Short Story: Feed Me

I grew up with a mother who believed that chicken wasn’t “done,” until it reached jerky consistency. I learned to cook as a means of self-preservation. And unlike my day job as an advertising creative director, no one ever tells me to make something over again because they don’t like the taste or the color, or the word choice or the logo or because they are having a bad day or because they are awful at giving feedback and can’t articulate why they don’t like something but just want to wield their power.

There is a place in Los Angeles that serves the best roast chicken I have ever eaten. I have frequently referred to it as my death row meal. And after saying that a dozen times it occurred to me that the idea of a Michelin-starred chef on death row asking another chef to cook his last meal would make a good premise for a darkly humored short story.

This is a story I thought I had the perfect title for but then changed it last minute. Initially it was gong to be called “I Like Food,” after the Descendents song. But after sitting with it, I felt it was too on the nose. Then I thought about Tricky’s “Feed Me,” and that started to hold more appeal. When a chef serves someone, the appreciation they get from the response is itself a source of sustenance. Plus I love the lyric “The only lessons you teach us from a margin.” I interpret as the most important things you’ll ever learn will come from indirect places. Plus margin and margarine would make a nice near rhyme.

The restaurant described in the story, it is patterned after Barrique, which was once called Ado and is still in Venice. It was close enough to where I lived that I sometimes walked to it. Fantastic Italian food. But it is not the restaurant in Los Angeles that serves death row chicken. If you want to know the name of that, send me an email.

Feed Me

At the intersection of Main Street and Abbot Kinney in Santa Monica is a small yellow house. Both the lower and upper rooms have fed well-heeled diners the best French cuisine this side of New York, let alone Paris. For the past ten years, Chez Pic has challenged, dazzled, wowed and astounded guests thanks to two chefs.

The first chef, Jacques Pic, opened his namesake restaurant in 1995. From the start, it was a celebrity hang out, with the biggest names (and no-names who wished they were big names) making reservations months in advance to have the pleasure of enjoying whatever Chef Pic placed in front of their hungry eyes. The rustic tables on the cramped but boisterous second floor were reserved for A-listers. The great unwashed, as Pic called them, dined downstairs or on the patio overlooking the parking lot.

Pic was classically trained in Paris, meaning his approach to food was instilled under traditional acid-tongued guidance from sadistic chefs with violent outbursts. He was known for being just as contentious to sous-chefs, wait-staff and customers alike. During its first two years, Chez Pic was a revolving door of abused and disgruntled employees. His reputation for nastiness equalled the quality of food he served. But then Pic assembled a group of talented artisans who finally shared the same goal: to serve the public the best food they would eat in their entire lives.

Cuisine wasn’t just an art; it was the only art that mattered. If Pic found a server calling in sick to go audition for a commercial, they were fired the same day. He’d throw scalding hot pans across the kitchen at line cooks who hadn’t kept their mise en place in order, make college students and seasoned servers alike sob with his explosive rage. God help anyone within screaming range should a soufflé not rise to his perfection, or the court bouillon found to contain too much celery.

The more kitchen drama occurred, the more popular Chez Pic became. Seeing the potential in his character, a producer once offered a lucrative sum to film one of the very first reality TV shows in his restaurant, cooing that he’d be “just like a French Gordon Ramsay but in Los Angeles.” Pic didn’t just refuse the producer. He banned him from ever returning to his establishment. When asked about it later, he said “I am not in the business of making gauche pornography for overweight Americans.” 

What he passed up in money, Pic made up for in integrity, a principle that didn’t take long to reap rewards. With his staggering menu prices and diners booking reservations six months in advance, his fortune allowed him to buy the yellow house in cash. With no restaurant holding company to answer to and no loan to pay off, he was free to do as he wished.

By the fourth year, Chef Pic was adored by celebrities and respected by his employees. While he considered the former to be culinary cretins with all the money but none of the palette, he paid his staff well and counted on them more than they knew.

In 2002, Chez Pic was awarded two Michelin Stars, the first American restaurant outside of New York to achieve this honor. For one week, Chez Pic celebrated by creating a tasting menu reflecting the best of France. A particular favorite was his coq au vin, prepared in the traditional way with a rooster, and bottles of Bordeaux from a small producer in France he championed called Chez Plume. 

His temper was as legendary as his drinking habits. As his fame grew beyond Santa Monica, Los Angeles to the rest of America, Pic’s alcohol intake increased with alarming consequences. At the height of Pic Mania, the chef became volatile and unreliable. His kitchen staff were the true culinary geniuses finding and sourcing ingredients that turned Pic’s drunk dreams into amazing realities every week. The brilliance was still there, but whatever remained of the man’s impish artistic Jekyll personality had all but disappeared in a volatile bottle of Hyde. 

