It’s 2am. I find myself sitting at a table topped with a frilly white table cloth, royal blue napkins, and a plate of some monstrous-looking part of a sea creature drenched in red sauce that I tentatively poke with my fork to make sure it’s not alive.
“Really, I only need the salad,” I say to the waiter dressed in a white, official-looking uniform.
He stares at me in disgust. “It only comes with an entrée. This is your entrée,” he spits and walks away.
I can understand his annoyance. First, I arranged to come in after hours to take photos for the magazine I work for, Bon Appetit.
Secondly, I feel like I should be wearing a tux. I’m not. I’m wearing my pajamas. You see, I forgot about my assignment until I woke up around midnight from a dream in which a herd of cows surrounded me chanting “meat, meat, meat,” which reminded me of burgers, which reminded me of food, which reminded me of this restaurant, which reminded me that my photos are due tomorrow or I am screwed.
So, poor Louis, or Jacques or whatever the snobby guy’s name is had to come into work and wait on me at 2am.
I wonder if the cook purposely made my food look like rats’ guts. I’ll have to get his name and put it in the caption alongside my photos: “Chef Frenchy Français specializes in the French delicacy, roasted rats’ guts. Reviewer’s call: tastes like chicken.”
I push the delectable dish to the side and wait for my dinner salad. From a table nearby, I see Jacques glaring at me. Tough tuna, man. I am not eating whatever is on the plate.
To pass the time (and to keep myself from falling asleep), I closely examine the dinosaur pattern on my pajama pants. My mom bought them for me as a joke last Christmas. I wonder what my girlfriend would think if she saw me out in public with these bad boys.
“Do these make you…more attracted to me?” I try saying suavely. You know, just for practice.
“Yes. Yes, they do,” I hear a soft reply from across the room. A soft, manly reply.
I swivel around in my chair to see Jacques, or whatever his name is, has paused with his table cleaning and is staring wistfully at me.
I force a smile onto my face, wave, then turn around. My palms are sweaty and I can feel my face reddening. I want out. Now. But I am trapped here until my dinner salad comes. I need a picture of it. I need one! Be strong. Here comes Jacques! Pretend to be busy!
I frantically pick up my napkin and begin to blow my nose excessively.
“Your dinner salad, sir,” Jacques says, setting my food down in front of me. “Let me get you a new napkin.”
What came over him? I thought he hated me, now he’s…he’s…practically offering me gifts of love and adoration!
HE’S HITTING ON ME!
“You know what? That’s all right,” I say, snapping a quick photo of the salad. “This is all I need, I’ll be leaving now.”
Jacques suddenly looks scared. “You…you…don’t like the food?” he almost whispers.
“No, no!” I say hastily. “The food is…great! I just have to get going…”
“You don’t like the food?!” he asks again, raising his voice.
“No, no, it’s—”
“YOU DON’T LIKE THE FOOD!” he yells, racing into the kitchen. “HE DOESN’T LIKE THE FOOD!”
I stand by the table feeling like I am going to wet myself.
Suddenly, a large, middle-aged man bursts through the kitchen doors, sobbing. Frenchy. The cook.
“I quit!” he cries in a thick French accent. “I quit, I quit, I QUIT!”
I tremble as he approaches me, looming over me with his large meat cleaver.
“Don’t kill me!” I squeak in a high-pitched voice.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he roars. “I’m going to kill MYSELF!” He holds the knife to his throat.
“NO!” I cry, launching myself toward him. We struggle for possession of the knife, and it flies into the air.
Just as Jacques emerges from the kitchen.
The knife lands in Jacques’s gut, and he collapses.
“Jacques!” Frenchy and I shout.
We race over to him. Frenchy examines the knife wound and I cradle Jacques’ head in my arms.
“Jacques! Speak to me!” I cry.
“I’m…I’m sorry I was mean to you,” he struggles to say. “You…you just meant so much…” he tries to finish but the pain is too much.
As the life fades from his sparkling eyes, I realize what would make him happy. I know the one last wish he would want before he dies.
I draw in a deep breath, close my eyes, and give him a big, wet, mouth-to-mouth kiss. I can taste the blood on his tongue as well as a bit of sweet something he must have eaten just moments before. Mmm, cinnamon…
I lift my head, gasping for air, realizing I am crying.
I look up and scream into the heavens, “WHY?!?!?!”
“Listen! He speaks again!” says Frenchy, who is kneeling beside me, shocked.
I lean close to Jacques. “What is it?” I ask.
“I meant to say…” he whispers, “that you just meant so much…to the restaurant.”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“The restaurant,” he repeats. “I was only nice to you because we need a good review.”
With that, all signs of life leave his body, and he is still.
Frenchy stands, avoiding eye contact with me. “The bill’s on the table,” he mutters, returning to the kitchen.
Still sitting on the floor with Jacques in my arms, I look upward once again and cry, “WHY?!?!?!”
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