Gut Check

Bruno Bacon paces the length of King Paolo Provolone’s dining hall table, licking his lips.

“We’re serving seven courses tonight in honor of Pope Gnocchi’s visit,” King Paolo says. “I want to be confident we won’t be poisoned.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll start with the Chicken Florentine.”

Bruno sniffs the plate of chicken.

He gives the King a snaggle-toothed smile. “It doesn’t smell like it’s been tampered with.”

Closing her eyes, Queen Brunhilde rubs her forehead, trying to ease the headache that comes whenever she is near the King. Queen Brunhilde wonders how she can be surrounded by so much opulence and still have such a regrettable life. Slender, with shoulder-length dark hair, deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a seductive, deep voice, Brunhilde should have had her pick of royal suitors. But to keep peace between her native country of Germany and the province of Polenta, she was betrothed to King Paolo at sixteen, and she has spent the last twenty years wishing him dead and dodging his pursuit of an heir. As a consequence, she has taken her anger out on her subjects, beheading or burning them for the slightest offense, but she protects those who are loyal to her.

The Provolone dynasty has governed Polenta for three hundred years, since the country's founding in 1258. A delicate, boyish five feet three inches tall, King Paolo has ruled for fifteen years, relying on cunning, treachery, and dumb luck. Polenta is known for its corn crops and its cheese, which is imported throughout Europe, particularly to neighboring Italy. He is self-conscious about his height and punishes anyone who mentions it. He once broke a French emissary’s legs for making fun of his height. His privileged upbringing has left him blind to his subjects' poverty and deaf to their criticisms. They say Paolo has eyes and ears everywhere, which has helped him evade more than thirty attempts on his life.

Bruno examines a forkful of chicken.

“It looks safe. Well, bon appétit!”

Bruno savors the chicken, swallowing it with a satisfied “Mmmm. Cookie’s outdone himself, sire.”

Bruno freezes, dropping his fork. His eyes roll back in his head as he gags, gasping for air. White froth spills from his mouth as he struggles to reach for a cup of water.

Looking at King Paolo, he manages to whisper, “…Bad…,” before falling to the floor.

King Paolo stamps his tiny feet.

“Get Cookie!”

Cookie Hashslinger, the court’s head chef, creeps into the throne room, his rotund body practically rolled into a compliant ball. Since becoming head chef five years ago, Cookie’s hairline has receded from worry, his waistline has expanded from his reliance on comfort food, and his expressive brown eyes have become shadowed by dark circles and creases.

One of the King’s servants brings a step stool. King Paolo uses it to look Cookie in the eye.

“Did you try to poison me?”

“Of course not, Your Majesty. I’m your long-serving, most loyal servant.”

“Then my food was fiddled with somewhere between the kitchen and my dining room.”

“It does pass among multiple guards and servants,” Queen Brunhilde points out.

“COMO!”

Mario Como, the court’s jittery prime minister, rises wearily from the table, shuffling to King Paolo’s side.

“See to it that the guards are vetted…”

“Again, sire? We conscripted a new group of men last week…”

“Well, send them to the front and get me new guards!”

***

Cookie waddles into the kitchen, calling the staff together. Removing his toque, he holds it over his heart.

“It saddens me to inform you that our beloved taster, Bruno Bacon, has sampled his last meal and gone to the great kitchen in the sky. In his zeal to protect our King, he swallowed a poisonous Chicken Florentine and died.”

Clutching his stomach, a mustachioed server asks, “…Wait a minute, didn’t you serve Chicken Florentine for dinner?”

“You’re safe. It was tampered with after it left the kitchen. So, with Bruno gone, we’re going to need a new royal taster.”

“How about the new guy?” Mustache asks. “We hardly know him, so if we lose him, it won’t be so traumatic for the rest of us.”

Cookie gives Zeno Lorenzo a placating smile.

“Me? Goodness, no!”

“But it’s an honor.”

“Yeah, a temporary one. I plan to retire, not be retired. Why use humans as tasters at all?”

