I
The Man
The man gets out of the cab with the utmost caution. He pokes his head out slowly, taking in the street, first one direction, then the other, his long nose making him look like a curious bird trying to see out of each eye. He dips his head back in before emerging a moment later, almost instantaneously, on the street, smoothing out his rumpled suit, sweat shining at his temples. He carries a laptop bag, something he seems to highly value as he keeps his hand on it and periodically looks down to check that it is still there.
He approaches a fancy restaurant with valet parking and delicate creeping vines hugging the white stucco. The maitre d ushers him in. The man stops her momentarily and the two redirect their course to the enclosed open-air patio and he nods approvingly. It should be said, from afar, he rather looked like he was going to an interview of life and death. The nervous jerk of his chin when the waiter approaches, the uncontrollably bouncing leg, and continually roving eyes all makes him look like a jackrabbit about to spring away to safety. But the man stays and forces a smile to the waiter, who pretends not to notice the man’s distress.
“What do you recommend?” he says to the waiter, menu wavering in his hand. “I want to have the best meal I’ve ever had. No price limit.” He lets out a shaky laugh as he says it and he calms a little. The waiter responds with enthusiasm, encouraged.
“We have plenty of delectable dishes. My favorite is the Kobe steak with a creamy radish and arugula salad. I also like the acorn squash soup with berry-pistachio coulis. Or there’s the white truffle gnocchi with shaved prosciutto. We have a delicious black truffle scallop sushi…” the waiter trails off as though expecting the man to respond. “Shall I continue?”
The man nods. “Yes, please.”
“We have garlic roasted carrots that make a great side, an orange black pepper swordfish with lemon risotto. Oh! And the ceviche tapas are perfection. I highly recommend them.”
Another moment of expectant quiet passes between them and the light clinking of silverware and sluggish muted road noise fills the space. The man arranges an expression of bravery.
“I’ll have them all.” The waiter blinks.
“Um. You want all of those dishes, sir?”
“Oh yes, please. I think if there’s one time in my life to order everything in sight, it’s today.” He looks at his menu a moment then adds a top shelf cocktail to his order, and a few more extravagant menu items that catch his eye while the waiter feverishly writes them all down. The waiter walks away, still scrawling all the items on a pad, and the man runs up to him and adds another this or that he thinks he’ll try as well, and the waiter nods and tries not to look harried.
II
The Kitchen
In the kitchen, a chorus of astonished laughter rises as the waiter conveys the order.
“For one man!”
The waiter exhales heavily, his shock dissipating into laughter. “One guy,” he says. One of the cooks slips around the cooking stations to the dining room door. “Which one?” he says excitedly.
“On the patio,” the waiter says, “the only one by himself.” The chef has to shuffle forward a ways to see around the corner and onto the patio. And there he was, a mid-weight, middle-aged, mid-height man, unremarkable in all ways except that he is distinctly unremarkable. He hunches slightly over his table, eyes roving over the garden walls as though looking for a quick exit.
“You’d think he’d be a big guy. Or at least a body building type.”
The chef hurries back, fielding criticism from the sous for leaving his post. The waiter hurries past with a water pitcher for his guests. “You have to see it,” the chef says. “Just poke out there. He’s bland and normal and he is buying the biggest meal any single person has bought here of all time.”
The sous grimaces in doubt but steps out of the door to gain a look. She pauses a moment in which the chef holds his breath for more chastisement, but she sticks her head back in with a determined face. “We need to get this man a three-star meal, people!” She slaps her hands together to unsnap the trance they keep falling prey to. What in the world does this man want with ten dishes? Why is he willing to buy all of it when he seems likely to scamper off before they bring anything at all out to him?
III
The Worst Day
The man’s name is Dean. Dean has had a rough day, in fact, perhaps the roughest of his life. He has little money left, little reputation – his last story has seen to that! – and has had at least four attempts on his life in the past week. He knew the things they didn’t want him to know. He had sent word to his editor the struggles he faced and shared scans of the documents that had caused so much trouble. If they knew about the information he’d disseminated, his assassins didn’t care. Killing him would prove nothing but their guilt. But he had also brought them into the spotlight and soon the investigators would start knocking on doors. Retribution must be paid. They still had a reputation to uphold.