One night, Chef Pic had finished a bottle of wine and was halfway through a good bottle of cognac when a C-list celebrity couple entered the restaurant. Roman and Kelsey were the stars of Plastic Surgeon Love, a title that also worked as the reality show’s premise. Every week they’d give women boob jobs or tighten their faces or make men’s crows’ feet disappear or tuck in their stomachs. When not at work, they’d fight with each other dramatically and then make up in dramatically. 

One TV critic called Plastic Surgeon Love “emblematic of a deranged Hollywood that believes love isn’t love unless it’s out of control, abusive, and self-obsessed enough to subject itself to periodic mutilation as a means of staying young.” Having just been renewed for a fourth season, the show was a massive hit.

Roman and Kelsey showed up late for their reservation, insisted on two rounds of cocktails before dinner, despite the strict one and a half hour limit for the table and ordered specials with their specific modifications. Any other time, any of these infractions was enough for immediate dismissal. But Chef Pic was in a vicious mood that night. He dismissed their crimes with a sloppy wave of his hands and told the cooks to make it “their way. Just for tonight.” 

By the time dessert was presented with usual flourish, Chef Pic had finished his cognac and had made enough of his way through the second bottle to decide it was finally time to meet the celebrity couple. 

Normally, when Chef Pic walked through the dining room, guests sat silent and watched with rapt attention, hoping he’d approach their tables. If you spoke to him in the right tone and were appreciative enough, you might get a nod, smile, or even a wink from the genius. If a visit from the chef was like a blessing from a culinary Pope, Roman and Kelsey were two blasphemers uttering obscenities in church.

Chef Pic walked past all the other diners without acknowledging their gaze until reached Roman and Kelsey’s table. They were oblivious to his presence until he interrupted their conversation with a voice that was husky and loud.

“So, I trust we have pleased you tonight, no? Normally we do not make modifications to our menu but for you—” he smiled and spread his arms in a mock show of humility.

Frozen with Botox neither were initially able to speak. And then with spectacular effort Roman frowned and parted his lips.

“I’ve had better,” Roman said.

Chef Pic laughed. “Oh really? And tell me please, where have you two stiff balloons had better carnard aux olives? You know this duck was flown in from my farm in France this morning, yes?

A moment of hesitation passed Roman’s face, perhaps realizing there were no cameras to capture his performance. “Ah you know what I mean. It was good. Just not great.” 

Kelsey chimed in. “And the fish was too salty.”

Chef Pic’s smile turned tight as if he, too, had recently been under the knife. “Too salty,” he repeated. “You know I taste everything that leaves my kitchen, to make sure it is to my liking.”

“Well,” she said. “It may be to your liking, but not to mine.”

“Perhaps you should not have modified your orders,” Chef Pic said. “As someone with twenty years now in the business and two Michelin stars, I do know what I am doing.”

Kelsey swallowed the rest of her after-dinner drink and attempted a smile. “We disagree. Sorry” 

“Une minute s’il-vous-plâit,” Chef Pic said. His voice was calm as he walked back to the kitchen. When he returned, he had the same tight smile on his face. To the untrained eye, Pic looked nonplussed. If anyone looked beyond his face, they would have noticed the meat cleaver in his right hand. 

Pic strode over to Roman and Kelsey’s table. Before they could react, he raised his arm above his head. When it came down, the cleaver connected with Roman’s hand, chopping it off in one go. It lay in an ever-growing pool of blood, still holding his fork as if waiting for more food.

Kelsey’s face turned white. She screamed, but Pic was not finished. He chopped her fork hand off as well. And then slashed with brutal abandon until both diners lay across the table motionless.

In the pandemonium that ensued, guests and staff alike ran for dear life, fearing they might be next. By now, though, Chef Pic was calm. He pulled up a chair, finished the woman’s glass of wine and looked down at the carnage.  With his own pulse subsided and vision returned, his first thought was that the bodies looked like two red snappers marinating in wine. Except of course, their eyes weren’t as bright.

When at last he spoke, his voice was devoid of emotion. “Perhaps you will learn next time, that the chef is always right. No?”

Rather than a pointless trial, Pic gleefully confessed his crimes with glee. Chef Pic was given the death penalty for stabbing and slashing his guests no less than thirty times each, mutilating their corpses and a slew of other crimes including health code violations, which was as much an demonstration of a new DA wanting to make a name for himself as it was a comment on California’s strict restaurant regulations. Until recently, California didn’t use the death penalty and anyone sentenced to death just meant life in prison. But just a few years into his sentence it looked as if Pic’s number was up after all. 

In what many thought was a sign of the apocalypse, California elected a very hardline Republican governor. He was hard on crime, intimidating mayors across the state to take another look at their lax policing and setting aside a sizable budget to build more prisons with an actual timeline of completion.

