Fiction: À La Carte
Navya Jain, FLAME University Class of 2027
The New York winter didn’t just bite this year, it sank its teeth and refused to let go. Peter dug his hands deeper into the jacket pocket and pulled it closer to his chest, the cold sharper than a blade against his skin. Each breath left his lips in a white cloud, and his face had grown paler than usual. He hated going out to work this early in the morning, but he was so close to getting promoted from being a dishwasher to a prep chef, and he couldn’t afford to make a single mistake.
Peter pulled out the pack of cigarettes that he’d been saving from his back pocket and cupped the tip to light it. He slowly dragged a puff, feeling the smoke seep into his body like a warm hug. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, savoring the fleeting silence before the inevitable chaos. From high above, the city seemed so bleak. Streets lined with a mosaic of snow and slush, cars like tiny moving ants caught in a slow march. The only colour that appeared was the flashing red and blue of a police car’s siren, cutting through the stillness like a bleeding wound. Peter read the grand sign from a distance. Bouche Finale, he mouthed softly to himself. He took one final drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing the butt with his foot. He pushed open the large metal door, revealing a hauntingly cold, pristine, and white kitchen.
Peter ran his fingers along the smooth and cold marble countertop. A small smile tugged at his lips at the thought of one day standing here not to clean, but to cook, to create. He rose onto his toes, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the inner kitchen — his ultimate dream — but, as always, came away disappointed. The inner kitchen was reserved for top chefs only. No other staff were permitted inside, and the small window on the door was tinted jet black, like an eyelid blinded to ambition. The cooked dishes were then sent to the plating kitchen. The whole place smelled like bleach, the light overhead was too bright, and even a single hour during rush time made him want to run away somewhere far away and never come back. Yet, he’d rather be here than anywhere else in the world. The other dishwashers were already in their designated positions, ready for the war with their weapons. Peter slipped into his uniform and clean slippers and hurried towards the mountain of cutlery awaiting his attention.
Peter grabbed the ivory-coloured plate from the pile and smiled at his co-workers. They moved rhythmically across the small space: wash, soap, wash, wipe. His eyes searched for Welda in the dimly lit dining area. He figured she might promote him faster if he lingered around her long enough. The kitchen door swung open, revealing the sous chefs, all dressed in off-white uniforms. “New delivery today,” they whispered. “Huge spender last night, everyone’s talking about him.”. Their voice buzzed with hunger and curiosity. The cutlery clanged louder, and he watched the chefs walk across the kitchen, finishing their morning rounds. The talk of a mysterious guest piqued his interest, but he knew better than to let it distract him. He scrubbed hard at a stubborn stain, the soap stinging his already calloused hands. The previous guest spent 5 lakhs, the record breaker must have outdone him. Peter strained to hear the muffled conversations from the pantry room. He didn’t care about whose wallet had bled for this. He was only interested in the new menu. The new masterpiece. The thought of a new dish sent a tremor of heat through him, a sharp contrast to the numbing cold outside. His eyes constantly drifted towards the main gate, awaiting Welda’s arrival. At Bouche Finale, new dishes didn’t appear casually; they were a ritualistic event, celebrated like the birth of a rare flower, whispered about in all of New York’s nooks and crannies.
The door flung open as the short woman stepped in. Her arrival sliced through the chatter in the kitchen. Welda’a sharp eyes surveyed the room as she walked with her hands behind her back. Welda was New York’s best chef, but rumours about her legendary temper and need for precision and perfection were largely true. She could slice apart a steak and a man with equal precision. Bouche Finale was her baby, and she was willing to do anything to protect it. Peter straightened his back instinctively, even though Welda hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction. He pretended to scrub harder as she walked towards the plating kitchen with a brutal grace, stopping now and then to inspect a countertop or run her finger along the knife’s edge. A thin line of red trailed against her pale skin, like a stroke of paint on canvas. Peter watched her blank face, not a hint of annoyance or pain in sight. She stared at the cut in fascination. Perplexed by her reaction, Peter turned towards his coworker. “In this kitchen, blood isn’t a mistake — it’s seasoning,” he joked before getting back to work.