Dean doubted he would make it to see justice, for just that afternoon he discovered his brake lines were cut. The attempt on his life was fruitless, seeing that his residential neighborhood was flat and he didn’t hardly press on the gas before noticing the pressure gone from his brake pedal. He steered the car down the street to a stop and got out, abandoned his car, and went straight to the nearest bus station. He had sprinted down the streets, sure that a bullet would whiz by his head. By some miracle he made it to the bus station, panting. He was the only one at the stop, the clear street leaving him vulnerable to attack. Then, as he feared, a bullet thudded into the ground with such force that a plume of dirt shot into the air next to him. He ducked, almost sprinting off again when he saw the bus. It was rounding the corner with a groan. Dean crouched behind the bench the best he could, praying for it to hurry up, peering around cautiously for the assailant. He didn’t see them in the line of trees or on any balconies or the parking lot of the gas station across the street. But another bullet whizzed right above his head. He used every ounce of will to stay where he was. When the bus parked, Dean bolted in.
IV
The Fear
His hands sweaty, Dean picks up his cocktail. The sun shines and refracts through the rosy-colored drink and he makes an effort to bring it to his lips without shaking. It is delicious. He would love to savor it, sip it and let it sit on his tongue, notes making themselves known on one side of the mouth or another before feeling its pleasant warmth reach down him. Instead, he can’t help himself, he downs it in a gulp. He needed to take the edge off. It was not the drink to do it with, but hell, it doesn’t matter right now, does it? His money would soon find new hands anyway, so he might as well spend it while he can.
He orders another drink. And a shot of top-shelf mezcal while he’s at it. He wonders how long it might take to get his food. He does not think he was followed here, but he is also not a spy or man of espionage of any sort. He feels relatively safe in the enclosed patio of the restaurant, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t get to him.
A terrible thought occurs: That he would die right before his food was delivered. His belly hungry, mouth watering at the thought of acorn squash and scallops and kobe beef, only to be snatched from life moments before. It was starting to feel like a very real fear he did not previously anticipate when he walked in, full of desperation and seeking sanctuary. They could be on a rooftop somewhere high above, peering down at him through a scope. They could have a spy dressed as a chef or waiter, ready to stab him in the belly. Hell, they could poison the food if they wanted to (he thought about this a moment before concluding that this wouldn’t be the worst if only he could eat before death). Or they could be in the alley, assembling a molotov cocktail, ready to hurl it onto the red-stone patio, catching umbrellas aflame as it went.
He nervously stands, wiping his palms on his slacks. He makes to go to the bathroom when the waiter approaches. “Is everything OK sir?”
Dean nods, glasses slipping a little on the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, just…bathroom?”
The waiter looks a little alarmed like Dean might be sick. Dean questions for a moment if that were not the case.
“Down that hall and to the left,” he says, and Dean heads that way without a word.
In the bathroom, the light is harsh and makes the paleness in his face more pronounced. He straightens his jacket and tie and dabs at the sweat with a towel. He cannot go into the grave looking like this. He combs his short hair with his fingers, adding a little water to get a particularly stubborn spot to behave.
He hears a shuffle in one of the stalls and goes stiff. He’d thought he was alone, but the slow and steady shifting of clothes is unmistakable, like a serpent unfolding itself from a coil. They found me, he thinks, and leaves the bathroom, a flush echoing in his ears as he hurries away.
He waits around the corner of the bathroom, sure the person who is hunting him will exit to pursue. After a minute, a young man about the age of 20 emerges in an ill-fitting suit and loafers. Dean exhales. This boy is not an assassin. He’s barely a man. Still, he watches as the boy joins his family at a round table, full of people both older and younger than he. The kid laughs at something one of the children said and responds in a funny voice that makes the child giggle. The mother reprimands the child for the high pitched noise. The dad smiles conspiratorially at his daughter and makes a shushing motion with his finger. The daughter pulls her dress up enough to hide her face in it.
Dean watches with a seed of sorrow growing in his gut. He will never have this again. Never again will he see his mother, his sisters, his aunts and uncles, the woman he loves…
As he watches, his stomach growls. It feels like a small miracle that hunger can exist at such a time, but he hasn’t eaten all day since his meager breakfast on the run, and as his eyes lift, he sees his table through the patio doors, full of fresh, steaming food. His mouth waters at the sight. He may not see anyone he knows ever again but he can damn sure have a good meal. The best meal. His last. He will do it for them. He will do it for himself.
V
The Best Meal. The Last.
As he sits, other patrons watch him, looking to the table overflowing with decadent plates that surely cost over $100 each, and then to him, the ordinary, beige man with glasses and a newfound purpose: To enjoy as much of it as he can.
The truffle and scallop sushi melts on his tongue, the buttery truffle taste seeping into the folds of the seaweed and the soft, delicate scallops that taste as fresh as if they had been caught just minutes before. The squash soup was complex, the coulis bright and fruity on his tongue, layering itself with the nutty fall flavors. And the steak! Oh! The steak was the best he’d ever had, tender and perfectly marbled, perfectly pink in the middle and just juicy enough to make his mouth water. Now, he sips his drink slowly, thoughtfully, methodically. Just as he takes bites of his food methodically, testing one or two bites before trying another, making sure he gets a little of each and that the bulk of his meal would be comprised of the best ones. He undertakes his job with precision and seriousness, each cut of the knife equally anticipatory and prescribed.