When it came to the death penalty, Governor Ipswich didn’t create a proposal for Californians to vote on, but steamrolled it through in an overarching bill called “Crime Stop.” Hidden among the details for job growth through rebuilding prisons and increased programs for rehabilitated for non-violent offenders was a massive departure hidden as a footnote. The death penalty would be expedited for the most vicious criminals who were guilty well beyond reasonable doubt. This was viewed by newspapers from Sacramento to San Diego as both a cynical scheme to save taxpayer money and a barbarous way to deter crime. 

Chef Pic was slated to be the second execution of that year. The first was a notorious Sonoran drug cartel leader who had also butchered people with a knife. Chef Pic was quick to point out to inmates that “unlike the Mexican man, I’d approached my murder with the true heart of an artistic Frenchman.”

Chez Pic still flourished despite its namesake’s absence. This was largely due to its new owner who was a polar opposite of Pic in every way except for a shared love of cooking. One morning, while Pic was in his cell doing his leg lifts as part of feeble attempt at starting a fitness regime, Brian Straight had left his sous chefs in charge of procuring the day’s orders, receiving the fresh fish and meats, shopping the local farmer’s markets for special produce, and preparing the day’s menu. While the owner and menu changed except for some old standbys, the yellow bungalow was as bustling as ever.

Unlike Pic’s bellicose tight-ship mentality, Straight empowered his staff while he would take what he called “exploration trips.” Sometimes driving up to Napa without warning. Other times going for a hike in the mountains. Though they seemed frivolous exploration trips were far from idle. They fueled his creativity and never ceased to be a source of inspiration. Once on a hike, he saw a pheasant, and ended up creating a tasting menu based on the bird. It was received with excitement.

For all his creativity and passion, Straight was filled with a sense of imposter’s syndrome. He'd taken over Chez Pic only because no one else wanted to. It was literally like buying a house where someone was murdered. His career thus far was successful, sometimes impressive. But Straight felt like he was in no way deserving of inheriting a restaurant whose reputation was cemented by a a man of Pic’s stature. He didn’t even want the staff to call him chef and often chided them for doing so, feeling he’d have to work a long time before he’d do the restaurant justice and earn that title again.

That day Straight called his executive chef and told her he was taking the day off, giving no further explanation. He told her to serve the same menu as the night before. This in itself was not an odd request; they often kept the menu the same, sometimes for as long as a week, except for the nightly specials. His executive chef hung up and thought nothing more of it.

The drive to Adelanto took longer than expected. By the time he’d cleared prison security, he was almost ten minutes late. When he’d passed through the last doors to the visitation room, Chef Pic was already waiting for him, sitting between the bulletproof glass dividers, phone in hand.

“You’re late,” he sneered.

“Traffic” Straight said. “You might be surprised to know this but I’ve never had occasion to come to this part of California. It’s not like there are wineries here.”

 Pic laughed. The Gallic face looked like it aged fifteen years. 

“Why’d you call me here?” 

 “Why didn’t you change the name of the restaurant?”

“The name had equity,” Straight answered. “And, your last incident notwithstanding, I was a great admirer of everything you’d done to put Los Angeles on the map. I wanted to continue the tradition.”

“And you did, too. Your restaurant with my name now has a third Michelin star,” Pic said. “In one year.”

Straight demurred. “I just continued to uphold tradition. And maybe expanded it a little.”

Pic dismissed his humility. “Oh, I have read all about it. Your truffle tasting menu was met with outrage at first. Now others try to do the same. They will not succeed.”

“Everyone knows a little truffle goes a long way. Divide a little by a fraction and you have a starter and so on. Plus we both know what attracts people to truffles.”

“They smell like sex.”

It was Straight’s turn to smile. 

“You bested me by one star. And yet, you have kept my name on your doors.”

 “The name on the door is a name on a door. It’s not about me but the food. But I would like to think if we’d worked together, you might have passed the torch when it came time.”

A dark shadow clouded his face. “I am scheduled to die in two weeks’ time. At ten in the evening, October the seventh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am not,” Pic said. “I feel no remorse for those pigs who had no respect for my cuisine. But to be locked up here with no way of cooking is torture. They won’t even let me work in the cafeteria here. If this is the rest of my life, I would rather die. But I will embrace my final moments. I will go out enjoying life.”

A guard tapped his shoulder. “Two minutes.”

“Chef Pic, why did you call me out there?”

The question was met with laughter. “Mais, c’est facile. Chef Straight, I want you to cook my last meal.”

Straight felt his mouth go dry. “Me? But what do you want me to make?”

Pic smiled. Still holding the phone, he rose to leave. “You’re the head chef now. I am in your hands.”

Two days later, Straight was opening the restaurant in the morning when a reporter from TMZ appeared on a motorcycle fro out of nowhere.

“Tell us Straight. What’ll you make?”

“What do you mean? Tonight is the same menu as last night. We do have a special, Veal tournedos in crème sauce with mushrooms.”

“I mean for The Butcher Chef. What’s his last meal gonna be?”