“We’re out of mice and dogs.”

“There are other animals. Cows, for instance.”

“We eat cows. We can’t poison what we’re going to eat,” Cookie says.

“What about cats? Nobody likes cats.”

“They don’t have the right physiques. They’re picky eaters and, except for fish, don’t eat what we eat. And besides, King Paolo likes cats. He’s got three of them. In some cases, foods that are fine for humans can be poisonous to animals, such as grapes, raisins, and chocolate, which are toxic to dogs. Think about it, Zeno. The pay is obscene, and it’s all-you-can-eat. If you make it to five years, you’ll be rewarded with enough money to take care of the next two generations of Lorenzos. Cast Iron Calabrese was a revered food taster for King Parma. He survived five years. He could eat anything, and it wouldn’t bother him. King Parma finally realized Calabrese was probably immune to any poison, so he set him free. He changed his name to Enzo the Exterminator and traveled the countryside, ridding villages of rats and other vermin. Another taster, Camilio Pasquale, was gifted the lease of a tavern when he retired. His rent was a single white rose delivered to King Ribalta each year. So, you see, the position of taster can be prestigious.”

“And if I say no?”

“Remember the taster’s credo: He who tastes for the royal family earns nothing from their gratitude and everything from their fear.”

“…That sounds encouraging…”

“King Paolo will treat you well as long as you’re willing to serve him. I know you have a young wife, a child, and parents you’re looking out for. What if they were to disappear?”

***

Queen Brunhilde enters the kitchen.

The crew ceases their chores, bowing reverently.

“I would like to speak with the Chef privately.”

The queen’s handmaidens and the kitchen staff file out. Queen Brunhilde waits until the echo of their footfalls fades before she speaks.

“To say I’m cheesed off at the Provolone family luck is an understatement! The poison wasn’t supposed to act instantaneously.”

“Poor, Bruno. He ate too much. He always liked my Chicken Florentine.”

“Make it work slower. I want that pipsqueak to suffer.”

“Yes, Your Grace. When would you like to try again?”

“It can’t be for a while. Paolo is going to be on high alert. Who’s his new taster?”

“One of my servers. Zeno Lorenzo.”

“Is that the handsome, blond-haired, naïve-looking young man with all the muscles?”

“Yes.”

“Shame. A waste of good man flesh.”

“We could try other ways,” Cookie says. “King Paolo loves cats, especially Squiggles. Maybe we could coat their fur with poison.”

“And have one of those furballs rub up against my leg? No, thanks.”

“An errant arrow the next time he and his cronies practice their archery?

“…He’s an awfully small target…”

“There are many dukes, earls, and knights who hold a grudge against the King.”

“Let them act on their own. The fewer conspirators we have, the less likely we are to be discovered. I hope Zeno Lorenzo has a strong stomach. He’s going to be taking some exotic poisons.”

***

Cookie employs more than a hundred people in King Paolo’s kitchen, including cooks, scullery maids, stewards, carvers, porters, bakers, butchers, gardeners, butlers, and delivery men who prepare dozens of meals each day for the King’s court.

“But you’re the most important member of my staff,” Cookie tells Zeno. “Without your taste buds, the entire system grinds to a halt.”

“My task seems simple enough. Dangerous, but simple.”

Cookie puts a plate of Eggs Benedict on the table.

Zeno smacks his lips. “Just the way I like them.”

“No, not that dish. That’s for Queen Brunhilde.”

He places a plate containing deviled kidneys, liver mush, and black pudding next to the first plate.

“That’s the King’s breakfast.”

“It’s disgusting!”

“He has the palate of a chamber pot,” Cookie replies. “When he was a child, he saw a fire eater and tried to imitate him. Guess he burned out his taste buds, because he avoids dishes that taste good and eats the most nauseating things you can imagine. I think he asks for things like Sardinian cheese with live insect larvae or duck embryos just to see how I react. It could be worse for you.”

“How?”

