Death by Chocolate: a story in 60 seconds
Don't ruin your appetite
“Would you like another martini, sir?” the waiter asked the man in the impeccable blue suit and glittery cufflinks.
“No, no, I’ll just take the bill.”
The waiter nodded and returned a few minutes later with the check. He set it on the table and backed away. The man glanced at it, pulled some cash from his jacket pocket, and nestled a few bills into the leather check holder.
“No change,” he muttered, handing it over. “Where did you say you were from again?”
“Idaho,” the waiter answered absentmindedly as he calculated his tip. “My whole family lives there.”
The man’s expression grew warmer. “I know this is forward of me,” he began, “but I’d like to invite you to the soft opening of my restaurant,” he said, sliding a business card across the starched white tablecloth. “I would appreciate the opinion of a professional.”
The waiter glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not sure I can accept this…”
“Oh, of course you can!” the man insisted. “Tomorrow night. Six pm. All the details are on the card.”
At 5:57 the next day, the waiter found himself standing in front of a nondescript building with tinted windows and black slatwall paneling. Next to the door was a keypad. He removed the business card from his pocket and punched in the five-numeral code listed on the back.
Click.
The door swung open, and he stepped inside. The restaurant was empty except for a small circular table in the middle of the dining room.
He was the last one to arrive.
Three other diners sat together quietly. They smiled at him as he sat down. Before he could introduce himself, the chef emerged from the kitchen and walked them through the meal.
“Take your time with each course and absorb as much as possible,” the chef said before quickly retreating from the dining room.
Moments later, the first dish was paraded through a small door near the back of the restaurant. The meal began with a fluke crudo, pea tendril salad, and a savory white truffle panna cotta. The main course was duck breast on a bed of black winter truffles, and the dessert was a chocolate mousse topped with cognac-soaked berries.
“I can’t move,” he moaned after the last spoonful. The other diners grunted in agreement.
All of a sudden, he felt tired. His eyelids began to droop, but before they shut completely, he noticed a group of waiters setting up the dining room for service. Strange, he thought. Then there was a crash. A fellow diner slid off their chair and onto the floor. Then another. Then him.
While lying on the concrete, he saw the man with the blue suit and shiny cufflinks approaching. The chef came out to meet him, and the two stood above the pile of bodies in the middle of the restaurant.
“Ready to make history?” the man in the suit asked.
The chef nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“But do you really think they’ll taste like truffles?”
The chef shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.”
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