imagination, remembering all of the times she was suspicious of completely random things and struck fear into herself imagining herself awake late into the night.

Eventually, the food began to come out, leading up to the moment the steak was served, presented artistically in such an appetizing manner that the two gawked at. It was clearly juicy and tender, and the well-browned surface of the meat was glazed over with sweet sauces that mixed together to create a wonderful combination of tangy, salty, and savory that added to the smell of the place as well as drew the eye. There were colorful garnishes that only lifted the good mood higher from the sheer enchantment of the sight, and Tony and Vanessa widened their eyes.

The presentation was extravagant — the best I’ve ever seen, Vanessa thought as she admired the food, taking a quick photo with her phone. Well, what else would you expect from a Michelin star restaurant?

“Thank you for serving us,” said Vanessa, half-distracted by her overwhelmed senses. “It looks delicious.”

Marco smiled, the crease at his arched eyebrow only becoming more evident in that oh-so-familiar way. His smile was strange — like a smile knowing a sorrowful secret; it was a guilty smile, really.

“What tale will you spin up next?” Vanessa murmured to herself, averting her eyes and instead focusing on her outfit — a castleton green blouse paired with white jeans. Her imagination really did get out of control too often, and the simple colors grounded her.

As Marco left to serve other customers, she began to cut the steak. Her knife grated against something suddenly, and her curious mind immediately jumped to see what it was. She cut around the object of mystery and discovered what seemed almost like a tiny fingernail. Disgusted, she pushed back her chair with her hands fully on the tablecloth and stood. She registered that her hands were smeared slightly with the color of the cloth, but she ignored it, thinking instead of her complaints.

“Excuse me, Tony,” said Vanessa, just a little too fast with a slight frown visible on her face. Her brown eyes darted quickly. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Yes — yes, of course. Go ahead,” stammered Tony, caught off guard by the unexpectedly surprising motion.

Vanessa leisurely wandered around the restaurant, vision darting for the kitchen like a cat chasing a laser. As she walked, she found that many of the previously occupied seats were now vacant, small remnants of their food still there and candle burning brightly. It seemed as if everyone had begun to leave early.

The speaker then screeched its threatening scrape. “Dear esteemed guests, this is a reminder that the restaurant will be closing at twenty-three hours sharp tonight. We advise that anyone here begin to leave thirty minutes early so that you will not get locked in. For reference, it is now twenty-one hours and forty-five minutes. Thank you,” the speaker announced, a repetition of the script that had been said half an hour earlier. Had it really been that much time?

She ambled around for just a minute more before finding the kitchen door in the back of the restaurant. The heavy door creaked open, and a warm breeze slipped out of the room before she swept herself inside, leaving no traces behind.

Vanessa crept about the glorified cooking appliances, walking softly in her low heels. The kitchen was strangely quiet with a few clinking noises and sizzling in some unseen nook. She turned a corner, and instantly, something caught her eye and trapped her in its net.

There was a deep-frying pot with an unknown substance in it — it looked almost like thick white noodles. Intestines, maybe?

She then realized that it could also be brains — but from what? Lamb? Beef? She was not very well-educated on the visible differences between those types of brains. She did know that brains were a type of delicacy, so she did not think much of it.

Despite the unfamiliarity of deep-fried brains, Vanessa had one other concern — there was no cook watching the pot. In fact, the pot was the only cooking appliance in use as far as she could see. Surely, something was strange — and it was not simply her imagination this time. She turned slowly, surveying the surroundings for a cook or perhaps even the chef. Anyone would be welcome, as the muffling of the kitchen walls muted the environment and nearly convinced her that sound did not exist at all. She turned, her footsteps even too quiet.

“Hello! Is there anything that I could help you with?”

Startled, Vanessa whirled, heartbeat racing, and found a figure standing not completely behind her but slightly to her left where she had entered the room with the brain.

This man was likely in his early fifties and towered over her with an exquisite chef’s toque firmly seated upon his slightly balding head, adding to his already tall and lean silhouette. He had sharp features and skin slightly paler than hers, most probably from working in the kitchen most days.

Vanessa eyed him nervously and began to speak. “Hello there. My experience here has been extravagant, but I have one little question. If I may ask, what kind — what kind of meat does this restaurant serve? In the menu, it never stated which kind it was, and it tastes a bit like pork, although it doesn’t seem to be pork at the same time.”

He smirked a bit menacingly. “Usually I would reserve the pleasure of knowing our secret ingredient for very few, but it seems I will not escape your inquiry. I will let you in on our little secret, since you seem to be one of those deserving of it.”