“You could be the King’s enema tester. Lucky for you, we have a group of maids who inspect his lavatory seat, underpants, clothing, and bed linens every day to check for tampering. Eat.”

Zeno sniffs the contents of the meal, gagging.

“I’m sorry. I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Take a bite of everything, or you’ll lose your life.”

“Oh, well, bon appétit!”

Holding his nose, Zeno dips a spoon into the liver mush and takes a small bite.

“Do you taste anything metallic? Anything sour, or something that tastes off?”

“It all tastes bad to me.”

“That’s a good sign.”

Cookie puts an hourglass on the table. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. If you’re still alive, we’ll be able to serve the King his breakfast. Before we take it into him, you’re going to have to kiss his napkins, tablecloth, and seat cushion…”

“What?”

“Kind of adds a new meaning to the phrase, ‘Kiss my… Well, you get the joke,” Cookie says, whistling as he goes about his work.

***

Zeno continues to test King Paolo’s food without incident for several weeks. The many feasts Cookie prepares pose exotic challenges for Zeno’s constitution. He samples whale meat, peacock, beaver tails, cow udders, and spleens, washing them down with mulled wine. Unbeknownst to Cookie and Zeno, one batch of wine has soured.

After sampling the sour wine, Zeno breaks out in a sweat. Rushing from the kitchen, he slams into Prime Minister Como, covering him with a blast of projectile puke.

“I suspect there’ll be a delay in serving lunch,” Como says, wiping the dreck from his face.

***

Zeno has been on the job for a month when Queen Brunhilde visits the kitchen.

She hands Cookie a small packet of white powder, saying, “Test it on the taster.”

Cookie glazes the King’s platypus steak with the powder.

The pair watches as Zeno lifts his fork, puts the food in his mouth, chews, and swallows.

“If his lips swell or his hands start to shake, you’ve given him too much,” Queen Brunhilde says.

Zeno rises from the table, swatting at the air.

“Are you all right, Zeno?” Cookie asks.

“…Colors… Such beautiful colors…”

Zeno turns toward them, his eyes wide and swirling.

“Poppy…Basil… I’ve got some special oats for you…”

“They’re his horses,” Cookie whispers.

“Obviously, this poison is a bit too strong. We should save it for parties,” Queen Brunhilde notes.

Prime Minister Como dashes into the kitchen, breathing fretfully.

“Your Majesty! The King requires your assistance! The clothes that arrived for the King’s Day parade are full size and must be taken in!”

“That’s what we have a royal tailor for, Como.”

“He says only you know his dimensions and that he trusts you alone to wield the needle on this important day!”

Letting out a stream of curses in German, Queen Brunhilde spins on her heels, departing with, “Take care of our pretty dolt, Cookie.”

Como bobs his head like a chicken pecking at some feed as he stares at Zeno.

Zeno is eating King Paolo’s seat cushion.

“He takes his job very seriously,” Cookie offers.

Zeno looks up at Como, smiling affectionately.

“Maize!”

“Who?”

“I think he’s mistaken you for his wife, Prime Minister.”

Zeno staggers toward Como, his arms outstretched.

He stops short, retching. A mix of poison and half-chewed platypus steak hits Como in the face.

“I will never come into your kitchen again, Cookie.”

***

Queen Brunhilde fidgets, mumbling in German, while King Paolo inspects the entries for the annual flower show.

“…I still say we need to be patient, Your Majesty…,” Cookie urges.

“We’ve been feeding Zeno belladonna for three weeks. The results have been meager - dilated pupils, dry mouth, and confusion, mimicking too much wine or exhaustion. He’s only thrown up on Como once since you’ve been feeding it to him. That’s why I’ve taken matters into my own hands.”

“You’re taking a large risk.”

“A wise woman once said, ‘No chance, no dance.’”

“I’ve never heard that before.”

“That’s because I just made it up.”

King Paolo pauses before a blonde maiden holding a floral box of white roses.

“Roses! My favorite!” the King exclaims.

The woman leans down so the King can smell the flowers.

