Thorne was setting rat traps in the kitchen as the young couple entered the restaurant.
Otto, the owner, rushed across the stone floor, his eyes devoured by a cherubic grin. “Good evening,” he said. “Welcome to the Lagoon Lounge. Do you have a reservation?”
The couple, dressed in floral shirts, looked around the empty, elegant dining room.
“No,” the girl said. “Is it possible to fit us in?”
Otto sucked air through his teeth and tilted his head. “I believe we are fully booked. Let’s see.” Under the soft light, he ran his pudgy finger down the empty reservation page. “I suppose I could squeeze you in. Please follow me.” He raised his index finger and led them between the spaced-out tables. “Voilà, the best seats in the house,” he said, signalling to a small table next to the toilets.
“Great,” the girl said.
The couple settled at the table and browsed the refined menus.
Otto served a bowl of herb and garlic-marinated olives. “Are you here to visit the spoon museum?”
“No,” the boy said. “We’re celebrating our engagement.”
The girl glanced at the boy from above the menu and pursed her lips.
Otto clasped his hands in a fit of glee. “Bellissimo,” he said. “Two young love birds are celebrating their undying love for—”
“What do you recommend?” the girl said.
“Well, dear, good communication is the cornerstone of any healthy marriage.”
“No,” she said. “I meant from the menu.”
“Fret not. Uncle Otto will take care of you tonight.” He took the menus and hurried off towards the kitchen.
The girl leaned across the table. “Why’d you say we’re engaged?”
“Play along,” the boy whispered. “We’re guaranteed a freebie.”
As Otto passed through the kitchen doors, his face darkened. “If I had a penny for every touron who wandered in, I’d have enough money to buy… to fill… to go—”
“Bite the leather, brother,” Thorne said, placing his bandaged hand on Otto’s shoulder. “The season’s almost over, and we’ll be out of here.”
Otto shut his eyes and massaged his temples. “Warm sand. Maldivian Sunrise. Garudhiya,” he said.
Thorne tied his bright white apron. “Have they ordered?”
“No,” Otto said, air-quoting, “engagement dinner.”
“Should we give them a complimentary dessert or wine?”
“Hand me a bottle of that bargain-basement piddle.”
Otto danced into the dining room, hips gyrating to the soft jazz playing on an antique gramophone. “Voilà,” he said, placing two pristine Bordeaux glasses on the table.
He presented the wine. “A Tempranillo-Cabernet blend from Catalonia. Fruity, oaky, with a soupçon of vanilla. The perfect profile for a distinguished couple like yourselves. Gratis, of course.”
He smiled and poured a little into the glass.
The boy drank the wine.
“Is it to sir’s liking?” Otto said.
“Fine,” the boy said. “Top me up.”
Otto filled each glass, maintaining eye contact with the boy. “Enjoy,” he said.
The couple giggled and mocked the owner as he left the table. Thorne watched with a stern face, his breath fogging the small window.
Otto poked his head into the kitchen. “Caviar,” he said. “The cheap stuff, not the Osetra.”
Thorne nodded and gripped the counter until his fingertips turned white. A trap snapped shut.
“Whoopsie. Caught one,” Otto said, pointing to the fresh dead rat.
Thorne laid two water crackers on a plate and piped on salmon mousse. He retrieved the grease-matted rat and dropped it onto the chopping board. Using his paring knife, he scraped out its protruding black eyes. He placed one on each salmon canapé and covered them with caviar and a sprig of dill. “Ready,” he called.
Otto carried the festive starter to the table. “Voilà, fresh salmon canapés with caviar.” He forced a smile. “Bon appétit,” he said, and bowed before strutting back to the kitchen.
“Wow,” the girl said. “I’ve never tried caviar before.” She picked one up and inspected it. “What is it?”
“It’s fish,” the boy said.
She popped the canapé into her mouth and chewed. The boy did the same.
“Tasty,” the girl said. The rat’s eye stuck to her molar. She scraped it off with her tongue, chewed it up, and gulped it down. “Wonder what’s next,” she said, rubbing her hands together.
Thorne hacked the cold leg with a meat cleaver, the white spittle flying from his mouth with each whack.
“Brother, what’s going on?”
The chef turned to see Otto’s disappointed face. “Respect the meat. You’re better than this.”
The telephone rang, and Otto left the kitchen.
Thorne ran his boning knife down the muscle, parting the leg with precise strokes. He gripped the bone and sliced it from the rich red meat. Sweat glistened on his forehead under the bright lights. He fed the meat into the grinder, which growled as it chewed the flesh. He pureed testicles in a blender.
