The Dinner Appointment

 

        Trevor Steed made his way down the bustling Seattle main street, to yet another imposing platinum building, and quickly left the hot outside for the cool perfectly controlled temperature of its lobby.

        "May I help you, sir?" came a hoity-toity smug voice.

        Trevor looked up to spy a menacingly tall gentleman dressed in a black tuxedo and sporting a particularly fetching platinum bow tie, perched on a podium, looking down his exceedingly long nose at him. Trevor felt the sweat under his armpits beginning to build up, and was glad that he had doubled up on his deodorant three days earlier.

        "Well, I am here for dinner, of course," Trevor triumphantly announced a few moments later, regaining some of his composure.

        "I am afraid that we only take reservations," the man Trevor supposed to be the maitre d' said as a wicked grin permutated over his disturbingly thin lips.

        "But I do indeed have a reservation," Trevor replied as he attempted to flash an equally wicked grin back. However, as Trevor's lips were particularly full and some might say shapely, his expression appeared rather more saucy than menacing.

        "You do? Heavens to Betsy, what is the world coming to? What is your name, sir?"

        "My name is Trevor Steed," Trevor said, sensing victory.

        The maitre d' simultaneously rolled his eyes and yawned. Then, resigning himself, he began to scroll through the reservation book.

        "Ah, yes, I remember you now… You kept calling daily for a reservation, so I finally gave in and made one for you…. Two years in advance. Party of one."

        He looked over his right shoulder and made a peculiar hand gesture. This at once prompted a particularly attractive lady of undeterminable age dressed in what Trevor considered to be a French maid costume to scurry towards him. Trevor made a mental note to remember the hand gesture the maitre d' had signaled provoking such a prompt response.

        "Fifi, will you kindly guide Mr. Steed to our special table? You know, the one we save for guests of his particular caliber, if you will be so gracious."

        Fifi nodded.

        "Follow me please, sir," she said as she set off into the elaborate dining room. Trevor followed, finding it hard to match her pace.

        They sped through the dining room, consisting of dozens upon dozens of neatly manicured tables all neatly wrapped in platinum colored table cloths. At the tables sat impeccably dressed diners sipping from oversized platinum goblets and gorging themselves using platinum silverware. Trevor glanced above him to see brilliantly sparkling platinum chandeliers hanging from the platinum ceiling. He looked up to the side as he continued to speed by, and watched and listened to a small string quintet playing an interpretation of "The Twilight Zone" in three-four time.

        Onward still they went.

        "Almost there," Fifi lied as she swiftly led him from the main dining area through an oversized pair of double swinging doors.

        Moments later, he was ushered past what Trevor could only assume was the employee lounge where various geeky looking people sat about sipping cups of coffee and fervently debating the literary merit of this week's menu update.

        On still they went.

        They continued past the kitchens where short men speaking in a peculiar language agitatedly spoke as they furiously prepared food.

        "Aliens," Trevor realized at once… "It is typical that Philip Maison would use undocumented workers from south of the border."

        Finally Fifi stopped and directed Trevor to a small battered table next to a trash compactor. The grimy table had nothing upon it besides a plastic set of utensils, which seemed, judging by the stains on them, to have been already used at least once.

        "Please sit down," Fifi commanded in a tone of voice Trevor felt compelled to obey.

        Trevor, somewhat exhausted from the unexpected exertion of walking to the table, eased into the chair, which he soon realized was especially wobbly. Stabilizing himself on the grubby table, his sweaty hands encountered a strangely colored sticky substance.

        Trevor considered getting up and leaving, yet the review he had once read written by the highly acclaimed world famous restaurant food critique Marcus Fond repeated in his mind.

        'At the world famous eatery simply known as the Platinum-Notion Brasserie, the cuisine is lovingly prepared by a skilled array of epicurean masters. Dining there is definitely going to change your perception for evermore of how you comprehend the act of consumption.'

        Fifi quickly darted off, leaving Trevor to contend with his sticky hands. He was just having a horrible notion of what might have caused the horrible mess when a sharp coughing sound prompted him to look up…

        Standing next to him there was a short man dressed in a tuxedo that had obviously been originally designed for a taller man, but had been shabbily altered to fit the man's more diminutive frame. This meant that the rise in his trousers fell somewhere between his knees and his waist, and that the top button of the jacket landed just below his belly button.

        "My name is Henry Glutton. Please forgive me… I am normally the dishwasher here, but they asked me to wait on you. Would you care to hear the specials? We have a lovely prix fixe menu tonight for just two-hundred and fifty dollars…"

        He cleared his throat and continued in a voice that rather reminded Trevor of Vincent Price playing the Abominable Dr. Phibes.

        "To start with, we have a delicious soup prepared by D.S.Griffin. He refuses to say what the main ingredient is… Other than it is very fresh. I have had the pleasure of trying the soup myself, and can attest to its full, rich flavor. Although some of the seasoning seemed a little off, but Philippe Maison, our beloved founder, fixed that before serving any of our paying guests. Philippe makes all the food is correctly seasoned before sending it out… You would be surprised what silly errors some of our chefs make… But I , as I so often do, digress. The soup itself is a lovely deep crimson red color.

        "Next we shall be privileged to serve you Harold Dagwood's special salad. It is truly an out-of-this-world experience, I must say. All very imaginably tossed seemingly effortlessly together… It always boggles my mind how often Harold Dagwood invents a new salad, he sometimes devises several recipes in a week. All of them are fantastic, with persistently a few surprising ingredients tossed in for good measure. He always has such colorful, memorable names for his salads. Only last week he presented us with a salad sublimely called "I want my radish back!" which contained eight varieties of radishes all expertly chopped and tossed with a delectable vinaigrette. Harold has his recipes featured in various restaurants all over the world.

        "You are in for a very special treat tonight, if you opt for this meal, as the main entrée is prepared by the genius hands of none other than Philippe Maison himself. Philippe's entrée's are always so profoundly flavored on so many levels. Its perfectly thought out taste will linger on for hours in your mind, and you shall replay eating it often in your mind's eye. His seasoning is faultless. Truly if you have not experienced one of Philippe Maison's sublime creations, you are truly missing out.

        "Dessert this evening is prepared by the renowned short-order chef Ozanne Bois-mort. What Ozanne, has crafted today is a potent and powerful pudding. A pudding guaranteed to pack a punch. Pack a punch with its surprise aftertaste; an aftertaste that lingers. Ozanne's dessert will assault all of your senses. Its presentation will play with your eyes, its smell will loft up your lucky nostrils, you will hear its crisp outer texture snap invitingly as you venture into its soft, velvety, inviting chocolate center with your spoon… and then finally you will experience the incomparable delight of tasting it… Ozanne's desserts were recently served at the Oscars…

        "Finally we have a incredibly special after dinner drink for you to finish the wondrous gastronomic bounty preceding it. Our own proprietary blend of absinthe concocted after years of experimentation by the very talented Jorge. The first sip will surely catch you off guard and perhaps even softly lull you into a false sense of security. The second sip will tantalize you, and make your glass almost beg you to consume more. By the third sip, confusion will be entering your brain… But now your compulsion to drain the glass down your eager throat will be overpowering. And as you do finish the extraordinary last drops, a surprise will rise up to meet you from your very own soul beyond your wildest of dreams…

        "So are you ready for the full Platinum-Notion dining experience?"

        Trevor pulled from his pocket an old leather purse, and clicked it open and peered inside.

        "All I have is ten dollars. What can I get for that?"

        The waiter smiled as he answered.

        "I guess, Mr. Steed, tonight you will be enjoying another house specialty… A healthy portion of humble pie…

 

The end.