Straight frowned. “I don’t know yet. “

“Come on. Give us a hint.”

Straight turned to the man, unsure whether to look at his face or his camera. “It’s clear you don’t understand cooking. It takes me a month to plan out tasting menus here. The regular menu is subject to availability of ingredients. For something of this magnitude, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Not even a clue?”

“None.”

The motorcyclist turned his camera off. “Don’t know if we’ll be able to us any of that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t give a shit,” Straight said.

When he closed the door behind him. The rest of the staff was waiting including Sylvia the only server who’d stayed on. The rest were too traumatized.

‘Well?” Sylvia asked.

“Well, what? I don’t know. I have this restaurant to run, you know? I can’t serve him our current tasting menu. He’s too aware of it. I can’t do anything modern. He’s a traditionalist. I’m not going to whip out molecular gastronomy tactics on him. If I made lecithin foam he’d spit it out and say he made it better with his spit.”

“You’re right about that,” she said, laughing.

“I just need to think. It’ll have to be something rustic. Not fussy. And filling. If it’s his last meal, he should enjoy it. I don’t even know what kind of kitchen set up they have.“

James, the bartender, spoke up. “Why not do a whimsical take on prison food? Potatoes and spaghetti and moonshine?”

“You joke, but I can guarantee you somewhere there’s a chef with a prison food concept already in the works. Probably open up on Melrose. They’re all douche bags up there.”

It took Straight another day before he decided on a menu from Bretagne, or Brittany as his English grandmother called it. The western most area of France not only contained a wealth of amazing regional delicacies, but it was Chef Pic’s birthplace. Before Pic’s life ended, Straight would bring back to where it all began. 

He planned a simple tasting menu with very little in the way of alterations: One half dozen belons flown in from Cancale. It was just the start of oyster season and so far it was an exceptionally good year. Straight would serve them three ways: two with only a lemon slice accompaniment, two with a traditional mignonette, and two with his homemade wasabi salt.

Next would be Monkfish à l’Aromoricaine, a simple homey stew with the ugly and underrated monkfish as the star. Through some connections (and despite the trade embargo with Iran) Straight managed to get enough Iranian Sargol saffron to make the dish sing so loud Chef Pic’s eardrums would bleed. 

And for a charming ending, clafoutis, with imported French black cherries, he had soaked in cherry brandy. The secret move was that the brandy came from Oregon, not France. This might be seen as scandalous to Pic, but there was no denying that even though the French cherries were the Pacific Northwest distiller made a better cherry brandy.

Straight was happy with his choices. To be sure, it was simple. But perhaps this is what made it so audacious. It’s true that food can take you on a geographical journey. But it can also take you on an emotional one. Instead of a global culinary tour, Straight would penetrate Chef Pic’s emotional core with dishes that might cause dormant memories to come flooding back.

Straight called the prison to inquire about the kitchen setup. He was not surprised to learn the people working there couldn’t answer his questions. After several minutes of fruitless conversation, Straight decided to bring his own pots and pans. Corrections Officer Jones saw no issue with this, provided they run it (and everything he brought in) through the metal detector. 

Straight implored the officer to understand time was of the essence with perishable foods. “It’s not like I’m going to serve him pasta and potatoes. I’ll be bringing live oysters.”

“As long as you comply, it’ll move quick,” Corrections Officer Jones said.

“Believe me, I’ll be more than happy to comply. And so will my sous-chef. “

“You’re what now?” Corrections Officer Jones asked.

“Sorry. That’s the name of the person I’m bringing with me to help prepare the meals.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“What do you mean? If I prepare these dishes by myself, it’ll take hours. I need someone skilled to help.”

“Oh don’t worry about that,” Corrections Officer Jones said. “We have a work rehabilitation program here. Randy’ll work with you.”

“Randy.”

“Yeah, he’s been working the kitchen for four years now. Guy can make anything and can make a lot out of nothing. Why, just last week he made this mac and cheese that had jalapeños in it. You don’t usually hear the inmates giving compliments but they ate that up like they were all on death row.”

“I admit that jalapeño mac and cheese is a good idea, butt I’m serving raw oysters with wasabi salt and making monkfish stew and clafoutis. It’s a bit more complicated.”

“The only words I understood you say were oysters and salt,” Corrections Officer Jones said.

“What I mean is these aren’t easy dishes to make, and it is Chef Pic’s last meal.”

 “Let me explain something to you in plain English. A producer who was tight with the governor pulled the string to make this thing happen for Pic in exchange for the movie rights to his life-in-prison story. On top of that, the governor is trying not to look like too much of a inhumane hard ass because his poll numbers are in the toilet.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying no one cares about Pic’s last meal. You are there to make the governor look good and give good PR.”

“Oh,” Straight said. 

“Oh is right,” Corrections Officer Jones said. “It was already a headache getting you clearance. It’s way too late to get clearance for one of your crew.”

