Defused

The condemned enjoys a hearty meal. Millet and figs -- a feast four times its weight. Though it is to serve as a mere amuse bouche, Taylor considers this a reasonably fair exchange.

It gorges in confined darkness and silence, tricked into a manufactured night of delirium and gluttonous terror that will end unimaginably worse. As honored guest, Taylor is granted the privilege -- the added privilege -- of drowning the creature himself. If he is disappointed the once-delicate songbird is now bloated and too horror-choked to at least put up a scrap as its lungs fill with Armagnac, he’s too well-bred to give it voice, or perhaps too fearful of demonstrating his gauche Americanism.

“Joy, by Paco Rabanne,” the Host explains as Taylor watches the Ortolan bunting quietly twitch. “Five grand U.S. a bottle. Do not worry -- the Rabanne is literally for the birds. Dessert deserves the more nuanced whisper of a ‘74 Laubade. You’ll taste the war in it.”

He laughs, juicily, harshly. When a Frenchman laughs, Taylor has learned, you do as the Romans do, even if you have no fucking idea what the joke is.

**

“So they pluck and roast the little fuckers, and give us each this napkin about the size of a bath towel. It’s like a thing: You cover your head while you eat the thing, which is like the size of a rubber ducky. Supposed to heighten the aroma of the brandy, though you eat the thing in one bite, bones and beak and all, so my guess is these rich assholes just don’t want anybody seeing them gag and spit out bones and shit. Host dude says the whole thing’s to ‘to hide your sin and shame from God,’ which is like, hello, isn’t God supposed to be, you know, all-knowing and all-seeing? I mean, this dude had what I think might’ve been a foursome or even a fivesome in the room the night before. And I’m supposed to be ashamed I drownded Tweety Bird? Don’t rotisserie chickens have souls?”

The young quartet was silent for a moment, mulling the metaphysics. “Yeah, but…” Sanya began before her eyes dropped back down to the laminated, sauce-stained menu.

Taylor’s eyes did a single revolution before settling on the sophomore. “Jesus, just say it.”

“Well, rotisserie chickens aren’t, you know, critically endangered.” She displayed her iPhone. “It says here eating Ortolans is illegal in Europe. Like since 1979.”

“That’s why it’s such a special thing,” Taylor argued as if to a first grader. “That’s why I didn’t post anything. Dude was talking about sponsoring the show, and they carry his shit at Macy’s. And I didn’t need the woke PETA snowflakes trolling my ass. This was just about, you know, the experience. The journey.”

“Did anybody else see that?”

Three heads turned toward Brady. The Country Boy, as the group had dubbed him, hadn’t said a word since they’d ventured into the hole-in-wall joint tucked in off Main between the Dunkin’ and a three-bay garage where even at 8, mariachi and Metal and hydraulics ground on. Now, Brady was bolt straight in his Depression-chic captain’s chair.

“What?” Taylor sighed in three syllables.

“The guy,” Brady whispered hoarsely. “The waiter guy. Well, guy.”

“Thought it was just the owner,” Abbie grunted, glancing at the middle-aged, doughy guy at the front, frowning at the combo iPad/card reader that stood out here like a SpaceX shuttle on the CarMax lot. She followed Brady’s goggled stare to a brush-metal door on the back door closing behind a broad, tall figure juggling a pair of plates the wrong way back into a fluorescent clamor.

“The fuck?” Abbie muttered. Taylor jerked around with a wood-on-wood squeal only to hear the door snick shut.

“What?” Taylor repeated. “What? We finally see a server, and you didn’t get him over here?”

“Not sure I wanted to,” Brady breathed. “I think he screwed up an order. Big time. Like Defcon Five Big Time.”

“So?”

“Whose order?” Sanya demanded, finally emerging from her screen. Taylor scanned the surrounding five vacant four-tops. “Uh-huh,” she nodded, returning to her European Songbird Wiki.

“So what freaked you out about this dude?” Taylor smirked.

“You’d have had to see him,” Brady responded reluctantly. “I only saw him for a second, and he saw me. And I think it scared the shit out of him. I think maybe he fu--, screwed up. Like he walked into the wrong room, and I wasn’t supposed to see him. Or it.”

