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"Davis, upper management has come down on my budget again. We just can't afford two food critics. People keep dropping their subscriptions and getting their news on-line. Giuliani has a flashy reputation," Jones, the editor warned. "When Giuliani gets out of jail, I'm going to have to make a cut. Take the time to make your mark. Otherwise, I'm going to have to assign you to the gardening section." Archibald Jones had been the lead editor for the Health and Food section of the Seattle Times for almost twenty years. Jeffrey suspected that his friend had an ulterior motive for asking him out for drinks after work. "I appreciate you letting me know, Arch." "Just don't leave me alone with that manic," Jones said, sardonically. "I always have to rewrite his copy. The wife and kids barely see me now. And speaking of which, I need to leave. Just remember, use this time wisely." With good behavior, Giuliani was expected to get out of jail in three months. That kind of notoriety was difficult to overcome, Jeffrey realized as he bid his friend farewell. He swore the night that Giuliani went to jail that he'd take advantage of the head start and try to seize Seattle's culinary scene by the throat. Determined, he had visited every new hole in the wall theme restaurant hoping to find a new flavor of the month. The key to holding the public's interest was finding the new flavor. Slowly sipping his vodka and pineapple juice, Jeffrey tried to drown out the screeching of rock star Johnny Dalton ringing in his ears and the rude waiters pretending it was chic to insult their customers. Jeffrey had barely touched his Tuscan Chicken Salad. The chicken was overcooked and the red wine vinaigrette was so sour that a hobo would refuse it. He paid the check, leaving a nominal tip, and strolled out the restaurant. Too bad, he thought, looking down 4th avenue. This place had a prime location for weekend crowds. Frustrated, Jeffrey crossed the street and headed towards his bus stop. It was early for a Friday night. The sun was starting to set. Orange and red light decorated the sky like autumn leaves. As he sat on the bench and pulled out a magazine, he heard something that changed his life. "I tell ya, Mary, it's the best restaurant I've ever been to," a booming voice said. Curious, Jeffrey pretended to read the magazine while listening. "No name. No menus. Real exclusive," the man replied into his cell phone. Jeffrey snuck a look at the man. He was handsome, in a Ken-doll sort of way, and dressed for yuppie business success. "No, I'm serious. It's a secret. I can't tell unless you come with me," He said, smiling. "They brought me a Black Buttered Catfish with black-eyed peas that was perfect. As good as Grandma used to make when we lived with her. I swear to God I almost cried just tasting it." Jeffrey glanced over at the yuppie. He hated people that talked too loudly on cell phones in public places. But, this story was too good to be true. Was there a restaurant with no name and no menus in Seattle? It didn't seem possible. "I swear to God, Mary," the yuppie continued. "I'll pay your plane ticket. You have to come eat here. It was like being there. . ." Jeffrey listened to the yuppie for the next several minutes describe the meal. The catfish had been slowly cooked with white vinegar in a skillet and chopped pecans. Just imagining the taste based off the description made Jeffrey hungry and accidentally miss his bus. Waiting patiently for the yuppie to get off the phone, Jeffrey watched him with anticipation and desperate got on the wrong bus, headed away from his house, to follow him. Several stops later, the yuppie said his goodbyes and snapped his phone close. "Excuse me," Jeffrey interjected. "I don't mean to be rude, but I could hear you talk about that restaurant. I'd love to go there. Where is it?" The yuppie blushed as though getting his hand caught in the cookie jar. "You don't want to go there. It's small, and dingy." "My name is Jeffrey Davis," he explained. "I'm the food critic for the Times. I can put that place on the map." Jeffrey wasn't always a good judge of character, but he was certain that this yuppie looked horrified at the thought. It was as though Jeffrey just informed him that he had taken liberties with his dead mother. "It's an exclusive club. Sorry." "So exclusive that they won't let the press inside?" Jeffrey asked, credulously "That's insane." The yuppie sneered a bit and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, good luck," he said, stepping off the bus. Jeffrey was flabbergasted, and just sat there. It took an hour for the bus to cycle back to downtown. Jeffrey spent the entire time stewing his anger. The next morning, he called a couple of the local haunts and suppliers asking if they had heard of a new place in town. As expected, none of them had heard of such a place. Some laughed. A few had a queer pitch to their voice, but Jeffrey wasn't sure if it was because they were in on the joke or they thought Jeffrey had finally joined Tony Giuliani in the