The Delectable

TW: death, grief

We were a few minutes late for our reservation. Monsieur Alistair Balthazar Schadenfreude, maître d' of the decadent Delectable Restaurant, glanced at his reservation ledger and frowned. “I see your time is running out. Please follow me.”

As he turned the book toward himself, I caught sight of several names on the page. Most had been crossed out with a neat line of black ink. Beside each was a time. 11:43. 12:01. 9:17. Every entry ended with a date and a small checkmark.

“Busy evening?” I asked.

Schadenfreude closed the ledger. “Not particularly. We are rather selective.”

It was an unusual greeting. Then again, Delectable was an unusual restaurant. Most elite restaurants occupied the tops of buildings, offering sweeping views of the city lights. The Delectable was the opposite. We descended so far below street level that my ears popped twice. There was no valet stand, no advertisements, no sign marking its entrance, no windows. No obvious means of escape. Somewhere behind us stood the elevator that brought us down, though I could no longer see it among the dark paneled walls of the passage.

On the way to the dining room, we passed a corridor wall displaying hundreds of framed photographs. Every guest was smiling. Every frame bore a date. “Former patrons?” I asked.

“Indeed,” was the curt answer.

“Regulars?”

“Not exactly.”

I did a double-take and stopped. Indeed, it was a famous face. The name plate read: Reginald Archibald Vane III (1948–2007).

The silver-framed photograph showed a handsome man in a tuxedo standing beside a private jet, champagne flute raised in triumph. During the 1980s and 1990s, Vane amassed a fortune buying and selling companies across three continents. His name adorned museum wings, university libraries, and a cancer research center. He owned homes on five continents and once spent more on a single birthday party than most people earned in a lifetime — or two. Yet, because he could not stop for Death, Death kindly stopped for him, at the age of fifty-nine. While dining at the Delectable.

As we’re being seated, we passed an alcove set for one. Crystal glasses. Silver service. A fresh white rose. The place setting appeared untouched except for a half-filled wine glass and a folded napkin.

“Will someone be joining us?” I asked.

Graves glanced at the table. “No, sir. Mr. Harrow departed earlier in the evening.”

“Departed?”

“He was a most satisfactory guest.”

A tall, silver-haired gentleman glided to our table carrying a leather-bound wine list. His attire was impeccable. He wore a midnight-black suit tailored so precisely it seemed sculpted onto him. It bore the heraldry of the Arms of the Chevaliers du Tastevin on his left pocket. A crisp white shirt whose starched collar scraped against his neck. A waistcoat of dark burgundy silk hinted at old-world luxury, and a silver pocket watch chain disappeared into one of its pockets, giving the final touches to his ensemble.

Instead of a necktie, he wore a sommelier’s tastevin, a small silver wine cup, hanging from a chain around his neck. Yet there was something unsettling in his appearance, as though he could just as easily preside over a wake as recommend a Bordeaux. “Good evening,” he said, “I am Mr. Lucifer Vesper Blackwood, your sommelier. May I assist you in selecting a vintage suitable for the occasion?”

Across the room, I noticed a woman laughing as she examined her place card. She showed it to her husband. They laughed. He slipped it into his breast pocket. I caught a glimpse of the words: CAUSE OF DEATH.

“What occasion is that?” I asked.

His smile broadened, sly, almost imperceptible. “Why, your final occasion, sir.”

Lucifer handed each of us a beverage menu. Opening it released the faint scent of leather and musty old paper mixed with fumes of benzaldehyde, like a well-kept, but ancient, library book. Beneath large, ominous, dark-red medieval Maledictum embossed font that seemed to be oozing, “The Devil’s Cellar” in a smaller font at the top of the wine list read:

Every Vintage Has a Story.

Not Every Story Ends Well.

The menu’s next section was entitled “Libations. Our Apothecary of Spirits,” in the same dark red font. Guests were encouraged to “Pick Your Poison — or Ask Our Chemist.” Followed by a list of premium whiskies, bourbons, rums, gins, vodkas, tequilas, and more, below which were the words:

Distilled for the Living.

Enjoyed by Spirits.

Specialty House drinks were Embalmer’s Choice and the Hereafter. Ingredients were not mentioned. I was told the ultra-fine dining gourmet restaurant was famous for its cuisine. “Food to Die For,” as they say. Together, they left little doubt that an appreciation of mortality was considered part of the fine dining experience.

My companions found the theme amusing. I wasn’t so sure. The atmosphere was one Agatha Christie might have created for Murder on the Nile. Together, the slogans suggested that mortality was not merely an occupational hazard, but an integral part of the dining experience. We ordered cocktails.

Mr. Sebastian Graves, our waiter, arrived, dressed with the understated dignity of a funeral director, to take our orders. A conservative black suit, a starched white shirt, and a muted blue tie completed the ensemble. All chosen for comforting the hungry, but soon-to-be-bereaved, guests. Had he been carrying an urn, no one would have questioned it.

The tented black place card, its lettering beautifully executed in gold calligraphy, seemed a final touch of understated elegance. Curious, I turned it over. My breath caught. It was a death certificate. Mine. Under “Cause of Death” appeared a single word: Poison. The date: Midnight.

