Short Story / In Good Taste (Analysis)

The warm aroma of vegetables sautéed in fine olive oil surrounded a swarthy, dark haired, young man who wore an apron, a well-tailored suit, and the kind of grin that only anticipation of sexual congress can bring.

He was in a steel forest of cookware and well-honed cutlery so expensive that only professional chefs or pretentious bastards would bother to purchase any of it. He grasped a tomato with a hand and an arm that were contorted un-naturally by paralyzation. His other, very well-formed hand held a sharp knife that moved in a blur so deftly and rapidly that the young man had to be either a chef or a robot.  Robots generally don’t have to be mindful of the proximity of their raging erections to open flame and hot oil, so a chef he will be called.

He introduced himself to people as Paul Rubens, which after he discovered why some people insisted on calling him “Pee Wee,” and snickering, he realized was only slightly less embarrassing than his given name. He could easily imagine his parents stoned, and trying desperately to keep a straight face as they filled out his birth certificate. Who names their child after a lunch meat?

Ah, Pastrami Rubens! An invocation which when uttered at the wrong time produced embarrassment and disaster, but at the right time, conjured the laughter which is integral to seduction. Seduction was much on his mind; he was cooking for a pretty lady tonight. The fact that one of his arms was horribly withered and deformed never interfered with his belief in good food, wine, and wit for inducing the most over-whelming desire in any woman.

Paul picked up another tomato to wedge into his paralyzed hand, and saw that the hand was bleeding profusely. With practiced motions he opened a cupboard, pulled out a first-aid kit, and with teeth and his good hand, tightly bandaged his wounded hand. He was less worried about his injury, and more worried that being forced to work with one hand would slow down his bouillabaisse.

Fortunately, his date was late, giving him enough time to finish and clean himself up. She knocked softly on the door, and Paul opened it. Her entrance was heralded by a perfect pair of double-D cups, after which followed a petite, but shapely and wide-hipped body, ruled by a long face topped with a straightened mess of bottle-black hair. She wore stylish but non-functional black rimmed glasses, and a diamond nose-stud that she thought looked rebellious. Paul watched her ass as it walked into the room. She was yammering on about something, but he didn’t care much; he was entranced by the dimpled place on her back just where it met her hips.

”...were like, no way! And I was like, ‘I don’t give a damn!’ And look, Pauly, I got a tattoo!” She raised her pants leg to reveal a small design on her ankle.

“Uh, yeah, that’s a really nice flower.”

“It’s a butterfly, silly!”

“Yeah, I know that. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Did you know that in some cultures butterflies are…” Blah, blah, blah, whatever.

“Yeah, babe, I’m sure you’ll be unemployable for the rest of your life.”

“I know, right! Like, I’m sure I’ll be able to work at…” She was still talking as Paul led her, with his good hand on the small of her back, to her seat.

The food was delicious, a fact which the empty-headed broad across from him was probably oblivious to.  The pleasure of eating good food had inspired Paul to seek formal training as a chef, when he realized that most food did not live up to his standards.

Paul casually rested his knee against her thigh as she talked, and talked, and God would she ever shut up? He smiled and nodded, and chuckled softly at her asinine witticisms.

”...and this is just, like, all so wonderful, Pauly!”

The moment was at hand. “What would you say if I told you I’ve been lying to you since we met?” Paul’s lips twitched as he barely concealed a smile, and he took the girl by the hand.

A small squeal leapt from her mouth, and she said, “Oh! You wouldn’t!”

Paul cupped her face with his good hand, “I have though. Paul is not my real name.”

“Well… what is it then?”

“Pastrami. Pastrami Rubens.”

A small frown puckered her lips, and her brow crinkled for a moment, and the thought flitted across Paul’s mind that his seduction of this delicious looking creature may have failed when he taxed her mind with such an elaborate pun. This passed quickly though, and a smile and a laugh brightened her dim features as she lay her hand against his chest. “Oh stop teasing, Pauly!”

Paul quickly kissed her on the lips, then sat back with a large grin and a hearty laugh as he knew that he would be able to hump her any which way he pleased after dinner. He picked up his spoon again, and took another bite of his bouillabaisse.