asylum for crazy food critics club. Jeffrey gradually put the restaurant with out a name out of his head and concentrated on work. The day went quickly. He had to work quickly to finish his column before deadline. Glad to be finished, he refilled his mug with coffee in the kitchen and prepared to return to his cubical. ". . .And I swear it was the best Chicken Marsala I've ever had. My Poppa used to cook this exact dish at big family gatherings. Roasted chicken stuffed with cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, olives, and mushrooms. They even served it with Pinot Nori wine that was so good it almost killed me." Jeffrey dropped his mug, shattering it in the sink. He spun around to see Rick Amancio, one of the sport's writers chatting with one of the fact checkers. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but were you talking about this place without a name and no menus?" Jeffrey asked, hopefully when they were alone. "Yeah. Great place," Rick answered. "Great place off the wharf. Weird though, I just kind of ran into it." "I totally know what you mean," Jeffrey lied. "I've been having problems finding my way back. You know how the streets are all screwed up in Seattle. I was a little toasted, you know.." "Yeah, I know how that is. I don't know the address, of course. I had a hard time getting there a second time, but I can draw you a map," Rick offered. "That is if you tell me what your order was." Jeffrey paused a moment. What would the chef of this mysteries place bring him? What would the perfect meal for a food critic be? "Grilled Swordfish with lemon sauce," He said, fumbling. "Did it feel special?" Rick asked. "What do you mean?" Rick's cheek turned crimson. He was an old school Italian from a long line of men that couldn't be bothered to discuss their feelings or sentimentality. "It's weird. And if you spread this around, I'll kick your ass. But, it was like my grandpa cooked me his special menu. It even had too much pepper." "I thought you said it was perfect." "It was. It was," Rick protested. "For a second, I closed my eyes and I could smell the old stogies he used to smoke. What about you?" "I was three sheets to the wind," Jeffrey replied. "I can't really remember what." Rick laughed uneasy. "I'm sure it was just me being weird." "Scent and taste are supposed to be the best memory enhancers," Jeffrey explained. "It's really fascinating. The right taste or smell can trigger all sorts of memories." "I didn't know that. Explains the dreams I've been having then about the old man," Rick said, pleasantly. "Not that I mind. I loved that old bastard. Just kind of sudden." "I wouldn't worry about it," Jeffrey said, patting his back. "Enjoy it while it last." Rick sniffed then put on his game face. "Well, yeah," he said, making his voice deeper. It wouldn't do much for his reputation as a sport's writer to be seen crying with the food critic. He scrawled a crude map on the back of a coffee napkin. "This should get you back. This never happened." Jeffrey accepted the napkin gratefully and nodded vacantly. He finished his calls and editing work. The Seattle Times wasn't a big enough operation for Jeffrey to solely concentrate on being a food critic. He pitched in where needed and edited the Home and Garden section. He didn't mind editing copy, but he didn't want to be stuck there. Jeffrey rushed through the day knowing that if he hurried, he could leave by seven and perhaps get a shot at this new, secretive place. He left the office, a minute after seven, running to catch the cross town bus. He barely made it, but was forced to stand in the aisle dripping wet. The restaurant with no name was in a covered brick alley behind the Farmer's Market, near the wharf. The walls were painted with faded slogans from businesses that died years ago. Concert posters, motorcycles, and trash bins lined the alley like an honor guard. "Rick was just screwing with me," Jeffrey thought. He might have turned out had he not heard the laughter. It was a small crowd. They turned the corner en mass, arm in arm, laughing and talking like they had just stepped out of a movie. Encouraged, Jeffrey briskly walked past them and turned the corner. There was an old black man, dressed in an old brown suit with a red bowtie, sitting on a stool. Pleased, Jeffrey slicked back his thinning hair and approached the man. "Hi, my name is Jeffrey. I'm here for the good food," he said, smiling. "No, you ain't," the old man replied, scowling. "You ain't on the list." "Yeah, I know," Jeffrey admitted. "Look, I'm the food critic for the Seattle Times. I want to write a whole piece on you guys. There's a buzz about this place." The old man was horrified. "No press! No press!" "I don't understand," Jeffrey said, gingerly. "Don't you guys want more people to come?" "We get enough people when we need them," he stated. Jeffrey believed him, though it struck him as difficult to pull off. How could they get enough customers without advertising? Was their food that good? Why the secrecy? Was it all just a marketing ploy? "What if I promise not to