Bon Appetit

Bon Appétit

By: C.J. Riley

The onions were almost translucent when my guest woke. They are not quite ready. Another thirty seconds and they would surrender completely to the heat, sweetening into the butter until neither ingredient could be singled out as to where one ended, and the other began. Perfection could not be rushed.

I glanced toward the dining chair. The ropes had held. Good. It would have been disappointing if they hadn't.

"You've excellent timing," I said, stirring slowly with a wooden spoon polished smooth from years of use. "The shallots are the easiest part to ruin." Across the room, the man struggled against the bindings, muffled sounds pressing uselessly against the cloth tied around his mouth.

He looked around frantically. Knife block. Copper pans. Fresh herbs hanging from a ceiling rack.

An old farmhouse kitchen washed in warm amber light. Nothing about it looked threatening.

It smelled like heaven.

I lowered the heat beneath the pan. "You know..." I said, "People assume murderers enjoy the killing." I smiled to myself. "They never ask if we enjoy cooking."

The duck breasts rested uncovered beside the stove, their skin scored in perfect diamonds. Potatoes simmered gently in cream. Rosemary crackled in hot butter. A loaf of sourdough cooled beside the window. Every movement in the kitchen had rhythm. Every sound belonged.

I picked up a sprig of thyme and rolled it between my fingers. "You've eaten in restaurants all over the country."

His breathing quickened.

"I know who you are."

Of course, he knew I knew. Otherwise, he wouldn't be here.

"You've reviewed nearly twelve hundred restaurants." I reached for the wine. A Bordeaux 1986,

Older than some of the cooks he'd destroyed.

"I've read every review."

I poured exactly two glasses. One for him. One for me.

"You called a consommé 'uninspired.'" I chuckled.

"You described a young woman's handmade pasta as 'competent but emotionally absent.'"

The duck met the cast iron with a violent hiss. "There it is..." I closed my eyes. "That's my favorite sound in the world."

He tried to scream through the gag.

I ignored it.

People interrupted chefs constantly. Customers, Managers, Owners, Critics… Always talking… Never tasting.

"You've probably guessed by now that I was a chef."

The duck rendered slowly. Tiny beads of golden fat pooled around its edges.

"I wasn't famous."

I tilted the pan. Spooned butter over the meat.

Again.

Again.

Again.

"I wanted to be."

"The first restaurant closed after nine months—the second after eleven. The third never opened. Banks don't finance obsession for very long, and neither do investors - Or wives for that matter."

"I wasn't the best businessman," I admitted it easily.

"I was never interested in profit." I looked over my shoulder. "I wanted transcendence."

His eyes narrowed in confusion, good. Fear is predictable. Confusion lingers.

"You know what they told me?" I laid asparagus into the pan. "'Your food is extraordinary.'"

Flip.

"'People just don't understand it.'"

Flip.

"'Maybe simplify the menu.'"

A little fleur de sel.

"'Maybe lower your standards.'"

Pepper.

"'Maybe stop caring so much.'" I laughed softly. "They kept asking me to become someone else."

The plate came together, melding like the colors of a Starry Night. Patiently, deliberately, beautifully.

Every element earning its place.

Duck, Pommes purée, Charred asparagus, Cherry reduction, Orange zest, Micro herbs.

None of it looked like decoration. All a person could see is Balance.

The aroma drifted across the room. The critic's breathing slowed. Despite himself, His eyes followed every movement.

Good, Hunger always wins eventually.

I carried the plate to the table, set it before him, then removed the gag.

He coughed…" What... what do you want?"

"I want your opinion."

"You kidnapped me."

"I know."

"You've lost your mind."

"Possibly."

I handed him polished silverware. "But not my palate."

"I won't eat it," he uttered sternly.

I nodded. "I expected you'd say that."

I placed a heavy cleaver on the table beside the plate. The steel caught the candlelight. "You have a choice."

He stared wide-eyed as his body began to shake.

"If you refuse..." I rested one hand lightly on the cleaver. "I remove your dominant hand."

His face went pale. "And if I eat?"

I smiled. "Then we discuss the meal."

He hesitated. Almost a full minute. Then he picked up the fork.

The first bite disappeared into his mouth. Nothing happened. He frowned.

He chewed a little more… then stopped.

His eyes closed, the fork trembled in his hand, Then...

A tear.

But it didn't look like it was from fear. It was more like recognition. He looked at the plate again as though seeing it for the first time.

Another bite.

Larger, faster, His breathing caught. "My God..." Barely a whisper. "My... God..."

I said nothing. There was nothing to say. The food was speaking for itself.

When the plate was clean, he finally looked up. "I've..." he whispered. "I've never eaten anything like that."

"I know."

"You..." His voice cracked. "You should have had three Michelin stars."

I smiled. "No." I lifted my wine. "I should have had at least one chance for the journey to the stars."

Silence settled between us. It's gentle and almost peaceful, like having dinner with an old friend.

I raised my glass. "Cheers."

He didn't move.

"I insist."

With shaking hands, he lifted the second glass.

Crystal met crystal with a quiet chime.

"You know..." I said after the first sip. "I lied earlier."

His brow furrowed.

"I don't kill chefs."

"No?"

"No."

I looked directly into his eyes. "I kill the people who decide who deserves to become one."

The color drained from his face.

He tried to stand, but his legs failed beneath him.

The wineglass shattered across the floor.

The toxin worked quickly to a Merciful extent.

He collapsed against the table, breathing hard. "You..." - "The wine…"

I nodded.

"Not the food?!"

I couldn't help sounding offended. "I would never poison the food!"

He stared at me, horrified.

I knelt beside him and straightened his collar. "Tell me one thing before you go."

His lips struggled to form words.

"Was it..." I leaned closer. "...the greatest meal you've ever tasted?"

A single tear escaped his eye as he managed the smallest nod.

I closed my own eyes for just a moment, not in triumph, but in relief.

"Good."

I rested a hand gently on his shoulder. "Then at least one of us was finally understood."

His breathing slowed.

Outside, evening settled quietly over the countryside.

Inside, the candles burned low.

I gathered the empty plate, carried it back to the sink, and began washing it by hand. Tomorrow, another reservation would arrive. Another person who believed excellence could be measured by stars rather than souls. The water ran warm over the porcelain. I smiled to myself as I dried the plate with a linen towel.

There is no sadder thing in this world than a masterpiece no one remembers.

Except perhaps... The one that no one ever tasted.

Bon appétit.