“So Randy’s my sous-chef,” Straight said.

“Bingo.”

Corrections Officer Jones was working the afternoon Straight arrived at the prison. Whether out of sympathy or negligence, he didn’t know, but Straight wasn’t held up more than three minutes clearing security, and that was only because the officers mocked him for taking live oysters to a prison. 

Once in the kitchen, Corrections Officer Jones introduced him to Randy who offered a warm and friendly handshake.

“Hi, I killed some people a while back but all that’s behind me, praise Jesus. I’m a new man now. I’m set free.”

“You have ten more years to go before you’re even up for parole,” Corrections Officer Jones reminded him.

“That’s ten more years to be a blessing and witness to those who need it most, Praise Jesus.”

Corrections Officer Jones shook his head. “Hey Straight, I have two officers here that will be standing by. They won’t get in your way unless Saint Randy here decides to do something stupid like he did last month, didn’t you?”

“We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God,” Randy said.

“Your prison fight sin added a few more months your sentence, Randy.”

“What should I do first, Chef?”

Randy’s eyes were beady. He had a dirty brown mustache. “Let’s wash our hands first. Really good, with soap and hot water. And then I’ll decide what you should help with first.”

After washing up, Straight announced they’d make the dessert first because it would take the most time.

“I love me dessert,” Randy said. “Is it pudding? Like Jell-O?”

“Not exactly. Tonight I’m only making French dishes for Chef Pic.”

“Oh that’s right,” Randy said. “That French guy mostly kept to himself. We heard what he did to those customers. We leave him alone. So no Jell-O?”

“No,” Straight said. We’re making something called clafoutis.”

Randy rolled the word around. “Clown Footee? Doesn’t sound like something I’d eat. What is it?”

“It’s kind of like a cherry cake.” 

“Gotcha. So how do I help you make this Clown Footee?”

Straight turned the oven to 325F, and got out a large bowl. “I want you to whisk everything I put in this bowl.”

Randy saluted. “Roger that.”

Straight added the milk, eggs, sugar, vanilla, flour, melted butter and a small four-ounce vial of the cherry brandy to the bowl.

“Get that nice and incorporated.”

Randy attacked the bowl with his whisk like he was trying to make concrete.

“You can go a little easier.”

Randy nodded, easing up on the whisk. Once finished, Straight placed a large cast iron pan in front. Randy poured the batter into the mixture.

Straight removed the lid from a container of pitted cherries and started putting them on top. Randy also helped. 

“This looks real nice,” Randy said. “Smells nice, too.”

Straight took the juice from the container and also poured that on top.

“Oh man, “ Randy said. “That’s like extra good, right?”

Straight placed the pan in the oven and set the timer on his phone for 30 minutes, which was ten minutes beneath final cooking time. He never trusted an unfamiliar oven and wanted to make sure the clafoutis didn’t burn.

“While that bakes, we’ll start on the other courses.”

Straight decided Randy should be in charge of chopping by placing vegetables in the processor. The inmates who worked the kitchen weren’t allowed knives. Straight could always blame the texture of the ingredients based on circumstances; despite his legendary reputation he was sure Pic would understand after spending this long in jail. But all the excuses in the world wouldn’t get him off the hook if the dishes weren’t up to standard in terms of taste.

After five seconds, Straight stopped the processor.

“Why’d you do that?” Randy asked.

“We are making a mignonette, not shallot soup.”

“What’s a mignonette?”

“It’s a traditional accompaniment for oysters. Minced shallots, red wine vinegar, salt and pepper.”

“What’s a shallot?”

Straight was about to berate him, the way so many chefs had berated Straight when he started. From his first rung position as dishwasher it was years of yelling, pots being thrown, verbal threats, and intimidation to make him the chef he was.

 Then he remembered Randy wasn’t training to be a chef. Randy had, as he said, murdered some people. Straight wasn’t sure if “some” meant two, or twenty; he didn’t want to be the next. Straight took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Shallots are the things you just chopped up. Think of them as little onions.”

“Roger that. What now?” 

Straight grabbed a spatula and scooped the shallots out into a metal bowl. “Nothing at the moment. I’ll just finish this.” Straight added vinegar, salt and pepper to the shallots. He put the sauce on a bag of ice in his cooler to keep it chilled. Next he took out the ingredients for the second dish. He removed the monkfish from the cooler. Randy gasped.

“What the hell is that, an ugly motherfucking alien?”

Straight smiled. “It’s called monkfish. And you’re right. It is ugly. But it tastes great.” 

He picked up a knife and started removing the seven layers of skin, dorsal and fins.

“Please give me something to do so I don’t have to watch that. I’m gonna hurl.”

Without stopping, Straight instructed Randy to chop the onion, shallots, and garlic, whirring the processor for about ten seconds only. “And when you’re done with that, open the can of tomato paste and tomato puree. 