Paul was surprised by a morsel of something in his mouth that was not any ingredient which he had put into the sea-food stew. It was not crab, or fish, though it was definitely a meat. It was sweet, rich, flavorful without being gamey, and just a little fatty. He quickly searched through his bowl with his spoon looking for another bit of delicious flesh that may have infiltrated his stew.

Paul glanced at his bandaged, paralyzed, hand. He saw a small spot of red blood that had seeped through the thick dressing. He knew where the tastiest piece of meat he’d ever consumed had come from.

“Hey Pauly, are you, like, okay?”

“Uh, yeah. I mean no. I’m not okay, babe. I’ve got a headache, you’d better head out.”

“Huh? You mean, like, leave? We’re having such a good time.” she whined, and slumped in her chair.

Paul roughly grabbed her by the hand and started to drag her to the door. He snatched her purse up and shoved it into her hands as she said, “But, Pauly, I thought we could have, like, dessert after dinner.”

He continued to drag her, “I thought you were on a diet.”

“No! I meant, like, yaknow, dessert.”

“Yeah, babe, maybe next time alright. I’ll call you.” Paul shoved her out the door and closed it. He heard a muffled scream of frustration in the hallway, but didn’t care much.

He knew that in polite society, if one ingested a piece of oneself, one was obligated to be disgusted. It was probably the only situation in which vomiting was considered to be proper etiquette. Paul wasn’t even as off-put as if he’d farted in an elevator. It was damned good food.

He went into the bathroom to get better light, and removed the bandage from his hand. The knife had cleanly sliced a strip of skin and muscle from the base of his thumb. The lack of pain made the wound look like a chunk of pork in a butcher’s display case, raw and fibrous, though it was twitching slightly with his pulse, and still oozing blood.

He had to be sure. He went to the kitchen, sliced off another small bit of his hand, re-bandaged it, then fried up the slice like a piece of bacon. He could tell from the aroma as he cooked it was the same. It smelled and tasted delicious: the best food he’d ever had, even simple and unadorned. Other meats needed sauces, rubs and marinades to complement and bring out their full flavors, but this was perfection.

Paul went to bed early, visions of recipes dancing through his head: roast Paul on a bed of spinach… after a moment of contemplation he realized he should use his birth name. Roast Pastrami on a bed of spinach, Pastrami quiche with squash and red bell peppers, even a humble Pastrami on rye.

A small portion of his mind and penis regretted not getting laid, but he realized that… what’s-her-name would never have understood when he sliced off a bit of himself and fried it up. He had an urge to get up and have a bit of himself for a snack, but it wouldn’t have fit into his diet. He giggled at the realization that he couldn’t gain weight from eating himself. The decision was made for him as he drifted off to sleep with a smile.

Paul entered his restaurant, “Oddities,” through the kitchen, in a serious mood. This wasn’t anything unusual.  He liked running a restaurant, but he took his work very seriously. His prep-cooks and sous-chefs were slicing, chopping and baking in preparation for the night’s menu. Employees that had been around for a while may have glanced at his hand, but did not pause in their work. Newer ones, especially those who thought they might impress Paul through means other than good cooking attempted to greet him with a “Hi, Paul,” or, “Paul, what happened to your hand?” These he ignored, sometimes with a glare warning the employee to get back to work.

One pretty young prep cook actually left her task to flirtatiously hold Paul’s injured hand gingerly, as though he could feel it. She exclaimed predictably, “Paul what happened to your hand?” and made a sickeningly sweet “awww” sound.

Paul replied, “I was in a knife fight with the last prep cook who left her station. You can take a break at your scheduled time, and I hope for your job’s sake that you choose not to use it to bother me.”

She dropped his hand and started to stammer something apologetic.

“Move.”

She ran back to her cutting board, turning a rather pleasing shade of crimson. It’s not that Paul wasn’t attracted to her, he just only had one rule regarding sex: no sex between kitchen staff, including himself. He had no illusions that this rule actually prevented his employees from humping each other like little dumb bunnies, but it kept them working while at work. On occasion when employees were caught making the beast with two backs, or even flirting too much while they should be working, one or both would be fired, or demoted to wait staff for a period if they were actually talented. He made a point of hiring on the best young chefs and paying them well, so the sexual fervor that destroyed productivity in many other kitchens was kept to a minimum.

