Specials

Alma has three clients, special clients. The same faces every day, never more, never changing. Client A’s visits fall in the early afternoon, somewhere around two fifteen, consistently on the dot. Stepping inside the restaurant, their walk is slow and uneven. A limp, not obvious, yet present. But once they take a seat at the small table in the corner, their posture is etiquette-worthy: tall back and square shoulders paired with a set of sharp, evaluating eyes.

As she juggles pans over the stove, Alma is aware of the trembling her hands have picked up. Her grip on the knife is limp, and she almost cuts a finger. Client A’s favourite meal remains crocodile tail baked in mud with a side plate of seashells. Most days, they refuse to select a dish from the menu, giving Alma the freedom to do whatever, as they wouldn’t want to impose or give her too much work. The improvisation was stressful at the beginning, but Alma soon found a routine. Throughout the week, she alternates between a restrained selection of dishes that Client A doesn’t hate too much. By the time Sunday arrives and she pulls out the joker by serving crocodile tail, Alma does remember to follow beat by beat, the thirty-eight-step, detailed recipe she got from Client A as a gift.

“Stop checking that stupid thing just to see how many drops of lemon juice they like.”

Moving away from the laminated A4 paper, Alma angles her body to hide the bottle of Special Grey sauce that does not appear in the recipe. “Lower your voice. They're right there.”

Client C spares Client A an uninterested glance before reducing the distance between them and Alma. “It’s condescending that they think they should show you how to cook. You’re not their little servant. If they want the food done exactly like they like it, then they should make it at home and leave you alone.”

“They have little time at home. And I don’t mind.”

Client C shrugs. “This is your work. You should be free to do things your way, Alma. And if people don’t like it, they can fuck off. You are a good cook.”

“It’s okay,” she says, then puts on her earphones in the name of concentration and begs the music to drown out her thoughts. It works fine, and Alma tries hard not to break that immersion every time she must sidestep Client C. They’ve been here since the early morning and although they do have a table where they wander to occasionally, Client C stays mostly with Alma to keep her company, which makes it difficult for her to slip in drops of the Special Purple sauce into their meal. It’s frog soup, dazzled with praying mantis for the crust and tulip petals for the aroma. Sometimes Client C opens the pot’s lid, just to check, then asks Alma whether she’ll be upset if they have a taste or add more pepper.

“Better?” Alma says after sprinkling in more salt.

“Per-fect. No, honestly, it’s so good. See, this is why I love your cooking. It’s delicious. I mean, I can do it myself and it will be good. But when it’s you, it’s just different. You always have that little something that…”

The doorbell chimes, and all three heads turn to witness the last visitor’s arrival. Of all her guests, Client B is by far Alma’s most unpredictable one. As a regular, not-so-regular, who forgets to book a reservation, then shows up anyway because they’re really hungry, they are strangely Alma’s favorite. Like Client A, they rarely mind the menu and rather trust her selection for them. But unlike Client A, Client B is far easier to please. Same dish repeated in a week? As long as it comes with a nice drink. No fresh food prepared today? Well, let the leftovers roll.

Alma dries off her hands on her apron before joining their table, a cheerful smile on her lips. She explains that she has nothing prepared for them as they didn’t make a reservation, but she’ll be more than glad to bring out yesterday’s leftovers with a bottle of her finest wine.

“Oh, you didn’t cook for me?” says Client B.

“Not today, no. I’m very busy, and you didn’t call ahead.”

“Today was really exhausting and I thought you knew I was coming.”

“I didn’t,” Alma says, running her hands up and down her apron again, even though there is no trace of water in them. “I can offer you another drink if you’d like. We still have that bottle of…” Client B stares at her with a look of expectation mixed with disappointment, and Alma is positive that their about to cry.

She rushes back to the central kitchen, where Client C is already shaking their head.

“I’ll figure something out,” Alma says, trying not to remember a time before she made her clients special. Back when she catered the sauces to their taste, not to turn them dependent on her cooking but to help them appreciate it, give them bliss. The side effects are something she couldn’t have seen coming. Client B’s reactions are reaching such a level of extreme Alma almost refrains from adding the Special Blue sauce to their meal. But she does, aware that these little bottles are what keep her clients coming, and they need it.

When all tables are set, and Client A is more than halfway through their plate, Alma waits for feedback. They scrunch their nose, taking in one more bite, and after careful chewing, they shrug. Client B barely mumbles something unclear, busy stuffing their face with their paper salad. As for Client C…

“Want me to wrap it up for you?”

“Nah, I’ll come by later,” they say.

“Listen, I haven’t slept too well these days, and you always come very late.”

“Sorry.” They do sound apologetic. “But you know I can’t eat at home, it makes me uncomfortable. And this is a restaurant, I bought the food here, technically I should be allowed to eat here. And it’s not like I do it on purpose to stop you from sleeping like…”

Alma interrupts them, saying she’ll leave the door open, and Client C smiles, waving her goodbye. She spends another hour scrubbing every surface. Once the place is spotless enough to have her dark circles reflect on the stainless steel counter, Alma opens the fridge, remembering she hasn’t had anything to eat. Her options are not all glorious: a roasted lamb sandwich and five-days-old Lasagna, but Alma knows the routine is just for show. She wouldn’t dare eat either of these, of course not.

Not when she cooked them.