Once the Monkfish was cleaned and skinned, Straight placed another cast iron pan on high heat. While that was heating up, he dredged the monkfish medallions in flour.

“How’s the onion mixture?”

Randy held up the bowl. It could have been minced a bit more but he would make it work. Straight went over to his cooler and fished out a bottle of wine and a small bottle of cognac.

Randy rubbed his hands together, licking his lips. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Before he could move, one of the guards stepped between them. 

“Sorry. Forgive me, Lord. Old habits die hard.”

“Hey Randy, can you put a pot on with some water? We’re going to make some rice, too.”

Without taking his eyes off the bottle, Randy nodded.

“Now I’ll need you to back away from the oven,” Straight said.

Randy looked hurt. “But why? I thought I was doin’ okay.”

“For your own good.” Working fast, Straight added a mixture of olive oil and butter to the pan, swirling it around. The butter bubbled and sizzled. He took the monkfish medallions and put them in the pan, seasoning with salt and white pepper. He flipped the medallions and seasoned them again. Straight then grabbed the bottle of cognac and added a few splashes.

“Stand back,” he cautioned.

Randy took two steps back and watched as Straight lit the cognac with a match. It caught fire, sending an orange and purple flame toward the ceiling. Straight took the pan off the heat and put it on a trivet. 

“That’s crazy, What’d you do that for?” As the flames died down, Randy sniffed. “Oh. I see. Man, it smells fantastic. Also that’s a great color. Nice even browning.”

Straight set the monkfish aside, and looked at Randy who beamed with pride. 

“When it’s TV time, I like to watch food shows. You know last week I made mac n’ cheese and I added jalapeños? The guys loved that.”

“So I heard. Can you add the rice to the water? Stir it for a minute, add a pinch of salt, then turn the heat down and cover it.”

Randy did as he was told. Straight was impressed. Despite the circumstances, he’d employed people who were so lacking in ability they couldn’t follow even the simplest directions without screwing up somewhere.

Straight placed the pan back over the heat, turning it on medium this time. He added another glug of olive oil and started sautéing the onions, shallot and garlic, being careful not to brown them. He then added the fish stock, tomatoes, wine, dried thyme, bay leaves, and saffron. He turned the heat up to let it boil. 

“That’s not all I did to the mac and cheese, though,” Randy confided. “I found this stuff the Mexicans in here love called ancho powder. It’s like some kind of chili pepper. I added that as well as some other stuff. I call it Mexican Mac. I wish I had some left for you to try.“

Straight let the pan boil so the sauce would reduce. “Let’s check on the clafoutis.”

He opened the oven and they both peered in. Randy inhaled and closed his eyes.

“It’s too bad you aren’t the cook here. When I get out, maybe I can apply for a job with you? I’m a good learner.”

From behind them a Corrections Officer Jones said said “Randy, you’ll be 70 before you get out.” 

Straight saw the cake needed another ten minutes after all. 

“You almost ready, there, chef?” 

Straight added the Monkfish back to the pan, spooning the sauce over it. “Ten more minutes.”

“We don’t have all night,” Corrections Officer Jones said.

Even in jail there was a hurry to make everything come out at once. There was never a moment to coax the flavors into coming together. No spontaneity allowed. One had to whip them together as fast as possible. It was hard to believe the circumstances that led to this moment. Most chefs would have jumped at the opportunity to cook for someone of Pic’s stature. But not without being nervous as hell. There was no denying today would either be Straight’s finest moment or his biggest disappointment. It all came down to the ingredients, and Pic’s disposition.

Straight grabbed his oyster knife. “Randy, can you add a bed of that ice on that pan, please?”

“Sure, no problem, Chef.”

Straight placed half a dozen of the shucked belons on the ice. He added the mignonette to two, added the two lemons on the lip of two other shells, and sprinkled the tops of the final two oysters with wasabi salt.

He then removed the clafoutis from the oven and stuck a knife in the center. It came out clean. The crust was perfect. Golden in some parts, a little darker in others. The cherry brandy brought a new layer to the smell. Straight couldn’t help but smile.

“Leave this where it is, okay? It needs to cool before we cut it.”

“You can count on me.”

Chef Pic sat at a table in a small room by himself. He had requested candlelight and a proper place setting for ambiance, but this was met with laughter. He had also requested a good bottle of wine. This too, was met with firm denial. The room was adjacent to the lethal injection room and he could see it from his seat through the window. 

On the other side of the lethal injection room was another room for reporters, lawyers and the victims’ families. It was packed. There were three reporters. One from TMZ, one from the L.A. Times and one from CNN who worked the L.A. beat. The rest of the group belonged to Roman and Kelsey’s family memebrs who were all too happy to tell their story in the hopes of turning it into a new reality show.

Straight knocked once and then entered. Pic’s face was ashen. His hair seemed to have greyed more since they time they last saw each other. His eyes were resigned.