“The new ingredients are here,” the sub chef notified, “the meat has been prepped in the inner kitchen. Ready when you are”. Welda slipped into the inner kitchen, the chefs easing up with her absence. Welda had picked 20 special guests for today’s trial menu. All the invitees had one thing in common: they were a part of New York’s richest lot. Filthy rich businessmen, old royalty, or middle-aged women who had inherited their husbands’ wealth. Money was the commonality. Peter never understood why all these people voluntarily stepped into the dimly lit dining area of Bouche Finale. The practices of the restaurant were no secret to the masses. Yet, every few months, 20 individuals would compete to be the highlight of Bouche Finale’s menu.
Peter lived in a rented apartment in a lane that was often robbed. His room always smelled like fish and turned into a kiln during the summers. Ever since he moved out, he’d been living miserly in exchange for an opportunity to be in Bouche Finale, no matter the job. His lifestyle was significantly different from the 20 guests that were invited, yet he didn’t feel an ounce of envy, just disgust.
At 4 pm, the sign on the front door was promptly changed to “RESERVED.” Welda emerged from the inner kitchen and taped a piece of paper on the wall. Peter squinted to read the swirly cursive from afar. But before he could make out a word, her shrill voice pierced through the kitchen like a hot blade., “We have exactly 4 hours to go. I need all hands on deck. If you’re going to make a mistake, leave. If you can’t handle the chaos, leave. I don’t want hesitation. I don’t want weakness. I don’t need dead weight in my kitchen tonight.” Silence dawned in the room before the kitchen’s pulse changed — faster and louder, like a living thing bracing for blood. Peter stood still for a second, his breath caught in his throat. He watched the shift in atmosphere with awe, the way seasoned chefs seemed to vibrate with urgency. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Welda approaching, her heels crisp against the tile. He quickly turned around to grab a few more dishes. “You’re on today,” she said, stopping behind him. Peter’s eyes widened, “Me?” he asked, barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might undo the moment. Welda looked at him like you look at a child and nodded, I’ve seen you practice after work hours, decent work. Besides, you’ve been hovering long enough; let’s see if you can prove yourself worthy.” His mouth opened, but no words came out. His throat locked up, gripped by a nervousness so sharp it felt like swallowing glass. “Yes, Chef,” he spat the words out in a frenzy.
Peter quickly changed out of his white uniform to a blue one worn by the other sous chefs. He walked towards the small piece of paper scribbled with the names of today’s top 3 dishes — “Jackie Bras”, “Jackie Jambe”, “Jackie cœur”. Jackie had been last month’s event’s winner. Which meant that he had the honour of being this event’s main course. Peter grabbed the recipe slips from the counter and grabbed a pan to prep the sauce for “Jackie Bras.” Peter had watched the other chefs do this hundreds of times. He’d spend half his monthly allowance buying the ingredients to practice this over and over at home. He could do it in his sleep now. Welda stopped behind him and pulled out a spoon from her apron to taste it. Peter held his breath in anticipation. “Not bad,” she declared, “come with me.” Welda stopped in front of the inner kitchen and said, “This room is a sanctuary. One mistake and I’ll make sure you never set foot in a kitchen again.” Peter gulped nervously at the thought of being restrained to the dishwashing bay his whole life. He nodded and stepped inside the room he’d dreamt of day and night.
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He’d spent countless nights imagining what this room would look like. Bright white with metal shelves to store the meat, or pitch black with dim lighting and the pungent smell of meat. He could not have been more off. But standing there now, just past the black door frame, he realized how laughably wrong he’d been. The sweet smell of honey and lemon hit him the second he stepped in. The walls were lined not with tiles but rich mahogany panels, giving the space an unsettling warmth, like a funeral parlour dressed in culinary disguise. A chandelier made solely out of silver utensils hung overhead, and the knives lay cushioned on a velvet pillow. Large boxes were labelled with the names of the previous event winners — Lara, Charles, Robert, and then Jackie. The newest addition. Peter shivered as the soft hums of the cooler filled the 4 walls. This kitchen was the stark opposite of the one outside, and it almost felt like a tale from Narnia.