She expectantly stared at him with a sense of inquisitiveness, his authority piquing her interest. Vegetarian meats, perhaps? She had heard of those, which were said to taste just like regular meat. It certainly seemed like a possibility.

As the chef paced the door he began to disclose bits and bits of information, the story only starting to add up. “You see,” he said (although Vanessa really didn’t), “this restaurant has always had one goal in mind since the very beginning: to get revenge on those who harm me and my family. My parents raised me, working an honest living. Our lives had been perfect until someone killed my father when I was, say, ten years old.”

Vanessa’s eyes shifted frantically. She felt nervousness crawling under her skin and weaving itself into her hair and oozing from her clammy pores.

The chef grimly smiled. “Ever since that day, I have been on a mission to track down that very same man who murdered my father.” He paused, tugging at his toque. “I failed.”

They let the quiet nearly wash over them before the chef’s voice crashed into the wave and dissipated it with the next word.

“I opened this restaurant for a second chance. I knew that this restaurant had to be special. Something that would lure him in. So I thought of something — something that was a little … unconventional. Some may even say cannibalistic.” The chef tilted his head and made a noise similar to that of a hiccup. “I started serving humans.”

Vanessa felt sudden itches spread over her skin in wild patches, covering her in painful psychosomatic rashes. “Humans.” She continued to look at him.

The man nodded in a way that made it hard for Vanessa to tell what he was thinking. He then smiled strangely, Vanessa’s vision doubling and her breath drawing in with a sharp gasp as his teeth nearly seemed to morph in an odd fashion. That was when she knew, but she couldn’t escape now. As he had been pacing, he had somehow circled her in a full loop and gone back to the same place he had originally been — blocking the only exit that Vanessa knew of. The kitchen door was now just out of her reach, and since she knew of no other entrance for sure, any of the other doors could easily get her cornered.

“Now, now, just wait a minute,” the chef said with a passable tone that almost turned him back into any other human. He easily grinned with the same friendly aura that seemed to come so effortlessly when evoked. “It would be rude of you to leave while I am still telling my story.” His grin grew nearly feral, wide and lethal with intent.

Vanessa’s gaze shifted desperately, growing focused and unfocused in repeat as she struggled to search for any exit, but there seemed to be nothing that could help her in the moment. Attempting to calm herself and her whirlwind bemusement, she turned herself back to the chef and tried her best to hide her clear bewilderment.

“As I was saying, I serve humans. Don’t ask me how I got them, but just know that the sweet and soft yet tough and biting taste of the meat was perfect — just the thing I needed all along. No one seemed to suspect a thing, and eventually the restaurant ended up with three whole Michelin stars. They were clueless about the type of meat that I served them, and I thought they were supposed to be the ‘best of the best.’ I suppose I was incorrect.

“I finally got my father’s killer to step into this very restaurant after all the fame, and I ended his life. Money can do a lot, especially when you can play the rest of your cards correctly,” said the chef with a reminiscent and nearly nostalgic quality tinging his words.

“The police couldn’t catch the murderer, but you could based off of your memories from when you were … ten years old, did you say?” Vanessa felt as if she couldn’t help herself from asking the question. Her mouth was dry, and her thoughts felt fuzzy and blank.

The chef laughed, crazed expression distorting. His laugh — it was hiccups and the violent jerking of his somewhat lanky build. “You sound as if you are built up with naïvete,” he said. “Money can buy stars and the planets that revolve around them; charity does not buy anything in the end but pity.”

“You’re wrong.” She pushed off of the floor and sped, a bubble of oil flicking out of the deep-frying pot and splashing onto her face. She scrambled to leave through the nearest door, her vision blurring as her dark brown eyes unfocused.

Despite what you may think, the chef was speedy and easily tripped Vanessa in the next room, sending her sprawling into a counter. She turned around, wiping at the oil burn on her cheek. Her eyes widened and her muscles locked as her entire body freezed, now finally realizing that she was stuck. She knew how her story was sure to end.

“You are strangely impressive, but surely not for any good reason. Listen now, as I must continue my story.

“Now without a goal to chase, my life purpose had been fulfilled. However, I couldn’t stop there. I had so much success — why not keep going? And so I did. For three whole years after that, my waiters, cooks, and everyone kept up the act. Our revenue skyrocketed, since we didn’t have to buy expensive meats from the store at all and could simply … repurpose our customers. Three whole years this went on — and here we are now. Come to think of it, you would be a great subject for repurposing. So, to answer your question again and truly, our meat …”

The chef slowly made his way towards Vanessa as she backed up, holding eye contact yet noticeably shaking. He leaned in politely, smiling his recognizable grin, and stood poised, his stance a dagger with its tip barely at the surface of her skin. His widening eyes pushed the blade further, which neither of them could see but both of them could feel.