“Bonjour.”

“Ah,” Chef Pic said, his face coming back to life. “I have been looking forward to this. It is the last thing I will ever look forward to.”

“I hope this will suffice. The kitchen is meager as you know, but I have tried to do my best. I had sous-chef Randy helping me.”

Pic laughed. “I have worked with worse.” His face turned grave. “I want you to know, my friend, you will not be judged by me tonight. I cannot bear to judge a man when I myself am meeting my final judgment. I am French. We are all Catholics in the end.”

Straight presented the first dish. “Perhaps we can think of better things for a few moments more.”

Chef Pic’s eyes widened in disbelief. He stared at the plate. When he looked up, his eyes were wet. “Belons.”

“Bien sur. I thought hard about what to serve you. What I finally decided it was only appropriate to take you back to where you began before you—“

“Go where I am going. En effet.” He took the prison napkin and unfolded it, placing it on his lap. 

Chef Pic started with the lemon version, squirting just a drop on each one. “You know, I have not had these in so long. And truth be told, for most of my life I wasn’t a fan. But now, I wish I could live to be a hundred and eat nothing but.” He finished the second one. 

Chef Pic then scooped up the mignonette versions and ate them one after the next. 

“I apologize for the texture. Chef Randy didn’t know what a shallot was.”

“This does not surprise me. But it is still excellent. So simple, just like this. Unadorned.” His eyes rested on the third pair. “But now these. I am curious.”

Chef Pic picked one up with delicate fingers and inhaled. “Ah-ha!” He slurped one oyster and let it linger on his tongue before swallowing. “Wasabi salt?”

“Correct.”

“This, again. Simple. Yet unexpected. East meets West. The grassy notes of the wasabi mix with the oyster liquor.” Chef Pic bowed. “Bravo, Chef Straight.”

Back in the kitchen, Randy busied himself by washing the processor, mixing bowl and containers. If he proved himself now, perhaps when he got out, Straight would remember. He mused on this for a moment. And then he saw the oyster knife lying on the counter. 

Straight came back in to the kitchen. “Randy, chef Pic sends his compliments.”

Randy spun around. “Wow, I don’t even. It’s an honor. Sir. Chef. Sir.”

“Now on to the next course. Can you plate the rice for me? Here’s some dried parsley. Sprinkle it on top. It’ll be perfect by the time I present it.

Randy scooped out a small mount of rice and added the parsley, while Straight added the fish and monkfish à l’Armoricaine to the plate.

“Perfect,” Straight said. “I have to say, you work well under pressure. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” Randy said. “Really.”

Straight picked up the plate. Noticing a stray dot of sauce, he wiped it with a towel. He walked through the corridor and into the room where Pic was leaning forward in his chair, excited to see the next dish. 

“Such heavenly smells. Can it really be?”

 “Lotte à l’Armoricaine.” He placed the dish in front of Pic who placed his nose an inch away. He inhaled. When he opened his eyes, they were moist. “I am ten years old again.” Chef Pic took his fork and broke into the monkfish. He mixed the sauce with the rice and savored each bite.

“L’impossible,” he said. “Persian Saffron?” His eyes met Straight. Who did you kill to get this?”

They both laughed. But Pic’s laughter stopped when he noticed the time. He began to eat with more determination. He held his knife and fork in true continental style, flipping the fork so it was upside down.

“Do you know what is the biggest tragedy of this perfect meal?”

“No wine?”

“Well yes, of course. But besides that. The tragedy is not having you to eat with me.”

Straight was taken aback. Pic waved him away with his fork. “Oh, I know my reputation precedes me. But I was only like that to people who deserved it. These little shit actors and these so-called Hollywood moguls. They are slugs, all of them. But you,” he said, still chewing. “You are an artiste.”

“That means a lot.”

Chef Pic looked up at the clock, his eyes far away. “My time ends tonight. But to know that you stepped into Chez Pic and not only kept my name alive, but kept the passion—”

Straight walked over to put his arm around him. “I wish this were a different evening for both of us.”

Chef Pic pulled himself together and patted Straight’s arm. “Thankfully, there is a dessert course, no? At least we will have a sweet ending.”

Straight returned to the kitchen. The clafoutis was now cool enough to handle. He flipped the pan and placed it on a large plate. He picked up a shaker full of powdered sugar and handed it to Randy.

“Randy, this is the final dish of the night. I would like you to do the honors. Can you dust the top of that with powdered sugar?”

“Oh yes, Chef. I would be honored, indeed.” 

Straight heard an edge in Randy’s voice. Nevertheless, Randy did as he was told and did it well. Not too much sugar, but just enough to put the finishing touches on a mouth-watering dessert.

“Just beautiful. Really. I mean it, Randy. You did a great job tonight.”

Randy remained silent, but gave Straight a tight-lipped smile. Behind him, the guards shifted on their feet. They weren’t interested in food talk. Only discipline. 