write an article?" Jeffrey said slyly. "I mean, I can interview people that leave. Find out a lot about the place. Tell everyone about it." The old man bit his lip and considered Jeffrey shrewdly. "You stay right here," he ordered. He hopped off his stool and opened the door behind him. The old man slipped inside of the restaurant with no name and closed the door and locked the bolts. The rain returned, although this time not quite as gentle. It sounded like a crowd roaring approval. Some time later, the door opened again. The old man returned, smiling wolfishly. "Talked to the boss," He said proudly. "He said you could come in on three conditions." Jeffrey smiled. "What conditions?" "The boss says you can come in and eat. You can even write about it," the old man revealed. "But you can't tell anyone where we are. You even give a hint, and we're closed to you forever. We'll move. We don't plan on having a sign that says over a billion served, got it?" "Yes, sir," Jeffrey answered eagerly. "You can't argue about what you are served," the old man told him. "You have to sit there and eat everything on your plate. The boss don't care if you think you like it or not. You eat what gets served to you." Jeffrey nodded his agreement. "And third, you can't tell anyone about who you see or what you see other people eat. You want to spoil your dinner fine, but you leave other people their privacy." Jeffrey nodded again, surprised. Most restaurants publicized the famous or powerful that patronized their places of business. "If that's what you want, I promise. Just seems odd to me." The old man nodded knowingly as though he knew the secret to the universe. "I'd imagine so from the outside. But things are the way they are," He said. "You can call me Leo." Leo opened the door and bowed. Awed, Jeffrey stepped inside the restaurant with no name. It was dark, illuminated only table candles. Jeffrey glanced around the room trying to spot people, but everyone seemed faceless and blurry. "It's easy to get lost in the darkness," a friendly, female voice said. Jeffrey felt a warm, gently hand grab his arm. "Follow me and I'll take you to your table, sir." Jeffrey allowed the woman to lead him through the dark room. She found an empty table in the corner and pulled out a chair for him. The hostess was in her late forties with slightly graying brown hair. Jeffrey could tell that as a young woman she had been exceptionally beautiful and fought aging as much as possible. Her smile was charming and for brief moments Jeffrey could see past the pain of the years and the wisdom in her face to see a young girl that once had been chased. "My name is Rita. I'll be your hostess this evening. I've been told your dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes," she said sweetly. Jeffrey sat down in the offered chair. Rita smiled softly. "Thank you," Jeffrey said. "So it's true that there are no menus?" Rita laughed like she had heard a special, shared in-side joke. "No menus. But I promised, you'll get a good meal," She replied. "You'll get the meal you need the most." "But how can you be certain?" Jeffrey asked, serious. "I'm not doubting you, but it seems so incredible." "Faith? Experience? Who knows?" Rita replied, wryly. "We'll find out soon enough, eh?" Rita poured Jeffrey a glass of water and then left. Amused, Jeffrey glanced around the restaurant. The furniture was very nice, polished wood. It was a shame that they didn't light the place more, he decided. Jeffrey shifted the candle on his table to see if he could get a better look at some of the other patrons. There was a larger bald man in his late forties eating some sort of Asian themed chicken curry with what looked like lemon grass, rice, and French bread. Jeffrey considered himself a master at ethnic foods and so was a bit disappointed that he couldn't exactly identify the dish. It took a minute, but he decided that it had to be some sort of neo-Vietnamese. The Vietnamese culture was one of the few Asian cultures that had been heavily influenced by both India and France. Satisfied that he had pinpointed the country of origin, Jeffrey allowed himself to glance at the man's face. He appeared wistful, lost in thought. A soft expression on a face used to hard glares. Something about him seemed familiar. The bald man took another bite of his French bread and then chewed thoughtfully. Jeffrey pondered for a moment or two and then realized that he was watching Anton Morgan. Anton Morgan was famous in the Seattle underground art scene. He owned two of the ratty nightclubs, most of the tattoo parlors, and had stakes in several of the local galleries. There were delicious rumors about his involvement in the Seattle Leather scene. If Seattle truly did have a head of gay mafia, Anton Morgan would be the Gayfather. Jeffrey sipped his water and tried not to stare. Anton Morgan was too focused on his meal to notice. It might have been a trick of the candlelight, but Jeffrey could have sworn that Anton was crying. Jeffrey motioned for Rita and then asked for directions to the bathroom, hoping to get