“Is you.”

$$$

Vanessa had been taking a while to do something as mundane as going to the restroom, thought Tony. His usual patience began to wane down once he realized that it had been at least ten minutes since the announcement had rang through the building, which was quite quiet, he noticed, compared to how it had been when he and Vanessa had first arrived. He stood from his chair, tucking it in neatly and beginning to walk around. He dawdled a bit, searching.

Eventually he stumbled upon the kitchen door and opened it — curse his curiosity — and hoped he wasn’t being very rude by doing so. A man, about the age of fifty by Tony’s estimate, lugged a heavy garbage bag across the polished floor. It seemed that perhaps the person who normally would take out the trash had left the area already, as the restaurant, including the kitchen, was looking awfully bare.

“Ent — Entschuldigung?” stuttered Tony, having heard that the chef was German. He wasn’t sure if the chef spoke much English at all. He tried his best to recall all of the language that he could recall from a few classes in high school. “Haben … haben Sie ein — eine Frau se — gesehen? Haben Sie eine Frau gesehen?”

The chef looked delighted at Tony’s attempts. “Ah, nein. Aber … könnte ich Ihnen sonst noch helfen?”

Tony struggled to remember what that meant, but all he recognized was “no” and “help.” He frowned slightly. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

The chef had a bit of an accent as he spoke. “I did not see any woman, very sorry.” He jolted up. “Ah, yes. I think I did see, and she was walking out and saying the man with her was very … annoy — annoying.”

“Thank you,” said Tony distractedly, thinking about what he could have done to irritate Vanessa. He rushed back to his table and asked for a check, signing to pay the total of very nearly six hundred dollars absentmindedly. For once he did not want to check the cost and instead continued to reassess his previous behavior, barely even thinking as he paid and walked out of the restaurant.

When he walked outside he found the motorboat waiting. He hopped on, staring into the sky. It was quite dark out by now, and the previous sprinkle that had rushed through the air while he had been indoors had cleared. That left a sky glistening with stars that seemed to leap about the sky and every so often wink tauntingly back at those gazing up at them from Earth.

“We have arrived,” said Pierre, arching his eyebrows once again as he grinned. His left eyebrow creased just a bit more prominently as he focused on stopping the boat.

“Thank you for the lovely ride,” said Tony genuinely. He turned and headed off as he reflected on the previous events. Not even a text from her? He could tell that he was looking too far into it, as they likely had not even been a good match anyway.

$$$

A month later, Tony was back where it had all begun: at the well-adorned entrance to Sanguior, walking up those steps to face doors of dark spruce with a smile on his face. He turned to the new girl, Carla, and sauntered with her into the crowded restaurant.

This time, the waiter led them to a seat by the window that was softly illuminated by the glow of the evening sun and overlooked a vibrant cove. Shadows of wine poured gracefully over rocks highlighted by mauve, and rich indigo stained the edges of the tinted world outside. Flecks of gold shimmered over the water, and wherever the tides rippled, auroras of blushing coral and amaranth swam by. That was when Tony shifted his gaze to the shore.

Verdant green in the grass.

Castleton green in the trees.

They reminded Tony of Vanessa, and a strange suspicion darted around his mind — something must be off. Something was off and had been off for a long time.

He was not making any sense, he reassured himself. He pulled out a chair for his date as he nodded distractedly and thanked the waiter. So far the date was going well, and he would try his best to make sure it continued to be that way.

However, everything changed when he attempted to engage in idle discussion. Carla just was not interesting — whenever Tony asked a question, she simply nodded or shook her head meekly and blinked a few times, much more often than necessary. Eventually, he gave up conversation and resorted to staring out the window again.

When he turned back, he observed the waiter coming back to their table, reminiscent of how Marco had the last time he had been there. He sighed, inhaling again the inexplicably wonderful scent of the restaurant, and dreamed of food. He could tell that he was going to be in for a treat.

The waiter arrived at the table with a grin so familiar that Tony had to assess the situation one more time. This time, though, the waiter was not Marco — his name was Rafael.

“Do you … happen to know Marco?” Tony inquired before he could stop himself. He had no idea why he happened to ask the question — he barely even processed the fact that he had.

“Marco … the waiter?” asked Rafael pleasantly. “He is my twin brother.”