Straight decided to bring out the entire clafoutis for slicing table-side. It was dense, and the smell of cherry was intoxicating. He only had to enter the room before Pic erupted into applause.

“There is part of me that knows that cake will be so perfect I don’t even have to taste it. But the other part—le professionnel—simply must.”

“I understand completely. What’s more, I would be upset if you didn’t, for there is a subtle surprise in store for you.” He carved a generous slice with a plastic knife and placed it before him.

As before, Chef Pic learned in and inhaled. “Cherry essence is pronounced. The cake texture correct.” Chef Pic took his fork to the cake and took a bite, with slow deliberate chews.

“But what is this? It is not French brandy. Is it Kirschwasser?” 

Straight shook his head. “It’s from the Pacific Northwest.”

“But how can this be? It is brighter somehow. It tastes more of cherry.”

“It’s fantastic isn’t it? I wanted to see what your opinion was, too.”

Chef Pic kept eating the cake, chewing with a thoughtful look. 

“So? What did you think? Of the entire meal? Please tell me. Don’t hold back. Warts and all, I must know.”

Pic started to answer but his voice was cut short by the sound of gunfire. His eyes turned to pin points. Then the light went out of them.Straight watched as the bullet entered Chef Pic, who fell face down into the clafoutis, his blood mixing with the dark black crusts of the baked cherries on his plate. 

Straight turned around to see Randy holding a gun in one hand and the oyster knife in the other. The knife was held in front of Corrections Officer Jones’ throat. It was bloody. 

“Food time’s over, guys. Sorry but I have to run. Lord forgive me for what I have done and what I am about to do.”

Straight held his hands up. “Randy, please don’t.”

“Oh, I won’t,” he said, his voice gentle. “Not to you. You were nice to me.” He held the oyster knife tighter. “But this guy? I’m going to do to him one good.”

Before Straight could react. Randy took the oyster knife and slit Corrections Officer Jones’ throat. He lay gagging on the floor.

 “Chef, I need you to do something.”

“What’s that?”

“I need you to give me your chef’s jacket and your chef’s pants. I wish you had a hat. Why don’t you have a fucking chef’s hat?”

“Randy, real chefs almost never wear those.”

“Well give me your fucking chef’s shirt. And those fucking checkered pants, too.” 

Straight disrobed as fast as he could, throwing the clothes on the ground. Randy disrobed as well, keeping the gun on Straight. 

“Now you are going to shut the fuck up and sit here. I am going to lock you in. Believe me when I tell you it is for your own safety. There’s about to be a riot. I am not lying to you,” Randy said. “I am trying to be a better Christian. I am still working on it and I have a long way to go. But I’m gonna fuckin’ start a riot and get out of here.”

Straight was at a loss for words. He felt cold. Randy fished in his new pockets and found Straight’s wallet. He opened it and took out all the cash: five hundred dollars. Straight had meant to go to the farmer’s market the next morning. He always paid cash.

Randy threw him the wallet as well as his prisoner’s chef jacket. “Wear that. Sorry about the cash. I’m leaving the cards and your ID. Someone will find you. Show them your ID. They’ll know who you are, don’t worry. Just stay here.”

“Randy.”

“You don’t understand, man. This place does things to you.” An alarm sounded. Randy headed to the door, yanking it open. He turned back at the last minute. “I also add Mexican crema to the jalapeño mac n cheese. I’m telling you. It’ll change your life.”

With that, he closed the door and locked it. 

Straight stood next to the two bodies. Pic’s face lay on his bloodied plate, the rest of the clafoutis unscathed. He could hear shots being fired and screams outside. There were dozens of footsteps running down the hallway. The noise was deafening. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Or going to. 

Straight snagged a chunk of cake and ate it. Just as he expected, it was perfect. The cherry brandy really brought the whole dessert together. He looked at Pic’s dead body and chewed. Perhaps this is what they meant by the phrase “to die for.”

The biggest crime was that he would never know what Pic thought of the overall three-course menu. The separate components he seemed to approve of, but what of the whole meal? The experience itself?

Straight longed to hear his thoughts. Was he taken back to his childhood days? And when the emotion wore off, how did his creations stack up from an objective culinary standpoint? As the outside pandemonium grew, he pondered further. What wines would Pic have served? Perhaps a champagne for the belons, and a heavy Chardonnay for the monkfish. A port with the dessert almost seemed too obvious. Perhaps Pic would have chosen something else?

None of these questions would be answered now. Straight sighed, and took another chunk of clafoutis. He bit into the cherries, the juice spilled down his chin. At that very moment, a group of prison guards burst through the door. As the group of officers brandished guns and yelling at him not to move, Straight turned around slowly. With blood red cherry juice dribbling down his face, he put his hands in the air and screamed “Don’t shoot! I’m a chef!”