He donned his apron and chef’s hat and checked to make sure that his cooking area was properly cleaned, and that his knives and tools were well ordered. His job largely consisted of creating the menu and quality control: tasting sauces and cooked meats and vegetables prepared by his staff to make sure they weren’t screwing up. However, one of the reasons that his restaurant was successful was that he advertised one dish on the menu as being, “created and prepared by the legendary P. Rubens.” It was different every night, and prohibitively expensive, but known for being delicious and unusual: the reason why he’d named the restaurant “Oddities.” On routine nights he only had to cook a few orders, and had underlings do the chopping and slicing that he needed.

Paul settled into his familiar routine. He sampled dishes and barked orders, gave quiet rebukes and loud praise, stepped in when he felt it was necessary, and cooked a couple of orders. He was about to have someone close up his area of the kitchen when one of the waitresses weaved her way past scalding sauces and flying blades towards him.

“What do you want?” Paul dropped the pan he’d been carrying onto the counter with exaggerated force.

The waitress had been around for a while and knew to ignore such theatrics. “Ya got a special order, Paul.”

“Who’s it for?”

“A real pretty lady, said you’d recognize her name: Susan Shiro-something.”

“What’s she want?”

“She said, ‘Surprise me.’”

“I’ll make her something. Don’t take any other orders until hers is done; I don’t want it sitting under the lamps for a moment. I’ll make up for the tips you lose, and a bit extra. Now get the hell out of my kitchen!” he barked.

“Thanks, Paul!”

It was not unusual to receive special orders from food critics, or rival chefs, usually for something unusual or hard-to-cook to show off or gauge his skills. Paul did, in fact, recognize the name Susan Shironeko, as one of the few food critics that he enjoyed reading. Most food critics seemed to be hired based on their skill at finding creative and humorous ways to demean chefs and censure creativity, but Ms. Shironeko seemed to be able to judge the real value of a dish, regardless of its orthodoxy, or lack there-of. He enjoyed her scathing criticisms of restaurants that were popular despite serving lackluster food.

“Surprise me,” she’d said. Paul remembered the night before, the sweet and savory meat. He took a very sharp filleting knife and walked into the large  refrigerator. He held the knife at a low angle against the insensate flesh of his paralyzed fore-arm. It was a strange feeling, seeing the knife pressed against flesh that he knew was his own.  The small amount of pressure he was placing on it dimpled his skin, but he had no way of knowing just how much pressure would break the skin’s tension, allowing the blade to slice through the tissues beneath.

Abruptly, Paul realized that he couldn’t possibly serve a slice of his arm to Ms. Shironeko; it wasn’t shaved, and he didn’t have a first-aid kit handy. He withdrew the knife, and saw a thin red line welling up where the blade had pressed against his skin. Seeing a drop of blood without feeling pain distanced him from the feeling that the arm belonged to him, nevertheless, it was not prepared properly for consumption.

Paul selected a lamb cutlet from the meat locker. He fried it in a mango and red chili sauce, and laid it thinly sliced over rice noodles. It smelled good enough that he made a portion for himself as well.

He sent the order out. Just as he started eating, the waitress returned.

“Hey, Paul, she said she wanted you to eat with her, and if you refused, she’d let the food get cold.”

“You tell Miss Shironeko that I’dve liked to give her an interview, but if she’s going to try to push me around, she can make a lambsickle and suck on it for all I care.” He cut into his own lamb and ate a piece: it was delicious.

The waitress left, but returned a minute later.

“I thought I made myself clear…” Paul said.

“She says she’s sorry, that the food is excellent, and she’d still like an interview.”

“You tell her…”

The waitress interrupted Paul, “Come on, stop acting like a kid and just go eat with her. I told you she’s real pretty.”

“I thought all female restaurant critics were fat.”

“Well, she’s not. She’s kind of exotic.”

