Haute Cuisine
We only serve the best. The outside of the building may not be much to look at, but once you get inside our doors – assuming you know of our existence – you will step into a palace. Look around – it’s hard to clearly see the couples at the tables. The light is dim because the candles at each table are short and they are housed in pebbled antique glass. We use mirrors instead of wallpaper, but you cannot see yourself in them because of the dim lighting. All you can see is a glimpse of flashing jewelry here, perfectly white capped teeth above a diamond stickpin there.
We are very private. The only people who eat here are people like you, who can spend twelve thousand dollars on a gourmet meal, people who don’t mind making reservations a year in advance and supplying us with tissue and gamete samples. Such people don’t like to be looked at unless they are paying the person doing the looking. We know, because you have told us.
Your meal costs twelve thousand dollars. Included in the cost of your meal is the cost for your waiter. Each waiter has only one table. He stands not more than three feet from your table, always ready to serve all your needs. He is also always naked. He has gone through a training program specifically for our restaurant.
At this table are some of our regular customers. He is an investment banker, she is a lawyer. That is their waiter. Watch how he stands in the shadows just outside the circle of light. Patrons cannot see his face, but they can sense his presence and see his legs just outside their peripheral vision, and they can see his dangling towel. He wears nothing, but carries the towel at all times. All of our waiters have bow-tie tattoos around their necks. This gives them an air of servitude, but does not compromise their nakedness.
Watch how the couple laughs. Look how much they enjoy the wine. We have both red and white pressed specially for us. If you like, you may take the label home with you as a reminder.
Look at the dining man. It is plain that he has recently gone to a hairstylist. Maybe he has a full-time hairdresser. Maybe the hairdresser is waiting in the bathroom to touch up his fabulous hairstyle if a few strands fall out of place. Look at his teeth. Maybe he has a dentist on staff to keep them pearly white. Look at the woman with him. Maybe she goes to the same dentist. Look at her lips. As she talks, the gloss does not move. There are no lip prints on her glass. She must have very expensive lipstick.
What is she saying? A friend of theirs purchased a new car. It is a Rolls Royce. She tells the man that she believes the shade of silver that their friend has chosen for the interior leather upholstery is a bad choice. She takes a sip of wine. Watch carefully.
She clears her throat. The waiter steps forward into the flickering candlelight. His chest hair glints in the candlelight. “Mum?” he asks plaintively. All the waiters say “Mum.” “Ma’am” is a very nasal word; it is one that we feel is discordant in our atmosphere. Some women dislike the word “ma’am” because of the age implied in the word.
All men are called “Sir.”
We do not ask for your name. We do not want to know what it is. You may not pay for your meal with a credit card or a check; we insist that you pay for your meal with cash. In some cases, diners are famous enough to be recognized, but we will never use their names. We value our patrons’ anonymity very highly.
Our “Mum” begins by saying the name of her waiter. Each waiter states his name several times as he leads you to your table and seats you. Each table has only one waiter, breeding familiarity. Her saltshaker is empty. She asks Stanley, their waiter, to fetch a new one for her. She uses that word: “fetch.” She calls Stanley a derogatory name and spits at his feet. Since the floor has been sullied, he will have to get a sponge and wash the hardwood in their presence, before dessert is served. After issuing her request, she moves her hands, bending them quickly at the wrists and making a swift brushing movement, as one would shoo away a fly.
“Yes, Mum,” he says, and scuttles into the darkness. This is one way you might want to remember him: towel draped over his arm, bow-tie tattoo around his neck, scuttling into the darkness to get more sea salt. He does not walk into the darkness. He does not meander. He certainly does not mosey. The “Proper Scuttling” portion of the staff-training period takes a long time, to ensure that when your waiter scuttles, he will be very unobtrusive.
You may not touch the waiters. You may not hit them with anything.
It is possible that there may be some concern on the part of our patrons as to the cleanliness and non-contamination of the food, considering the naked waiters and the fact that the board of health is unaware of our existence. This is not a problem. Every waiter must shave his genitalia. In addition, we have taken every advisement in the Health Board Handbook and magnified it tenfold to meet our exacting standards. All of our chefs are fully clothed. In our employee bathroom, there is a sign above the sink, next to the mirror. The sign reads “ALL WAITERS MUST WASH THEIR HANDS AND GENITALS BEFORE RETURNING TO THEIR WORK STATIONS.” We have two-tiered sinks in the employee washrooms for just this purpose. We provide antibacterial soap.
Stanley has returned with another saltshaker. He clears his throat and slowly approaches the table, where he places the new shaker next to the old one, which he picks up. The woman thanks him. Listen to her voice. Listen to her laugh. She has either been raised in the upper class of New England or has gone to speech classes to sound that way. She is using her salad fork to eat her entrée, so the latter case is probably the correct one.
We burn all of the unused meat, as well as all bones and waste returned by patrons, in our special waste-disposal oven. Not a scrap of meat or bone remains. There is only a very fine ash, and that can reveal nothing.
We employ our own butchers. All of our butchers do their work in the back of the restaurant to ensure that the meat is its freshest. To become a member of our staff, a butcher or cook not only has to possess a diploma from a well-esteemed culinary school, but he must also – on his own time – prove to us his proficiency carving our trademark animal, either his own or provided by patrons who have canceled their reservations.
Lest you worry about negative publicity, let me inform you that our little restaurant has enjoyed the patronage of two United States Presidents, seventeen state Governors, two Prime Ministers, and more than a thousand lesser Heads of State. They have a vested interest in keeping our business in a low profile. Many of them are also regular customers.
Once we have your genetics on file, you no longer have to give us tissue samples to make a reservation. The gametes you provide will retain their quality for an average of ten years, at which point you will have to resubmit samples.
It is required that you make your reservations a year in advance. This is to ensure the proper aging of your meal.
If, at any point after making reservations, you cancel them, you will be charged the full twelve thousand dollars. We regret this necessity, but once we begin preparing your meal when you make your reservation, there are many costly steps that must be completed.
Many of our patrons say that they taste like veal. Others claim the flavor resembles that of incredibly tender chicken, only slightly gamier. In any case, our dining area is filled with contented smiles at the end of every evening. Even Stanley’s “Mum,” who earlier spit at his feet and called him names, is reclined in her chair. She rests easy. The carcass on her plate has been picked clean. Stanley has buffed the sullied floor. Whenever she catches his eye, she smiles at him. We have never had a patron complain.
Won’t you join us?