Fine Cuisine

by Jeffrey B. Burton

“There are no second chances.” The gentleman sitting directly across from me looked as if he wanted to pound his fists on the mahogany top of my desk.

I'd been uncomfortable since Marilyn, the restaurant's hostess, had ushered him back to my office in order to avoid an ugly scene on the dining room floor. “Sir, I assure you that tonight's meal is totally on us. No charge. I'm very sorry that—”

“It's not the money,” the patron interrupted. “It's the overcooked pasta. It's the Chicken Kiev reminiscent of boiled shoe leather. It's the veal, grilled beyond cremation and wrapped in a death shroud of soggy breading.”

“I assume by the variety of entrees that you ordered and nibbled on over the past several hours that you must be a food critic. This is very awkward for us. I realize that we will, most likely, not be receiving an outstanding recommendation in your publication. However, please understand, our head chef is off today as he is presenting a culinary seminar in—”

“Your barbecued ribs were precooked days ago, then microwaved seconds before being brought to my table. For all palatable purposes your rice pilaf is a salt lick.”

I stared at the food critic sitting across the desk from me. He wore the look certain people have, people who could be anywhere between twenty and fifty. His face a sleek plastic with no sign of a five o'clock shadow. His thick, uniformed hair parted perfectly on the side. I realized then what was making me nervous. His eyes. They moved ceaselessly about the office from my face, to the wall, to the desk, to the door, and then back to my face again. Why would a food critic waste his time giving the manager of an eatery advance notice that their establishment was going to get crucified, and crucified big time, in his column? In the dining industry reviews are typically a hit and run affair.

I nervously tried again. “As I say, I'm truly sorry that you didn't enjoy your selections, sir. It's very unfortunate. I assure you the vast majority of our patrons are highly satisfied with our cuisine and I personally feel that our dishes are the best in town. In fact, last year we were voted as best restaurant of the year in the—”

“Your reduced fat item floats in a white goop that could lubricate the space shuttle. No creature walks the planet that could digest your garlic bread. Your soup du jour was in a class just below lukewarm dishwater. It's all wrong, I say. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!”

“Ah-hum.” I shifted about uneasily in my chair. His eyes continued the jerky tap dance from my face, to the wall, to the desk, to the door. “Listen, sir, I do appreciate your comments and concerns,” I said, glancing at my Rolex, “but I'm afraid I'm very busy and I'm going to have to ask you to—”

“Politics. Art. Science.” The critic barreled over my sentence as though I were invisible. “Such distractions are insignificant burlesque. But taking pleasure in fine cuisine is a holy—no, make that a sacred—experience of the highest magnitude. There is nothing of more value in the universe. Nothing!”

The hair on the back of my neck began to rise. “Yea, um, not quite sure I'd go that far, but—”

“Just imagine if a vastly superior entity were to harvest its way through the galaxy—world by world—determining planetary extinction based solely on an arbitrary spot-check of one of their four-star eateries. What do you think those phlegm-like hors d'oeuvres of yours would merit?” The critic's eyes continued from the wall, to the desk, to the door, before finally settling on me. “Another ice age perhaps?”

“Listen, sir,” I said, awkwardly standing, unsure how to act in a situation as socially bizarre as this one. “I apologize. I am truly sorry that you did not enjoy your dinner, but please be reasonable. I mean it's not as though it's the end of the world.”

“I ALREADY TOLD YOU!” The food critic's temples pulsated with ever heightening rage and indignation. “THERE ARE NO SECOND CHANCES!!!”

His piercing shriek cut through all of my previous hesitancy. I strode to the door of my office. Marilyn was hovering about outside, most likely trying to see if I was having any better luck with the man than she'd had.

“Call security,” I whispered to her. “This guy's off his rocker.”

I twisted about in the doorway in order to face the unsavory patron and suddenly found myself staring into an empty office. Before I had time to contemplate his disappearance I heard Marilyn gasp, followed by her cell phone hitting the floor. I walked quickly toward the dining area and noticed everyone gazing out the front windows.

“Jeez, Rick.” Marilyn turned slowly toward me. “When was the last time you saw it snow in July?”