“I just thought you two looked familiar,” commented Tony.

“I have a special announcement,” said Rafael now, addressing both Tony and Carla. “Tonight, an exclusive dish is available for the customers. It is a special wagyu steak that we have aged for 35 days, the perfect time to form a pellicle — meaning perfectly browned edges — and infuse a strong, sweet, and juicy flavor into the meat. Our wagyu is perfect both for those beginning in the field of cuisines and experienced enthusiasts, as it delivers a scrumptious hit of umami from beginning to end. Would you like to order?” He handed them a small cardstock sheet with the details ranging from ingredients and allergy warnings to price per serving printed clearly in the tidy font of Sanguior’s menus.

“I would love that,” said Tony thoughtfully. “I have never tried wagyu, but I am sure that this first experience will be fantastic.”

“No, thank you,” said Carla, blinking excessively as always. “I would much prefer the butter shrimp, as I avoid beef.”

“Of course,” Rafael said silkily, pouring some cool water out of a clear bottle and into their glasses. He finished taking the menus and wagyu offer cards, nodding politely as a smile identical to Marco’s spread across his face. He arched his left eyebrow, forming an iconic crease, as he turned and strode across the floor and toward the employees’ doors.

Tony spread a napkin of soft crimson cotton over his lap as he patiently waited to be served. He was finding ways to entertain himself by admiring the nearest grand crystal chandelier and scrutinizing some of the art tastefully arranged about the restaurant. The one he was currently looking at was of part of a human face. To him, something about it just stood out — particularly the eyes, he noticed. The eyes were rich with an ethereal life not even a human could replicate, and they were so full of color he wondered for a second how it did not pour out onto the floor and flood the room.

It was the color of the cabin in the woods at dawn and the color of the soil the foundations were built upon. It was the color born from the dance of the aging autumn leaves, and it was the change of seasons within the quiet embrace of the trees. It was the shade worn by the furnishings of the cabin interior and the warm light of the fire, reminiscent of a child’s passion so fierce it burned. It was what formed that child’s skin and draped over that child, and it was still the color of the cabin as it burned bright like the soul it contained. It was the color of the ashes that seemed to merge with the soil as boots of a similar shade tramped home. It had once been home, and for her it was forever the parents she had only met once.

The flecks of emerald and verdant and castleton reminded Tony then — the face was Vanessa; that he was definitely sure about. What was it about everything that reminded him of her?

It was then that he found he had hardly noticed the appetizers being set down in front of him. “Thank you,” he thought he murmured, though he still was not completely sure at all.

The waiter — Tony barely could remember his name for his mind still thought it was Marco — nearly looked as if he was floating as he crossed the restaurant, tray artfully balanced in his hold.

Rafael smiled. “Your exclusive wagyu, monsieur,” he said, his voice a jarring reality check for Tony. He placed down a translucent porcelain plate laden with the lavishly decorated steak. He turned to Carla and gently slipped the plate of glazed shrimp down in front of her. “And your shrimp. Enjoy your food.”

Tony began to carve away at the meat, which was sure to be sweet, juicy, and tender, just as the first time. “So this is wagyu,” he heard in his head.

Though the restaurant was slightly humid from the semi-tropical conditions outside, Tony’s skin felt more cool and clammy than usual. An unfamiliar sweat slowly trickled down his neck, itchy and unsettling. His eyes darted around the room restlessly, each passing second pressing the burden of an unsettling gaze down on him. He swore someone was watching him, but the source of the paranoia was nowhere to be found.

His imagination. But of course it was. It had to be, after all.

Then, a truly alarming sight.

The chef was peering out through the kitchen window, eyes wide open and possessed by a frenzied sort of stare. A mischievous grin, spread wild upon that crazed face, smothered Tony in his seat. He might have even mouthed something along the lines of “trick or treat.” Tony choked back his breaths, paralyzed. All he could think at the moment was that the chef looked quite a bit conniving — he could not help himself from thinking it, really, and he wondered at himself in a hidden fit of hysteria, unbeknownst to the young woman sitting in front of him. Carla simply went on eating.

Tony finally ripped his gaze from the chef, unsettled — no, apprehensive, at least — with the sense that something terrible must be happening at this very moment. He wished with all his soul that he could dismiss it, but such a task seemed totally impossible.

This was when he made up his mind to avoid returning at all costs. Something was definitely wrong, and he did not want to be around to find out what. He was not even sure if he wanted to know that he was right.

Despite all of this, however, there was one undeniable fact that he needed to acknowledge before vowing never to think of this place again —

This was the best steak of his life.