“And did you get a peek into that kitchen?” Abbie asked, leaning in. “It was like The Bear. Second season. Maybe third. I need to re-binge. I mean, look at this place. How many cooks you think they need?”

Taylor waved her off and fixed on Brady. “What do you mean, it?”

“It, just it,” the biochem major said through his teeth. “The order.”

“What was it?”

Brady dropped back in his chair. “It was it. I couldn’t tell you in a million years what it was. And Dad used to bring some pretty weird shit back from hunting with his buddies. But it was always dead, not flopping around. And I didn’t care for how it was looking at me.”

“Sorry, guys.”

The foursome jumped, but the Doughy Man maintained a genial front-of-the-house demeanor. “Didn’t mean to make you wait so long, but we’re a man down tonight, and I had a glitch with one of the regulars. So, any questions about the menu? I gotta tell you, the Korean chicken with Lebanese falafawaffles is a favorite.”

“Lost my appetite,” Sanya announced, glaring at Taylor as she rose.

“What, the birds?” he whined. “C’mon, sit down, stay. Didn’t realize you were such a fucking delicate soul.”

“Nice,” Abbie murmured. “You’re calling an Uber, right?”

“It’s just six blocks, and I need some fucking fresh air.”

Abbie shoved her chair back. “Sorry, Mister…”

The restaurateur was still beaming. “Gary, just Gary. You want me to wrap up something to go?”

“’Nother time -- we’ll just grab some Subway at the Campus Union.” Abbie disappeared into the frosty night after Sanya with a frostier glance back at Taylor.

“So,” Gary piped. “Just us guys tonight, huh? Lemme surprise you.”

**

University was only about the third time Brady’d ever left Lee County and environs, aside from 4-H camp, a sophomore band trip to the vast and daunting Loop, and a single-season jab at junior varsity baseball. A fast ball to the sternum, nearly shorting the main aortal fuse, was the end of that, and Brady was free to fail or, God willing, succeed elsewhere. Anywhere.

Brady’d kept his head down most of his freshman year, as his mother had advised in a fit of multicultural anxiety. He returned to Millington after a summer back home resolved to emerge from social hibernation, but neither Greek life, campus Christianity, nor pub-crawling called to him. After he’d met Abbie in an elective astrophysics course, the Wisconsin sophomore invited him into the Wednesday Supper Club -- a boredom-busting quest for the eclectic, exotic, and the extreme across one of Central Illinois’ least eclectic, exotic, or extreme cities.

Taylor was their sherpa, and the Supper Club was as much a scouting expedition for the Deerfield junior’s YouTube foodie ventures born during his gap year odyssey through Europe. Abbie’d referred to him as a “trust fund kid” -- Brady wasn’t absolutely sure she was using the term correctly, but he soon got the jist.

“Supper” with Abbie would have been his ideal, even if he was unsure he’d ever pull the trigger on his hidden intentions. Dinner with Sanya would be long silences and conversational avenues lined with sociopolitical red flags. Taylor was land mine territory -- the world traveler and culinary sophisticate and the Country Boy who’d never eaten as much as a parakeet.

Fortunately, Gary’s “surprise” consumed both Brady and Taylor, and three globally mish-mashed courses passed without an intelligible word. Between forkfuls, spoon-fulls, handfuls, Brady caught Gary looking on like his mother whenever she’d trot out her Hashbrown Shepherd’s Pie Bake.

“Holy shit, Gary,” Taylor finally declared through the last glob of cardamon crème brulee. “You gotta be on the show.”

Gary’s euphoria faded a mere micron. “Show?”

“Taylor Made. YouTube. It’s about hidden culinary gems -- secret popups, extreme food trucks, experimental fusion cuisine. You are like the Fusion King, Gary.”

“That’s really nice,” Gary glowed. “But I’m good.”

Taylor blinked. “What if I could triple your foot traffic. I got like 350,000 followers.”

“More than Manson and David Koresh put together,” Gary chuckled. “Still though, no. We’re good.” Taylor’s perplexed, darkening expression appeared to concern the doughy host. “I didn’t mean to sound flippant -- I tend to react to flattery with humor. And I’m very flattered, really. But we’re doing just fine, thanks.”

