A Matter of Taste

Greg Layfield looked at the man sitting at table three and swore under his breath.

It was definitely him. The pinstripe suit, the slicked-back hair with streaks of grey. Table for one, rearranging the wine glass for the water glass. He picked up a knife, polished it between the napkin, and Greg swore again.

Not him. Not tonight.

Reflection had a standard headcount for a Wednesday. Cutlery clinked against thick ceramic plates as Chopin played at a volume polite enough to allow diners their conversations. Buttoned shirts and low-cut dresses didn’t notice Greg heading for the kitchen with purpose in his step — to them, he was just another waiter, perhaps putting speed into an important order. 

The kitchen was a hive of chrome benchtops and sweat. Elbows clashed as Greg navigated past bowls of chopped onions and piping bags of chocolate mousse to approach a man with sleeves rolled to the elbows, a pan in each knife-scarred hand. He was flicking both over the gas-powered stovetop with practiced precision. 

“We have a problem.”

“Not now.”

“Matt,” said Greg. “The Pit is here.”

Matt McCabe looked up, eyes wide. He set the pans down and motioned over a nearby line cook. “Watch these scallops with your life. We’re not serving dry rubber.” He stood with Greg. “Show me.”

The two went to the pass, and Greg pointed through the gap that windowed kitchen to dining. The pinstripe suit sat in profile, and Matt’s jaw clenched. “No one said anything about him tonight.”

“Must have reserved under a fake name.”

“Shit.” Matt stomped around, palms pressed to his head. “Just what we need.”

“I know.”

“One more bad review from this guy and—”

“I know.”

Matt breathed out hard, then inhaled just as deep. “If only they could see us now, huh? They’d laugh it right up in between ‘I-told-you-so’s.”

Greg nodded, and sighed. He was talking about their families — for Matt, his older brother, a forensic pathologist; and Greg, his police officer father. The two had found common ground in the way their families would take regular passive-aggressive digs at their chosen vocation, the volatile hospitality industry. “Why didn’t you choose a stable career?” they’d say, shaking their heads. True as true, a world this crazy would always need law enforcement. A world this crazy would always have dead people.

The reverse argument never worked. “People need to eat” was always countered by the notion, and the reality, that people could eat anywhere else. Restaurants better than theirs had closed long ago. Fine dining was dying. It was survival of the fittest, and right now Reflection, their restaurant, was lagging in the field. Every positive review from every food blogger and Instagram wannabe was invaluable. Word of mouth, every inch of good press, was priceless. A good review from Walter Pittman, the country’s most notorious food critic, would be their salvation.

A bad review would be their last. 

“I seriously don’t need this,” said Matt. “Bastard keeps finding something wrong in every dish I put under his fat nose.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Not enough salt, could have used more paprika, few extra minutes in the oven. Missing the human touch, whatever that fucking means.”

“He’s looking restless,” said Greg. Through the pass, Walter eyed the room.

“Okay,” said Matt. “Get him a menu. Small talk, keep it light. Then give him the royal treatment. Offer him everything. Wine, appetisers, I don’t care, go for it. Give him a fucking buffet of choice.”

Greg nodded, then picked up a menu from the counter and took a deep breath. Before he lost his nerve, he exited the kitchen and went to table three with a practiced smile. “Mr Pittman,” he said. “Good evening. So wonderful to see you again.”

“Oh I very much doubt that.” Walter’s voice was as round as his waist, an old-man type of authority. “I’m sure you read the same papers I write in. Stuffed mushrooms to start, then the barramundi, then the caramel tart.”

Greg blinked, tried to maintain his composure. He wasn’t going to let the guy get to him, not this time. “Perhaps you’d like to see the new additions to our—”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll have my order, not your suggestions. Oh, and that white I had last time I was here. Bottle of that.”

Greg kept the smile plastered on his face and nodded as he wrote down Walter’s order. “I’ll have some complimentary foie gras for you while you wait,” said Greg. “And we have a wonderful new house white I think you’ll enjoy, compliments of the chef. Please take your time. I’ll be right back.”

Before Walter could protest, Greg headed back to the kitchen, order in hand. Matt grabbed it straight way, scanned the list. “Fucking barramundi. Last time he said it wasn’t ‘finished.’ Didn’t stop him from cleaning that plate, though.” He snorted, then went into kitchen mode, addressed his staff. “Order up! One mushroom, one barramundi, one salted caramel! Make them keen, make them count!”

The space whirled to life, and Matt busied himself in the process. Greg watched him for a moment — swift yet smooth movement from plate to saucepan to mixing bowl. He tasted a dip, checked the consistency. He swirled a knob of butter on a sizzling pan, eyes darting from station to station. He was focused, a laser. Greg knew he had to be. 