In small print, at the bottom, barely readable, it said: “By the time you read this, there is nothing you can do about it.”

The wine steward brought us our aperitifs, each in a 75 milliliter volumetric test tube. A rack of 8, with 2 empty slots. Two of each cocktail. Except my Devil’s Dividend. It arrived in a glass separatory funnel mounted on a wrought-iron stand. A ruby-red liqueur floated atop a layer of obsidian-black spirits. Lucifer instructed me to open the brass stopcock and fill my own tumbler, “thus allowing fate to determine the proportion of pleasure — and regret.”

I sipped as I waited for the menu. None came. An assistant waiter in a fashionable black surgical smock and thin black rubber gloves, deposited two unlabeled one-liter Florence Flasks containing a clear liquid on the table. I assumed it was water.

“If I may,” Sebastian began, “In honor of this, your Last Supper, we shall serve the Chef’s multi-course final tasting experience. No selections. No substitutions. No second chance. Each course inspired by the last meal of a famous condemned prisoner.” He straightened to stand like a marine during inspection.

“A culinary journey through history’s most memorable departures. May they rest in peace,” he said. “We begin with your choice of Memento Mori Foie Gras or Arsenic and Old Lace Risotto. Both are served with fetal duck in the half-shell and raw, wild, Finnish Lapland mushroom terrine. All arranged with proper precision. Oh yes, despite the name, our legal department insists I tell you there is no poison in the dressing and the mushrooms are not FDA approved.”

He cleared his throat. “You have a choice of dressings to go with the Foie Gras: Belladonna Berry Reduction, Hemlock Hollandaise, Nightshade Gastrique, Grim Green Goddess — rich, creamy, and, I’m told, remembered fondly by nearly all who survived it. The crushed monkshood leaves sprinkled on top are an idea from Anthony Bourdain before his tragic suicide.”

A second server whispered in our waiter’s ear. Graves continued, “I’m sorry to report the fresh hemlock leaves were not delivered today. In its place we offer the Coroner’s Charcuterie. The time of plating is 7:43 p.m. Please enjoy your aperitifs.”

At 7:42, a small Gurney arrived with a large salad bowl. At 7:43, the server used forceps to place lettuce, tomatoes and olives into each of our bowls. From the Gurney, he placed four 500-ml Erlenmeyer flasks on the table, each with a different-colored top and labeled. "Widow’s Vinaigrette." Embalmer’s Blue Cheese. Widowmaker Wasabi and Poisoner’s Poppy Seed.

Graves stepped back. “You shall enjoy the Chef’s Signature Entrée: The Lazarus Course. It is prepared only for guests whose final arrangements and paperwork have already been completed. Plating will be at 8:13.”

I asked what it was, Monsieur Schadenfreude, who was never far away, responded, “I’m afraid the Chef insists that discovery is part of the experience.”

At precisely 8:12, an assistant waiter pushed a polished stainless-steel mortician's Gurney toward our alcove, Mr. Graves gliding silently beside him. The meal rested beneath a gleaming dome of silver cloches.

Mr. Graves graduated first in his class from the prestigious École de la Dernière Table in Lyon, widely regarded as Europe’s finest waiter-training academy. Its graduates were renowned for impeccable manners, tableside carving, and wine stewardship. Soon after being hired at the Delectable, he took an elective seminar in Subtle Notification of Impending Doom.

With a flourish practiced over what must have been decades, Mr. Graves lifted the lids. Aromatic smoke spilled across the table and cascaded over the edges like fog rolling through a San Francisco graveyard. The scent intoxicating. Roasted garlic, black truffle, rosemary, and something sweet that I could not identify.

As the scented mist slowly dispersed, the entrées emerged beneath the candlelight. Mr. Graves regarded them with the reverence of a priest before an altar. “The Chef’s specialty,” he said softly. “A celebration of that exquisitely brief moment, suspended in the infinity of time, between our arrival from the void and our inevitable return to it.”

The centerpiece was a magnificent rack of lamb, roasted to a perfect ruby-pink center. The ribs curved upward like the arches of a cathedral. Nestled within the crown sat mushrooms, roasted shallots, and wild rice. Around the plate’s rim, in black squid-ink calligraphy:

Died Raw.

Resurrected Rare.

Beneath the inscription, in smaller script: "Every Sacrifice Deserves a Proper Sauce." I smiled, “I don’t know whether to eat it or attend its memorial service.”

Mr. Graves inclined his head. “The chef considers both responses to be complimentary.” Accompanying the lamb were three sauces served in miniature silver chalices labeled: Widow's Reduction, Last Rites Demi-Glace, and Resurrection Coulis. A card beside them advised: Choose carefully. The Chef accepts no responsibility for unintended reincarnations.

Throughout the meal, waiters appeared and disappeared like ghosts. Water glasses refilled themselves. Empty plates vanished. Wine materialized before we realized we needed it.

At one point, Lucifer appeared carrying a silver tray. “Compliments of the Chef.” Upon the tray rested small glasses fashioned from laboratory beakers. The card beside them read:

LAST MEAL SHOOTERS

Best consumed before expiration. Yours.