Taylor considered silently before a smile blossomed. It was a smile Brady’d seen before, and he almost but not quite wished he’d had a Meatball Sub with the women.

“Just let me ask,” Taylor said softly. “You got any off-menu items? Secret menu stuff? You know, like the Meat Mountain at Arby’s or the Quesarito at Chipotle? Maybe some fusion nobody’s ever thought of.”

Brady actually felt the beat, the tonal shift, though Gary’s smile only widened. His falafawaffle squirmed at the base of his duodenum.

“Look,” Taylor murmured with what seemed a triumphant smile. The smile Brady imagined him wearing just before crunching into tiny bones and brandy-infused entrails. “If it’s a no-go, how about a quickie kitchen tour. I’d really like to compliment the chef.”

And if Gary hadn’t already dished up enough surprises, he had one left for the post-dessert course. “Sure, I think we can arrange that,” the Fusion King beamed.

**

As Taylor was granted admission into Gary’s sanctum sanctorum, Brady spotted the keypad for the first time. He’d declined the invite, and he pointedly examined the framed dollar on the wall above the digital “register” as the door swung open and a blue-white beam swept momentarily across the plank floor. When he glanced up, Gary was lowering his bulk into Taylor’s vacated, wobbly chair.

“How do you do it?” Brady asked more bluntly than he’d intended. “Just how in hell do you keep the lights on?”

Gary’s brows rose as if it were the first time he’d pondered the question.

“Look at Beijing. The one in China.”

“That’s unlikely.”

“Hey, don’t count yourself out. Point is, they’ve grown like 10 million people over the last 30 years alone, even with that one-child shit and the Mao Boomers dying out. Folks are still flooding in from the country, especially since communism’s gone kinda soft in the middle, least in the cities. Point is, where you gonna put all those bodies? Not like there’s a lot of room for expansion, not outward, anyway. So you drive through Beijing, and what you see is everybody stacked vertically by the thousands in these monster skyscrapers 30 to 50 floors each. Million-dollar Lakeshore views and live-shop-eat convenience at home, and that’s for the grunts and state functionaries. Some of the new luxury towers are up to 60 floors, also mixed use but with a pricier mix. Communism ain’t what it used to be. But vertical growth -- that’s the takeaway.

“Then you got Tokyo. Growth’s even more explosive, but they got a more severe real estate issue. So they go small. Hundred-square-foot micro-apartments, capsule hotels with glorified sleeping pods instead of suites. Now, Singapore, Seoul, they go low -- underground malls, subway stations that double as shopping centers and food courts. Shit, Singapore’s even going offshore -- they got plans for floating housing and business parks.”

“Pardon me, and no disrespect, but what’s that have to do with how you stay afloat?”

Gary grinned. “Thing is, none of those dynamics play out in a place like Millington. You can build out, chew up a couple more cornfields for a Love’s truck stop or another Chili’s for the weary travelers and suburbanites. But that’s a huge capital risk and, more than that, a numbers game. And who’s gonna venture out to the ass end of town for food that scares the living crap out of most meat-and-potato Illinoisans, anyway? The Beltway? I’m gonna compete with Olive Garden and the new Portillo’s and Panda and the Lobster? Strip mall rent, construction/remodel costs? Downtown? Go head-to-head with the brew pubs and redneck dives and organic vegan pizza and ramen joints? And let’s face it -- the days of the neighborhood restaurant are over. City sealed all the zoning loopholes 20 years ago, and what was grandfathered in now’s either a daycare for old drunks or on a morphine drip waiting for the wrecking ball.

“So, go vertical? Last census, population was at what, 108,000? Tallest thing in town is either the City Jail parking deck or that Millington High kid signed on with the WNBA last fall. Metro living in Millington is a second-floor downtown loft over the Burritos Big as Your Head. Not to mention I got fear of heights and vertigo.