He sneezes, and a thick cloud of dust envelopes the woman.

“Very nice,” King Paolo says, moving on.

“…Demented dwarf…,” the woman mutters. Her face covered in white powder, she begins to twitch.

Still leaning forward, she falls on her face, dead.

A pair of guards quickly drag her off before King Paolo notices her demise.

“Say I told you so, Cookie, and you’ll be the one pushing up flowers,” Queen Brunhilde says brusquely. “That was Plan A. We still have Plan B.”

***

Zeno rubs his belly, still a bit queasy after tasting King Paolo’s anchovy, beet, and chicken foot casserole. Still, he’s glad to be out of the kitchen for a moment to watch the King present the award to the flower show winner, even though he has to taste the rhubarb wine the King plans to use for the toast.

King Paolo’s voice cuts through the crowd in a high-pitched squeak.

“TASTER!”

A servant pours Zeno a splash of wine. Zeno gulps it down, proud that he’s become well-versed in stifling the urge to vomit since he last ruined Prime Minister Como’s favorite tunic.

King Paolo waits for a visible reaction.

“Is it all right to drink?”

“Smooth as the finest Italian silk, Your Majesty.”

King Paolo gives the flower show winner a tour of the grounds. Queen Brunhilde, her entourage, Cookie, and Zeno follow.

“Keep your distance,” Queen Brunhilde warns.

A man in a black cape, wearing a wide-brimmed Fedora that obscures his features, breaks away from the crowd. Approaching King Paolo from behind, he draws a long knife from beneath his cape.

“PROTECT YOURSELF, YOUR MAJESTY!” Zeno yells, sprinting toward King Paolo.

The assassin raises the knife. Zeno cross-body blocks the assassin, knocking him to the ground.

The force of the man hitting the ground snaps the knife in half.

Catching Queen Brunhilde’s eye, the assassin shrugs. Swiftly regaining his feet, he runs past the royal guardsmen, whom the Queen has instructed to look away.

“Was that Plan B?” Cookie asks.

“Yes. But we’re not cooked yet, Chef.”

Queen Brunhilde looks up at the parapets. A large antique kettle, used to drop boiling oil on invaders, is poised over the King’s head. It’s dropped, bearing down on him.

Zeno dives at King Paolo, knocking him aside.

The kettle hits the castle’s slate floor with a loud GONG!

Thwarted, Queen Brunhilde says to Cookie, “I have a headache, and I’m out of letters.”

***

Zeno rushes into the kitchen.

“Look what the King gave me, Cookie!”

Cookie inspects the award, nodding approvingly.

“The Golden Spatula. The highest award a kitchen employee can receive. Congratulations, Zeno.”

Zeno suddenly clutches his stomach.

“…I feel woozy…”

“That would be the Belladonna finally taking its full effect.”

Zeno breaks out in a sweat, his skin turns pasty, and his stomach churns.

“What? What have you done to me, Cookie?”

“Be proud that your sacrifice is for the good of the kingdom, my boy.”

Zeno drops to his knees. Holding his stomach, he collapses.

“I’m sorry, Zeno. I’ll see to it that you’re buried with your Golden Spatula.”

Moments later, Prime Minister Como enters the kitchen. Viewing Zeno’s body, he says, “Pity. Thanks to him, the Queen tripled my clothes allowance. Speaking of which, the Queen would like to see you. She says it’s urgent.”

***

Cooke hastens into Queen Brunhilde’s private quarters.

Queen Brunhilde lies on her massive bed. A servant dabs her head with a wet rag. Another servant stands nearby, sobbing quietly.

“Are you feeling ill, Your Majesty?”

“That’s an understatement, Cookie. The court physician prescribed me an extract for my headaches. It came in a vial similar to the one containing the belladonna he gave me to give to the King. I accidentally switched them. I gave the King my extract. I’ve been taking belladonna for the past week.”

Cookie sits on the bed, taking her hand.

“There’s no antidote, Your Majesty.”