a better look at the restaurant. She smiled slyly, and led him through the maze of tables, corridors, and room into a hallway with a men's restroom. Along the way, Jeffrey thought he had caught glimpses of the governor visiting from Olympia, a famous poet, and the crazy homeless that spends each day at 4th and Pike holding a cardboard sign that reads Seattle Police Are The Devil. "I'll wait here for you, sir," Rita stated. "I can try to find my way back," Jeffrey protested. "The Boss asked me to make sure you were taken care of, Mr. Davis," Rita explained. "I like to keep the boss happy." Jeffrey quickly slipped into the bathroom and ran the facet in the sink for a while to bide his time. Afterwards, he slowly pulled the door open to see Rita's watchful eyes waiting for him. Defeated, Jeffrey allowed Rita to lead him back to his table. "The Boss said that your food is coming right up. He's put special effort into your dish. You should be proud," Rita informed him. "Enjoy your meal, Mr. Davis," Rita replied. Frustrated, Jeffrey stared at the meal. Surely this couldn't be the meal intended for him? The rules laid out by Leo were fairly clear. Perhaps, this was their way of trying to humiliate him? Determined, Jeffrey took his fork in hand and tried a bite of the blackened macaroni and cheese. *** It had been the worst birthday of his life, but Jeffrey was glad to be at Grandma's in a warm, clean house. She forgot his birthday, but he was glad to eat anything that wasn't a peanut butter sandwich. Jeffrey wasn't bitter about it. Grandma had ten grandchildren and really it wasn't her job. Mom promised she'd be back in the morning, but a week passed. At ten, any freedom is an adventure and it was exciting the first couple of days. After several long night walks, endless hours of television, and dozens of peanut butter sandwiches, Jeffrey started to worry. The bunk house was out in the boonies on the edge of a grape field. During the day, he played with the grape crates turning them into makeshift forts, shields, spaceships, and swords. After the sun set, Jeffrey huddled on the couch with a blanket in hand keeping warm only with the soft afterglow of the television. Jeffrey might have stayed there another week, except that it had been his birthday. He knew there was a bus stop near the grocery store five miles away. He had just enough to take the bus to the city and call Grandpa. Grandma gave him a big hug and set him down in front of the television and made him a special lunch. At the time, it was the best thing he had ever eaten. *** Jeffrey wasn't sure why he started sweating, but the taste was divine. His greatest fear as a food critic had been that he had been imprinted with orange-yellow processed government cheese as a child. Taking a second bite, the sweet taste of burned, peppered government cheese, a dash of hot sauce, and prepackaged noodles was like manna from heaven. To wash it down, Rita had brought him a cold can of 7-UP. Each bite brought back another memory of his grandparents. Grandpa fixing his flat tire. Grandma watching Perry Mason while sewing patches on his jeans. Grandpa trying to play an old Atari video game while cussing a storm under his breath. Grandma making him sitting at kitchen table to do math homework. Grandma died two years previous. Grandpa only lasted a couple months after she passed. Jeffrey was surprised to find himself crying at the table. He had moved around so often the last couple of years that he lost track of the family he left behind. He had always thought of his family as a bunch of crabs in a bucket. Fishermen use shallow buckets to carry crabs around because they know that as soon as one crab gets a claw up to escape the bucket, the rest will drag him back down. It was an apt analogy. Over the years, one relative would get clean until the others dragged them back into the life. Jeffrey escaped when he left for school. He cried for the ones that he left behind. Sympathetic, Rita dropped off a box of tissues. "What's in this food?" He asked. "I just serve the food," Rita explained. "Only the Boss knows what's in the food." "Can I see him?" Jeffrey asked, hopeful. "If he comes out, he'll say something. Sometimes, he does. Sometimes, not," Rita said sympathetically. "I never know what he's going to do." "How much do I owe you?" Jeffrey asked. "Pay what you think the meal was worth," Rita said, winking. "We don't have a menu or a set price." "What? How can you stay in business?" Jeffrey asked. "Our patrons are often very generous," Rita explained. "And our overhead is low." Jeffrey pondered the question of the bill. He felt good. Surprisingly good. Better than he had in years, Was in the food? Was the chef just lucky? Or did he really know what the customer needed? Did it matter? He had been missing his grandparents since had heard that they were dead. This meal was like a trip in time visiting them and thanking them in a way that he had never done while they were alive. He checked his wallet and laid all of the cash there on the table. Rita replaced the empty soda can and graciously