After combining the meats with garlic, parsley, Parmesan, pepper, eggs, and bread crumbs, he rolled the fragrant mixture into neat balls.
“So, what do you think of the place?” the girl asked the boy.
“Lovely. But I’m worried about the bill.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“You will?” the boy said.
The girl smiled. “I’ve brought his bank card.”
Otto collected the plates. “I trust everything was to your satisfaction?”
“Delicious,” the girl said.
“Exquisite,” Otto said.
“Champagne?” the boy said.
“Of course, sir.” Otto cleared the table and fetched two glasses of cheap sparkling wine. “Voilà, our finest Ruinart.”
The kitchen bell rang. Otto fetched the main course. “Voilà, our award-winning polpette al sugo.”
The boy frowned at the bowl. “Meatballs?” he said.
“Y-yes, sir,” Otto said. “M-meatballs.” He walked away, fists shaking at his side.
“Smells delicious,” the girl said.
The boy leaned in. “No pasta?” He snapped his fingers. “Waiter.”
Otto turned, biting his lip. “Yes, sir?”
“Where’s the pasta?”
“Traditionally, we serve the dish without it.”
“Huh,” the boy said, waving him off. “That’ll be all.”
Otto bowed and strolled to the kitchen.
The boy kissed her hand. “You think he knows about us?”
“The weird waiter?”
“No, Toby,” the boy said.
“I told you, he doesn’t suspect a thing.”
“What if he finds out and—”
“Parmesan?” Otto asked, startling the couple.
“No,” the girl said.
Otto bowed and returned to the kitchen. He grabbed Thorne by the apron and pulled him close. “Brother, th-those creatures in our r-restaurant are committing a-adultery. Right in our place of business. What kind of people are these?” He buried his face in Thorne’s chest and wept.
“Easy, brother,” Thorne said, and put his arm around Otto. “We’ll have them served before you know it.”
Otto tightened his grip, and his voice strained. “There’s still dessert and digestif. I can’t… I can’t—”
“You will.” Thorne patted Otto’s head. “You know why, dear Otto?”
“Why?”
“Because, despite everything, your heart still beats with kindness.”
Otto looked up at Thorne, teary-eyed. “You are right once more, brother.” He straightened his jacket. “We’re above all this rascality.”
“Now, take them a tiramisu and—”
“No,” Otto screeched. He lowered his voice. “Over my dead body—”
“Ice cream then?” Thorne said.
Otto dabbed his eyes with his silk handkerchief. “Vanilla,” he said. “The ancient stuff from the bowels of the fridge.”
The couple ate the ice cream, and the girl licked the bowl clean.
Otto watched, arms folded. “Lord, why are you doing this to me?” he muttered.
“Well, I’m ready to be stretched out,” the girl said.
The boy snapped his fingers. “Waiter, the bill.” He smiled at the girl. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
Otto placed the bill on the table. “Cash or card?”
“Card,” the girl said. She paid the amount owed.
“Splendid. I’ll be right back with your digestif.”
Otto rushed to the kitchen. “Brother, no tip. No tip,” he said.
“Filthy swine,” Thorne said.
Otto collapsed onto the counter. He stared at a wasp hovering around the light. “Curse this graceless state of mind, where courtesy’s art lies lost, and manners—”
“We’re running low on long pigs,” Thorne said.
Otto sprang to his feet. A wide grin spread across his face. “Sweet brother, you always know how to resurrect my spirits.” He grabbed the meat mallet, swung it in the air, and danced a spirited jig. In a soft voice, he sang, “Oh, the ducks on the farm say, Quack, quack, quack. The long pigs on the farm say, "Oink, oink, doink.”
Thorne mixed white powder with creamy limoncello and poured it into cordial glasses. “Ready,” he called.
Otto carried the drinks into the dining area. “Voilà, crema di limoncello.”
“Is it alcohol?” the girl said.
“A-yes, madam.”
“I shouldn’t have anymore. I’m driving.”
“I will request the chef prepare a non-alcoholic digestif for you. Please, one moment, madam.”
Otto rushed to the kitchen and returned with a blank expression. “I trust your experience at the Lagoon Lounge was memorable.” His right eye twitched shut. “Oink, oink, doink,” he said as his grip tightened around the meat mallet hidden behind his back.
Bio:
Steven Bruce is a writer and multiple-award-winning author. His poems and short stories have appeared in numerous international anthologies and magazines. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a master’s degree in creative writing. An English expatriate, he now lives and writes full-time in Poland.