Paul took his plate to the dining room. He spotted Ms. Shironeko immediately. She didn’t look like any Japanese woman he’d seen before. She was tall, extremely dark-skinned, but with a very Japanese heart-shaped face and almond eyes, straight black hair in a bun with chop-sticks, but with a wide-hipped and full-breasted figure that was accented and concealed by a well-cut business suit. Except for her height, she was Paul’s ideal build, and her exotic features more than made up for that flaw.

Paul approached her table and extended his hand, warmly smiling, “Ms Shironeko, welcome to Oddities.”

She stood and accepted his handshake firmly, “Thank you, Mr. Rubens, I’d enjoy if you called me Susan; my family name is a mouthful.”

“Okay, Susan, you can call me Paul.” He let his fingers linger on hers for a moment as their hands separated, and gave her a noticeable up-and-down appraising glance to let her know he was interested. He also saw a rather large engagement ring, but the short pang of jealousy it produced excited him.

They sat down, and Paul opened with, “You’re so beautiful, I’d love to know what race you are.”

Susan stared at him for a moment and replied, “I’d love to know why you’d ask such a rude question,” with a wry smile.

He wasn’t off to a good start, but Paul made a point to never apologize. “Well, what do you think about the food then?”

“It’s probably the best lamb I’ve ever had. I’ll put that into the article, and leave out the rude questions and staring at my breasts as long as you can promise to stop both.”

For the first time since grade school, Paul found himself not knowing what to say to a woman, “Yeah, sure. Um… what’s your article about?”

“I’d thought it was rather obviously to be a review of Oddities.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I’d like to arrange five nights that we’ll have a meal and an interview. I will incorporate the interviews and my views on the food served into a complete review of your restaurant. I’ll make it clear now that I will not be sleeping with you under any circumstances, and I’ll be honest in my reviews of your food. I won’t be a free lay, or free advertising.”

She wants me, Paul thought. He really enjoyed it when women acted like they weren’t attracted to him, and the ball was back in his court. “I never said I wanted to sleep with you. You’re not my type.”

Paul was pleased by the slightly affronted expression on her face. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and seemed to compose herself, smoothing her pants before she started to talk. “I’ve noticed you’ve used a fruit based sauce, and stayed away from the all-too-familiar mint pairing with lamb. Do you often…”

The conversation remained professional and technical for the duration. Paul never ceased in his efforts to strengthen the attraction that he knew Susan felt for him, though he did not use words to do so. He used more effective physical and body language cues; he touched her on the knee, hand, or arm as he spoke, looking into her eyes, never letting himself be the one to break eye-contact, and letting his knee brush lightly against hers. He ended the interview early, as another slight show of dominance.

He left the restaurant feeling restless, the kind of mood usually caused in him by unfulfilled desire for a woman. However, when he checked his voice mail and found that he’d been called by the girl he’d rejected the night before (her name, it turned out, was Karen), he didn’t bother to return the call, or even really feel the desire to screw her.

When he got to his apartment and opened the door, he glanced into the kitchen and could hear the steel whisper of razor-sharp blades sibilantly hissing at him. He realized that he had known what he really wanted since he’d left work.

Paul went into the bathroom, and shaved his paralyzed arm. In the kitchen, the time that had passed between slicing the first curling strip of flesh from his fore-arm, and devouring the last bite of a PLT sandwich, had sped by in a blurred frenzy of cooking and eating.

He tore off the bandage that he’d applied sloppily before making the sandwich, and grabbed a knife he’d carelessly left lying on the counter. His hand was shaking slightly as he hacked into his fore-arm, for the first time in years heedless of the presentation of the cut of meat he was serving. He dropped the knife in surprise as a pulse of arterial blood sprayed him in the eyes, and cursed as he felt a sharp pain in his foot. He stumbled around his kitchen, banging noisily into hanging pots and pans, and cursing furiously as he tried to wipe the blood from his eyes and search for the first aid kit, his one good hand not quite up to either task.

He began to feel light-headed, and could not tell how much time had passed. He drunkenly realized that his face was planted firmly into the marble floor, his nose undoubtedly broken, and something large and awkward was uncomfortably pinned underneath his torso. Paul felt consciousness fading as he hoped he didn’t bleed to death; he was still hungry.