Welda swiftly moved towards the counter and pulled out the large box labelled “Jackie,” and placed it delicately on the slab. “This is Jackie, founder of Muebel Co. He devoted himself last week. Our finest cut so far. We have to do our best with this one,” she said, her eyes piercing through him. Peter stared at it. Not in disgust or fear. But in awe. It looked like any high-grade meat he had seen. Smooth, rich in color, faintly fragrant with citrus and salt. But the name — “Jackie” — lingered at the base of his throat like a lump. A man. A life. Now reduced to a recipe card and the praise of Michelin stars. “We’ve segregated the meat into 3. Slice it into thin strips,” she instructed. Peter grabbed the knife, his hands shaking as he pulled out a piece of meat. “You need to move fast. Respect the ingredient. But don’t fear it,” Welda snapped. Peter sliced and cooked the meat exactly like he’d practiced with the other meats, countless times. He glazed the meat with honey-thyme reduction and dusted it with powdered blood orange rind. Welda said nothing, just stood beside him, arms crossed, her eyes cold and unreadable. Peter plated the final dish and passed it to her, she analysed it for what felt like forever before taking the smallest bite. Then whispered, “You’re one of us now”.
Peter didn’t sleep that night. Welda had let him stay in the inner kitchen throughout the event. The grease from the meat still lingered on his skin. He’d wanted this for so long, and now that he had it, it felt different. He thought he’d feel disgusted and scared, instead, the thought of power kept him up. He stayed up all night practicing with various meats. He wanted to be the best. He wanted what Welda had. The next morning, a new name appeared on the board. Peter found himself staring at it, searching not for the donor but for the dishes. He thought about how willingly these people entered the restaurant. Some smiled as they entered. Some even cried with joy. They weren’t victims. They were offerings. And Peter still couldn’t understand why. Over the weeks that followed, Peter was given more responsibilities. He prepped sauces, learned knife work, and even helped dress the tables on the nights of sacrifice. He watched the guests, the wealthy, the arrogant, the dying, walk into the dining room with reverence, as if entering a temple. One man handed Welda an envelope and whispered, “Make me matter” before making his way to the main dining room.
Months passed by, and Peter spent most of his day in the inner kitchen even if there wasn’t an event to prep for. He’d watch Welda cook for hours in the kitchen, shadowing her movements when he got back home. His small furnace of an apartment grew smaller and smaller by the day as he gathered more ingredients. The next day, while observing Welda skillfully slice a thigh, he gathered to courage to ask, “Why do they do it?” The question had been plaguing him for years, but he knew better than to question the system. But today, as he sat a chair away from Welda, taking notes in his spiral notebook, he felt closer to her. Closer to the power. She didn’t answer for a long time. Then, finally, looked up and said, “Because this is the only place where being devoured feels like legacy. Sacrifice is an art.” Peter chewed on these words for days. He stopped sleeping, stopped eating, but his dishes got better. And bloodier.
One night, as Peter stood in his kitchen, a box of chicken placed in front of him. He watched the crispy corners of the chicken and the oil pooling in the container. He’d been trying to replicate the exact look of the chicken, making sure every cut was intentional and perfect. He no longer cooked to eat. A folded napkin beside him was scribbled with portions and plating notes stolen in glances from Bouche Finale. Every oil droplet, every speck of cracked pepper, mirrored something he’d seen Welda do. And yet, something still felt missing. He grabbed a spoon from the pile of dirty dishes and quickly rinsed it. The sauce was fine, balanced. But still lacked the perfection he yearned for. He’d watched customers in Bouche Finale weep as they swallowed the tender flesh of the rich. He wanted someone to cry after eating his food. He wanted their mouths to tremble, their pupils to dilate, and their brain chemistry to change. Peter stared at the glinting blade dangling in the corner. His fingers have hovered over it for weeks now. He examined his fingers, so familiar and tender. He bit his lip nervously as he placed his hand on the cutting board. He rested the blade against the soft pad of his pinkie. Just a graze, he told himself. Just to know. He drew in a sharp breath and pushed down.