At 10:47, dessert arrived. Mr. Graves himself presented it.

The rectangular Dutch chocolate cake resembled a miniature cemetery. Dark chocolate soil covered the plate. White chocolate headstones protruded at irregular angles. A tiny marzipan angel stood watch over a mound of chocolate mousse. Written across the plate in raspberry coulis:

Death Is Sweet.

In Retrospect.

“I have to admit,” I said, “your Chef is committed to a theme.” I glanced across the room to the couple. Their table sat empty.

Mr. Graves nodded. “The Chef believes consistency is important.” He hesitated. Then added, “Particularly near the end. May we take your portrait for our collection, sir?” Though phrased as a question, it wasn’t. A photographer appeared from nowhere.

At 11:01, Lucifer pushed a golden bar serving cart to the table. He placed a crystal snifter before me with ceremonial care. “A complimentary digestif, sir. Final Comfort. It is French Escubac with a proprietary blend of herbs and botanicals selected for their remarkable calming properties.”

I took a sip. Warmth spread through my chest, dissolving the lingering anxiety that had shadowed me all evening. “Delightful,” I said.

“Yes,” Lucifer replied with his usual lack of expression. “In fact, we’ve never received a single complaint. Here, sir, is the final accounting for the evening.” A gust of air from a passing waiter lifted several pages of the maître d’s reservation ledger lying on the cart. One sheet slid partly free, revealing columns. Name. Date. Time. Cause. Then a final column labeled: CONFIRMED. He covered the papers. “Internal records, sir.”

The total was precisely $666.66. Payable only in cash or gold. No checks. No credit cards. No IOUs. A notation on it said: Table 13. Reservation Concludes: 00:00.

Suggested Gratuity: 100%. You can’t take it with you. After tonight, your need for money will be considerably diminished. I paid cash. The receipt printed: Thank you for dining at the Delectable. We look forward to posting your portrait.

Outside, the night air felt unusually cool. The city was quiet. I checked my watch. 11:36.

Twenty-four minutes remained before the death certificate’s stated time. I asked myself, “Do you actually believe any of this?” And answered, “No.” The tension eased. Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps Delectable specialized in reminding wealthy diners that life was finite, fragile, and precious.

A very expensive existential lesson.

At 11:45, a distant church bell began striking the quarter hour. Then silence.

I reached the parking garage. My footsteps echoed through the concrete cavern. My car sat alone on the upper level, accompanied by only a handful of other vehicles. The restaurant had seemed nearly empty, yet somehow an audience had materialized at midnight.

I unlocked the doors. Then stopped. A white envelope rested beneath the windshield wiper. I looked around the garage. Rows of silent cars. Pools of fluorescent light. Empty parking stalls stretch in every direction. Empty. Yet the envelope suggested otherwise.

Someone had known exactly which car was mine. Someone came here after I parked. Someone left a message.

The front bore my name in elegant black script. Below it was a line that chilled me far more than the midnight festivities: “Witnesses are required by policy. Drive carefully as you depart. We appreciate your cooperation.”

I had never told anyone my name. Not the maître d'. Not the waiter. Nobody. Yet there it was, written in ink still fresh enough to glisten beneath the garage lights.

At 11:57, I was still sitting in the parked car. Engine off. Not willing to move. The dashboard clock advanced.

11:58. A pickup truck sped through the garage exit below. Its tires squealed. I flinched.

11:59. The dashboard clock changed.

11:59:30.

11:59:45.

11:59:59.

The clock turned to 12:00.

Nothing happened. No explosion. No heart attack. No assassin. No poisoned dessert. Nothing. I exhaled. Then laughed.

The ridiculousness of the evening was finally catching up with me. “You see?” I said to myself. “A joke. An elaborate, overpriced joke.”

I started the engine. The headlights illuminated the concrete wall ahead. And there, in neat white, reflective letters I could have sworn were not there before, were the words:

MIDNIGHT IS NOT AN EVENT

IT’S THE BEGINNING

OF THE END

I blinked. The wall was blank. Only concrete block. Nothing more. My mind was playing tricks. I put the car in drive. The dashboard clock read 12:01. I inched from the parking space into the driving aisle. A horn blared. Blinding headlights filled the rearview mirror. And then — nothing.

The accident report listed the time as approximately midnight. One witness said the collision occurred before twelve. Another insisted it happened after. The garage cameras ceased recording at 11:58 and resumed at 12:02. No one ever explained why.

Nor could anyone locate a restaurant named Delectable at the address printed on the receipt, or any other address. The building had been vacant for nearly twenty years.

The investigators failed to find Delectable, but they eventually located one name. Lucifer Vesper Blackwood. He had indeed existed. According to state records, he died in 1937. Cause of death: poisoning. Time of death: midnight.

The dinner receipt had disappeared, as had the death certificate. Only one item remained. Pressed between the pages of my journal, discovered by accident among my personal effects years afterward, was part of my place card from the Delectable. Beneath my name, someone had written in elegant black glossy ink: Died Raw. Reservation Fulfilled. The remainder of the sentence had been torn away.

My time had run out.