When Paul woke up, he heard his alarm clock screeching in his bed-room, but it was not the wail of that ugliest of Sirens that had woken him up, but his bone-dry mouth. It was not until he’d managed to stand on unsteady legs, and shove his mouth under the kitchen sink’s faucet that he began to wonder how he’d survived.

He woozily plopped down on a chair in the dining room to inspect himself. His shirt was dark and stiff with dried blood, and a clean line of bright red on his arm showed where he’d cut himself, and was surrounded by crusted brown blood. He had fallen on his arm with enough pressure to seal the wound. His nose was numb, and felt stuffed up, but his foot was the only thing which caused him pain, with a nasty gash through his shoe where the knife had fallen.

He wobbled into the kitchen and started to bandage his arm, noticing that it was flexing slightly, but not at a joint. He rolled the sleeve up, and saw that the upper arm was bruised and swollen all around its circumference: obviously broken. He stumbled to the bathroom, and once he was able to get his eyes to focus properly, could see that his nose was swollen, and that he had two black eyes. He needed to get to the E.R.

He picked up the phone, dialed the “9” button, and then hung up. He could not think of a way to explain his injuries without having the doctors call the police. He didn’t know if eating himself was illegal, and didn’t really want to test it. Paul called his most experienced sous-chef and told her that she was in charge for the evening.

He lazed around his apartment for a couple of days. He ate ravenously, and drank a lot of water. The restaurant called several times, and Paul had to deal with some minor problems, but overall it was running well enough without him, so he wasn’t worried about his employees screwing up too much.

Paul was worried about his arm. When he changed his bandages, his wounds were red, puffy, and oozing a yellow fluid. Angry red streaks ran under the skin up his arm until they blended with the bruising that continued to slowly spread around the break in his upper arm, which he couldn’t seem to effectively splint. He needed to call the guy he got pharms from, and see if he could get some penicillin.

When the staff at Oddities called again that night, he was sweating a bit, and feeling light-headed. “Hey, Paul, that Shironeko lady wants to come for the second interview tonight.”

“What did you tell her?” Paul asked.

“I’ve got her on the other line.”

Paul thought about it for a moment, “Tell her I’ll be there.”

He arrived late, his arm obviously bulkily bandaged under his sleeve. Susan was dressed more concealingly, wearing a nice-but-bulky sweater, and a long, thick skirt. She put her glass of red wine down on the table next to a bottle that was still mostly full, and stood to greet him.

As they shook hands, Susan frowned and said, “Jesus, Paul, you don’t look well.”

He replied, “Nah, babe, I’m fine.”

Susan let out an exasperated sigh, and said, “Don’t call me ‘babe’... whatever, let’s just get this over with.”

Paul knew that she just wanted to hurry up and get to the sex with him at the end. He excused himself and got to work. It was after normal closing time, so he kicked the few remaining staff out of the kitchen. When he took the bandage off his fore-arm, it was a mess of oozing puss and blood, so he washed it off, momentarily hypnotized by the swirls of pustulent fluid dancing down the drain. A drop of sweat rolled into the corner of his eye, startling him from his reverie as he wiped it away. He moved back to his work-station and sliced a thin strip from his fore-arm, careful to stay away from the artery, and sautéed it with garlic. When it was done, he served it on a bed of butter lettuce, with a drizzle of a sweet reduction of balsamic vinegar.

When Paul served the dish to Susan, he waited for her to take a couple of bites and said, “So after dinner, your place, or mine?”

Susan almost threw down her fork, “Oh my fucking God, what is wrong with you?” She shook her finger at him, “Don’t you know what this ring means?”

“It means you’re not married yet.” Paul smiled.  Sweat dripped off his chin, and rolled down his neck.

“I can’t believe you. If you didn’t cook so well, I’d call this whole thing off. Can you give up your pathetic attempts at seduction long enough to do an interview? Though you’re looking like you might not live long enough.”

“Sure, babe, whatever.”

“Don’t call me… never mind. What is this meat? It’s delicious.”

“It’s Pastrami.”

“You’re kidding me. It doesn’t taste like any pastrami I’ve had.”

“What would you say if I told you I’ve been lying to you since we met?”

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