Fugu
Chapter 1
The act of cooking is like no other, akin to a stage play written by a skilled playwright, and acted out by talented performers, the chef conducts a beautiful and hypnotic performance commanding the ingredients to perform according to his will.
Fugu, however, is a dangerous pursuit. It is a dance between life and death, and as grim as it seems, this is the truth. A degree of patience and precision is needed to remove the toxin from the organ. A chef must place his knife softly on the underside of a blowfish, careful not to set off a trap– lest he wants to unleash a bloom of purple mist.
What was once a gift to a person has now become a gamble. A gamble between the beauty and the macabre.
An unspoken promise is made between the cook and the consumer. A promise like that of a prayer. On that fateful evening a prayer went unanswered, a seat wasn’t stood up from, and like a moth to a flame, a light ever so silently ceased.
…
The kitchen air that used to smell like home, nascent to the scent of blueberry pie he smelled often as a child began to vanish little by little. An aura of dread and uneasiness took its place. The beautiful spring cherry blossoms bloomed brightly, but they remained unseen — his vision was focused on the pristine tiling of the kitchen floor. A classical requiem played through a golden gramophone in the corner of the kitchen. It brought him no relief, no soothing — only contemplation. The fish he used to love smelling smelled rotten, and everything he touched grew black with mold. It wasn’t the same anymore — cooking, that is. A door opened which rang a bell that used to bring in the excitement of new orders, and the flow of creativity, but now only fear, anxiety, and trepidation. He looked.
Oh, it’s Sherley, he thought.
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“Hello chef. It’s that time of the month again!” She spoke with young excitement. “The critics are here to review our latest dish. I can’t wait to read the papers on Monday morning!”
“Alright, thank you,” he said. “I’ll be out momentarily. Thanks chef.”
His hands shaked slightly, endlessly. He took a few deep breaths to ease the anticipation. He peered towards the dish for one last check. It wasn’t a complicated dish. It was a baked salmon with lemon and herbs. It was meant to replace fugu, The Golden’s previous signature dish. The salmon when baked became a savory brownish color with charred grill marks that gave the salmon its taste and texture. Drops of lemon accentuated the flavor, and added to the dish’s presentation. The herbs were placed by the side alongside a few lemon slices. Tonight was the dish’s debut. He balanced the plate in the palm of his head, grabbed two glasses of champagne, and went to present the final meal of the night.
He approached the table, and set the dish down in front of the critics. The scent of cooked salmon filled the room. They each took a bite one by one. He analyzed every detail of their expressions. Each passing second was agonizing, and endless. Sweat coalesced on his forehead.
The critic finished chewing, and swallowed. He thought for a moment.
“It’s okay.” The other two finished as well.
“I am in agreement. It’s not amazing, but it’s not bad either.”
“I would say it’s quite serviceable.”
Quite serviceable, he thought. Quite serviceable. What does that even mean? I’ve only ever received perfect reviews. His palms began sweating, and his heart pumping. He didn’t know whether to be angry or depressed. He balled his fists in silence, and words of the critics swarmed his mind like viscous wasps. Each word stung what was left of his confidence.
“Thank you for the feedback,” he said. He smiled kindly. His mask loosened — almost falling off entirely. His identity gone, shriveled. A void opened, and he had no idea how to refill it. He went home soon after without speaking to one soul. Upon waking up he had several voicemails on his phone. One was from his boss, he had been let go. The other two were from inquisitive coworkers. He had no answers to give. There was nothing to say. He sank. He stared at the ceiling. It was Saturday morning at the beginning of spring, but it felt like winter in his mind. His name is Ven Piscus, and the chase of perfection had eluded him.