Peter winced as the blood dripped down his finger. He grabbed a towel to cover the wound, safely keeping aside the small piece of meat. With a shaky hand, he dropped the sliver of flesh into a sizzling pan of butter, garlic, and sage. The scent bloomed in the air, richer than anything he had ever made. He stared at his creation for a long moment. He picked up the fork placed next to him, the towel now painted red around his hand. He brought the meat close to his mouth and bit a small piece. His heart raced as he chewed on it. His eyes closed. A small, involuntary moan left his lips. He stood in the glow of the buzzing bulb for a long time, chewing in silence. Peter slept like a baby that night, a smile plastered across his face.
The next day, he moved around with frantic energy. No one cared enough to ask about why his left hand was covered with bandages. He prepped three dishes and slipped tiny bits of himself into each — nothing noticeable, just the inner part of his thigh or a toe. Nothing that would raise eyebrows. He was still able to walk, talk, and clean normally. Welda didn’t question him either, partly because she didn’t care or notice. The guests that night left larger tips and fuller than usual. Their voices echoing in the hallway, “There was something different tonight. Something warmer.” Peter kept going. Each day, a little more. A deeper cut. He started documenting his portions like a scientist, tracking his pain, his loss, his gain. It was simple math: the less of him that remained, the more of him they loved. “You’re looking skinnier than usual,” Welda said. He’d cut too much, drained out too much. The cuts on his arms were getting more evident every day. People never took notice of him earlier, but this time, they knew. “I’ve been working hard,” he replied. Welda raised an eyebrow and looked at him with suspicion. “You know what we do here. You’ve seen how we honour devotion. But you’re not supposed to join the menu. You’re meant to prepare it.” Peter’s crazed eyes wandered around the kitchen, his breathing laboured, “I was nothing before this kitchen. I want to be remembered. Sacrifice is the greatest art at Bouche Finale, and I want to be the greatest.” Welda slowly walked closer to him, her hands behind her back, “You have nothing. Why are you offering yourself?”. Peter grinned devilishly, “People love it. But I’m not leaving just yet. Just one more dish. One more perfect dish.” Welda nodded once and replied, “Don’t die in my kitchen unless it’s on purpose.” She left the kitchen and made her way out of the restaurant.
Peter began to carve out recipes on the walls of his apartment. He measured ingredients in ounces of skin, pinches of cartilage, and cups of blood. He rationed everything in containers, mixed them with preservatives, and labelled them. A body part for each day of the week. He walked around like a ghost now, his eyes sunken, face pale white, and thin stick-like arms under his now black apron, just like Welda’s. On the night of the next event, Welda stuck the menu, a small white piece of paper, on the wall like she did habitually. “James Bras”, “James Jambre”, “James cœur”
Peter watched the dishes get plated and then served to the invitees. The room smelled smoky and metallic. The guests devoured the meal with reverence. Someone cried with joy. He watched from the dark windows of the inner kitchen and quietly walked home. The triumph and power he felt today overpowered the sharp agony that he felt with each step. He locked his apartment door and studied the last note in his recipe book: The heart. Served with Red Sauce and Cream. The next morning, the other sous chefs found his black apron folded neatly outside the inner kitchen. Welda read the note attached to the apron, expressionless. She simply turned towards the other sous chefs and said, “New menu tonight.” 2 hours later, the white piece of paper returned with changed contents.
“Peter Cuisse”
“Peter Jambre”
“Peter cœur”