accepted the money. "Thank you very much," she said. Jeffrey nodded and accepted the drink. He took another sip while glancing around at the other patrons. They were all experiencing their own meals and memories. Some happy, some sad. Jeffrey suddenly wasn't certain that writing about this place was the best idea. As he considered the options, a large hand patted him upon the back. Startled, Jeffrey looked up to see a large, rotund man clad in the off-white chef's uniform proudly stained with various sauces and cheeses. Jeffrey was glad that he was a big man that obviously liked his food. Jeffrey didn't trust chefs that didn't indulge. The chef had a jovial, fat swarthy face with a pencil thin mustache. "Rita! Get me a chair. I want to sit with Mr. Davis." Rita quickly obeyed. Jeffrey was awed by his presence, but was still surprised at the speed in which his staff moved. It was like he was their god. "I'm Mitch. I'm the chef." Jeffrey shook his hand enthusiastically. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." "I read your column," the chef replied. "Very insightful." Jeffrey blushed. "Thank you." "You understand, of course, why you can't write about this place? Knowing too much distills the magic," Mitch explained. "But don't people deserve to know about this place?" Jeffrey asked, hopefully. "They will when they need to," Mitch revealed. "That's part of the charm of this place. You found us." "How did you know? How do you know what to serve?" Jeffrey asked. "The meal was perfect. Just what I needed. Afterwards, I felt cleansed." Mitch laughed. "You ever see a magician perform? The really good ones distract you while they trick you. Without that misdirection, without the mystery, the trick dies," he said. "This place is kind of like that. Once you know, the trick is never the same." "So if you tell me, it won't work anymore?" Jeffrey guessed. "Exactly," Mitch answered. "Centuries ago, humans thought that stars were heroes given godhood. There was a mystery then to the night that we can't imagine. Poor Rita wanted to be a chef. She came here once and never cooked again. Now, she works as a hostess to catch the feeling second hand. Like a non-smoker walking into a cloud of nicotine. So I leave the choice to you. I can tell you the secret or you can accept the magic for what it is and return tomorrow for the meal of a lifetime." Jeffrey desperately wanted to know the secret, but he was curious to see what new experience the next meal would bring. "And either way, I won't be able to write about it without killing the experience." Mitch nodded approvingly. "Some things must be experienced for themselves." "I might lose my job," Jeffrey admitted. "I need to discover something special. Giuliani has the critic job locked if I don't. Can't you help me?" "Mr. Davis, you surprise me," the chef replied with a large toothy grin. "Giuliani is a buffoon. People read his column because he draws attention to himself like a monkey flinging feces. You try to report the facts. And that's not what people want." "People want to know which places are good," Jeffrey said, flabbergasted. "People wants to read about your love of food. Experience food from critical and devoted eye," Chef Mitch said, clapping him on the back. "You experience meals as though they were a symphony. Share that and you will never have trouble finding readers again." "Can I come back?" Jeffrey asked. "Of course," Mitch said. "As long as you respect the rules, you are welcome here anytime. I enjoyed cooking for you." Jeffrey stood, dusting the crumbs of his meal from his shirt. "Thank you for a wonderful meal, Chef Mitch," he said. "See you tomorrow evening then." Chef Mitch nodded proudly. "Good lad!" Rita escorted Jeffrey to the exit. "I hope you had a wonderful time," she said. "Thank you," Jeffrey replied. "Especially for keeping the secret." "You aren't going to ask him?" Rita asked, surprised. "How can you stand it? Not knowing?" "I figure, let there be magic and mystery in the world. I have what I need." END
Story by Jason Andrew, Copyright 2007 |
| Last updated on 1/3/2008 8:47:06 PM by Jennifer Brozek |
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Jeffrey Davis was the second most feared food critic in Seattle. Tony Giuliani was feared the most, but then he once stabbed a waiter with a shrimp fork for getting hair in his soup.
Jason Andrew lives in Seattle, Washington with his wife Lisa. By day, he works as a mild-mannered technical writer. By night, he writes stories of the fantastic and occasionally fights crime. As a child, Jason spent his Saturdays watching the Creature Feature classics and furiously scribbling down stories; his first short story, written at age six, titled “The Wolfman Eats Perry Mason” was rejected and caused his Grandmother to watch him very closely for a few years. Jason has had stories appear in Nasty Snips, Time for Bedlam, Hell’s Hangmen, Arkham Tales, and the upcoming horror anthology Raw Meat. In addition, Jason was one of the co-editors for the anthology Gods and Monsters, recently released from Simian Publishing.