The waiter refills his water that has barely been drunk. Dean knows why the waiter is there. Curiosity is a hard instinct to ignore. It demands much of us, Dean thinks, just as curiosity had brought him to this lavish eatery. What would it be to dip into his savings for the best food this city had to offer? If he received the best meal he’d ever eaten, would going on to the next world be so scary, really?
These questions come and go placidly just beneath the surface of Dean’s attention to his meal. The waiter was right, the tapas are perfection. The ceviche has just the right amount of lime and cilantro and some sort of crunchy vegetable that adds a nice pop of texture. The crostini provided with it is buttery and sweet. The side of garlic carrots are more complex than Dean could have hoped for, some herb or another pulling its weight with a sort of tang he’s not sure he’s ever experienced before. The fish flakes beautifully under his fork. The gnocchi threatens to upend Dean’s very notion of the starchy things. The arugula salad is surprisingly fresh and crunchy despite its creamy dressing. The stuffed mushrooms overflow with a creamy cheese and woody flavor. The risotto is revolutionary! The potatoes are provincial! The biscuits are brusque! The lamb is lavish! The broccolini is boastful! The caviar is craveable! The quail eggs qualified!
Dean loses himself. He is full before he is done trying everything and he sits back, satisfied, when he has. And he enjoys the memory of each on his tongue before taking another sip of a crisp white wine he wishes he’d had the pleasure of drinking for years of occasions and dinner parties, which instead had been full of bitter wines from clearance shelves.
The waiter comes by again with the water, and smiles at Dean’s easy, satisfied face.
“The best meal I’ve ever had,” Dean says, more to himself than the waiter. It is indeed satisfying to know you have just had the best meal of your life, and you think you just might die happy if your life ended then and there. He could not begin to think of another time he had felt so satisfied, so fulfilled, the weight of nothing but food in the belly and the present moment upon him. No future or past, just this perfect dining experience. He had reached a higher state of consciousness. His awareness transcends that of his earthly body. How long had he been trapped and afraid? Life was in the little things, of course, but how many times had those little things loomed so large? So present that they made themselves known without your permission and swept you down a path, a feeling, you never knew was there? How many times had he thrown himself at the little things, how many times had he treated himself as he deserved to be? What if this feeling is one that does not just exist at this table but every day, with him constantly, a compartment to be unlocked when he needs renewal? The feeling springing to life again like muscle memory the more he tapped into it, fed it, practiced.
He smiles at the waiter, who he realizes is giving him a strange look. The waiter pauses and then asks, “May I?” He gestures to the chair opposite Dean. “Why not?”
Now, Dean looks at the waiter, who is not the same waiter he had before. This man has heavy-lidded eyes and a crooked nose overshadowing an endearing smile.
“You have tried it all?” he asks. “What a meal.”
Dean looks at the man again, who does not have the same disposition as the other waiter. He looks at the food with a hunger that wait staff do not have. This man does not have the veneer of the service industry. He speaks in a low tone that is more conspiratorial and congenial. A man who wants to be part of the conversation and wants to be heard. So Dean asks, still relaxed and nearly drowsy:
“Are you the one sent to kill me?”
The man shifts in his seat, still eyeing the spread in front of him. “I am,” and he raises his eyes to meet Dean’s. There is no malice there, only curiosity, as the man says, “You are not afraid?”
Dean shakes his head. He is truthful, but he does wish he were outside now, perhaps running along the waves of the beach or in a thick forest. No one can ever have it all.
Dean, ever polite, asks, “Would you like to eat?”
Afterword
Dean did not die that day. In fact, he and his assassin are now great friends. He ascertained a hiding place for Dean until his story printed, revealed the true nature of his friend’s employers. The man, too, knew of his employer’s misdeeds, added to his own. But after the initial round of scandal and arrests, he left Dean alone to go into hiding.
“Will you kill again?” Dean asks, sorry to see his merciful friend leave. But his conscience also knew his friend was a danger to the world.
His friend grimaces. “Let’s not talk about these things. Life takes us where it will.”
Dean nods, the phrase a favorite of theirs in the last few months’ repertoire. He would never forget it.
“Do me a favor,” Dean says, claps the man on the shoulder, and he receives a kind expression in return. One that he hoped would win out against his darker nature. “If you do,” his mind remembers swiftly to the taste of the swordfish on his tongue, the zeal of herbed potatoes, the softness of the sushi, and the gratitude he’d felt even before his life was spared, “Let them have a good last meal.”