Minutes passed. Greg placed a sample plate on Walter’s table — chicken liver pâté with foie gras and wholewheat crackers — and made sure his wine glasses were filled. On the pass the bell dinged, and Greg fetched the first plate: stuffed button mushrooms with ricotta cheese, leek and pine nuts. Through the gap he saw Matt in the kitchen leaning over a heated pan, a sheen of perspiration on his brow. Greg had never seen him so focused. He must be timing the sizzle of the fish to the second. 

Greg took the dish out and placed it in front of Walter. Before he could announce it, Walter said, “A little anaemic, aren’t they?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“These fellows.” He prodded a mushroom with a fork, as though it were a foreign specimen. “Not stuffed with ricotta and leek so much as bothered by it. But it’s all in the eating. That will be all.”

Greg said, “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get for you?”

“Quite sure. Thank you.”

Stonewalled. Greg went back to the kitchen and Matt looked up from the stove in earnest. “What’d he say?”

“They weren’t stuffed enough.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. He has no clue. Mushroom flavour needs a good amount of fucking mushroom.” 

Matt went back to work, and was silent, until the bell on the counter dinged again. Saltwater barramundi with clams in squid ink. Greg brought it out to Walter, who straightaway pressed his fork into the fish. The skin was a perfect crisp, the insides moist and steaming. Then he moved to the green beans. “We on rations here?” 

Greg’s insides wilted as Walter brushed him away and turned his attention to the plate. The news was relayed to Matt, and Greg watched his hands clench into fists, white at the knuckles, as a vein on his neck bulged to the surface. 

“We still have dessert,” he said. “A good dessert can save a meal. It can save us.”

Matt tucked a mixing bowl in the crook of his arm, whipped the contents with a furious motion. He pulled it up, checked the consistency of the mixture that dripped down, then whisked again before pouring a portion into a blind-baked pastry round. Ten minutes in the oven, and it came out cooked and golden: a perfect salted chocolate and caramel tart. He agonised over the placement of curls of chocolate, and he counted out a number of sea-salt flakes in his palm before sprinkling them on top. He really was after precision, thought Greg, as he took the plate.

“Wait a sec,” said Matt. “Forgot something.”

He handed the plate back, and Matt moved his body around in front of it, hunched over the tart, adding some sort of final touch. He then gave it back to Greg — it looked the same. Delicious, but the same. Whatever he added must have been a chef’s eye detail. 

Matt stood back, thrust his hands deep in his pockets, as Greg entered the dining area and presented the plate to Walter. He held his breath, waited for the crushing assessment. 

But Walter only nodded. “A feast for the eyes,” he said. Then he picked up his dessert fork. “Thank you, Greg.”

He held the words in his mind as he went back to the kitchen. Matt said, “Well?”

“Nothing yet.”

“A good nothing?”

“I think so.”

The two bounced the notion between them, silent, amid the clatter and hustle in the kitchen.

And then, coughing.

Out in the dining area, Walter was clearing his throat, a furious guttural noise, dessert fork still in hand. He struggled against a sip of water, still coughing. His face turned red. His eyes bulged. Greg’s body froze — shit, was he choking? Other diners look around, but the colour rushed from Walter’s face as fast as it had appeared, turning his skin bone white, and he fell forward on the table, his head hitting the tart with a heavy thud. 

Diners gasped, screamed. But Walter remained still, and dead.

*     *     *

The ambulance came, and the police with them. Greg only caught a glimpse of his father as he questioned the diners, the kitchen staff. Everyone there had little more to offer than exactly what they’d seen and heard. 

The restaurant closed early. Greg replayed the scene in his head — it all happened so fast. One minute, a food critic was expanding his waistline with the best cuisine Matt had ever produced. The next minute, not.

In the days that passed, Reflection was all over the news. Staff weathered the storm of cancelled reservations, then were just as amazed as anyone when the calls started coming in, more and more, as word of mouth attracted a new kind of diner. Everyone was asking for the ‘death tart’. The incident gave it a thrill-seeking edge, like a kind of dessert fugu. Orders grew. Bookings were made weeks in advance. Someone created it a Twitter account.

The publicity overtook answers, and Greg had none. He’d ask his vault of a father, over and over, each time eking out an extra sliver of information about the incident. What happened, Greg would ask?

It’s an ongoing case, his father would reply.

But they’ve done an autopsy?

There was an autopsy. They’re still going through the findings, but all I know is what they checked on the scene: there was no food lodged in his throat. 

Greg had to think about this point. Eventually he’d ask: What about other tests?

Performed and sent up the chain. Heart condition, cancer, toxicology, histology. Even his psychological background, for chrissake.

Toxicology. What did that say?

And his father would sigh at the question, at the absence of information. “Only one thing that says nothing,” he would say. “‘Inconclusive’.”