“So I’m stuck here, a short walk from campus and easy pickup for the Jackson Apartments and the MPD substation down the block. Couple times a week, somebody takes a wrong turn, needs a belt replaced on the fly, detours off the bike trail, gets a little curious about this little hole in the wall they never knew existed but looks like it’s been here since Reagan. Not quite curious enough to actually drop in. If they eventually do, half the time it’s just a little too, um, exotic for their tastes, ’specially when the Denny’s and the Chipotle and the Arby’s are just four or five blocks either way.

“But every now and then, the curiosity finally gets to them -- they think, how bad could it possibly be, how much could it possibly cost in this shitty little neighborhood? And while I can’t say they’re necessarily hooked, we do have our regulars -- that being a relative term -- and adventurous types like your buddy who’re always looking for the next hot honey chicken or pizza or kimchi grilled cheese or lavender miso gelato.”

“He’s not,” Brady corrected. “My, uh ‘buddy,’ you know?”

“Not to your taste, I definitely get it. Nobody’s to everybody’s taste, and some folks are an acquired taste. But some are very precisely suited to a particular taste, to a very specific taste.”

Brady had no idea whatsoever what that meant, but he’d been pretty much feeling his way through the last 10 minutes, anyway.

“So to get back to your original question, I probably couldn’t have survived we hadn’t embraced what I guess you’d call more dimensional thinking. You know what I mean by brick-and-mortar? The key, if I was gonna as you say keep the lights on, was to expand our customer base beyond our walls. Beyond our physical confines and limitations.”

“Beyond your what?”

“Well, let me ask you, what would you say the seating capacity is here?”

Math had never been Brady’s superpower, but this was basic fifth grade multiplication. “So, I guess, what, 30, 36 or 40 tops.”

“What would you say if I told you we get 200 a seating on an average Tuesday night, maybe 1,000 on a Friday or Saturday night? I’m using Friday or Saturday as a kinda metaphor -- Friday or Saturday night doesn’t mean shit to most of our guests. You know the saying, it’s five o’clock somewhere? Well, it truly is always five o’clock somewhere, or 7, or Friday or Saturday. For some reason, Tuesday is Tuesday almost everywhere, for some reason I never figured out.”

“You’re fucking with me, right?”

“You think this is Ed Debevic’s or something? Friend, I don’t fuck with the customer. Well, generally.”

“What?”

Gary shrugged. “Tonight, so far, we’ve brought in maybe $13,000 equivalent.”

“You mean like online orders, delivery, pickup? Nobody’s come in the whole time we’ve been here. Wait, equivalent?”

“You don’t get it, which I understand. Think about it. You could spend a fortune expanding into a second location, a third. Then COVID makes a comeback or you go viral and start trending, and somebody else gets the idea, and suddenly, you got five Cuban-Vietnamese or Alabama-style pizza or make-your-own pho joints doing it better and franchising and poaching your clientele until you gotta sell to the vape people.

“Or you can diversify your portfolio. COVID here, extinction event there, maybe the novelty of falafawaffles just wears off, you just refocus. You catch me?”

“Not in the slightest.” Brady, in fact, believed he was starting to get a glimmer. But he felt just maybe playing dumb here was the smart move.

**

The claustrophobia already has begun to fade as he acclimates to the lightless silence and takes the alone time to try and suss things out. He wonders now if Gary’s backstage pass was a trap, if there’d been something in the bonchon-and-waffles or the Nigerian street corn or the sriracha horchata he’d had to wash down after washing down the poutine spring rolls. Had he stumbled onto a five-star Michelin meth front the physically impossible scale of an Amazon distribution center, or was Gary running an extravagantly, implausibly diverse crew of culinarily skilled illegals off-book? Brady did kinda put out that ICE-on-speed dial vibe.

It seems like an eternity has passed, but his Gen-Alpha/new media-trained bio-clock makes 27 minutes seem more like two hours, which is why he’d never made it through so much as an episode of The Bear. He is hungry -- specifically, oddly, for sushi. Intuitively, experimentally, he touches his tongue to the cocoon into which Gary’s undocumented multilingual meth/sous chefs had tightly wrapped him. Taylor comes back with strong nori notes.

Further speculation proves futile as a hundred razor points pierce his prison to compress flesh, bones, and organs into one quick, manageable bite.