LDS: A three volume shovel: Chapter 8: Arthur Visits the LDS

Chapter 8, read, I have to say in a poor manner, but I did my best. I realise listening back to myself, how much I need elecution lessons, or perhaps I will just become a mute, like the Clown character in the new book I am writing: The Clown: The Deadly Grins. And perhaps I will just point at things that I need or want.

So below is the video and also the text. Warning it does contain quite graphic descriptions of violence towards vegetables and pies.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/f15b8f_86d7ec86cb0f4139ac6ab8ae6afc9293/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

The address written in pencil on the reverse side of the card read:

369 Edgington Row, West Rim

which was not so far away from Kaur Ahmid’s celebrity restaurant  “Bubble & Shriek”.

Although I’d been looking forward to this evening, I must admit I was a little nervous and not because I was venturing into the West Rim district, which of course because of its position on the edge of the Bubble was uncomfortably close to the Outlands, but also due to its location it was a much poorer part of the Bubble and tended to attract shall we say; less savoury characters. And although it was a district that I would not normally voluntarily frequent, my nervous disposition was actually due to my resolve to pay a visit to The Lone Dining Society. I’d tried looking it up online but there really wasn’t much to be found, just a few obscure references. It didn’t seem to have any sort of online presence, which seemed strange if it was a restaurant. Al knew, restaurants needed all the help they could to survive: it was a tough business. Although even there, I wasn’t entirely sure if it was a restaurant, or some sort of sordid secret society. But I was intrigued after meeting that unusual and charismatic man who gave me the card, and the concept of dining alone did appeal to me.

My regular dining companion and fellow food critic Marjorie was having a night out with the girls and so I had some free time to investigate this mysterious place. But I really didn’t know what to expect and that was the main reason for my apprehension.

Walking along Edgington Row I could see that it was a fairly quiet street with, as far as I could make out, only domestic properties, two long lines of terraced buildings on either side.

I counted the numbers as I went, I was almost there 361, 363, 365, 367, 369. I stood and stared at 369 Edgington Row. I took out the card and re-read the line of flourished pencil script. Yes, this was the place according to the address. But it looked like any of the other terraced four-story houses along this street. There were no signs of any sort, advertising the Society.

There was a light on in the front room, but curtains obscured any view to the interior.

It suddenly occurred to me that this was all some kind of big elaborate joke. This strange man, “Charles”: the name had stuck in my head, he seemed to be one of those people that you don’t forget in a hurry, had given me a false address, that’s why it was written in pencil. He was probably a prize clown that got some sort of kick from sending unsuspecting gullible foodies, such as myself to somebody’s private home.

I looked around just to check that I couldn’t see this clown Charlie hiding behind a wall having a good laugh at my expense, but the street seemed deserted.

I was about to turn on my heels and stomp off home in a huff, but something made me stop. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘if I’ve come out this far, I might as well just have a quick closer look. Perhaps I could peek through a gap in the curtains.’

I opened the ornately curled iron gate and walked up towards the front door. It appeared to be red, although in the darkness it was difficult to be sure of its hue. But I had a feeling that something was missing. I mounted the three steps that led to the door. It was a little thing that probably meant nothing, but there was no door knocker. Somehow in the back of my head there was the distinct impression that all of the other house’s doors that I’d seen walking up the street as I counted the numbers, had a prominent door knocker set beneath the iron cast numbers nailed to each door that were easily visible from the pavement. This door had no knocker. In its place was a beautifully cast bronze hand with a pointing index finger that pointed to the right.

What a strange thing to have on your front door, I thought to myself and my curiosity rose. Looking to the right as the hand suggested I saw a brass circular doorbell, the round polished button surrounded by a quite beautiful filigree that as I looked closer, I could just make out cutlery interwoven into the design.

My curiosity cat’s hair stood on end and at the same time, I felt a cold chill of nervousness touch the bottom of my stomach. Was this really some sort of dark secret society that I was walking into. I looked around again back into the street. I was alone, which in some ways didn’t do much to calm my nerves. I stared at the doorbell. I moved over to the window to see if I could peek through a gap at the side of the curtains, but I couldn’t see a thing. So, I stood staring at the doorbell again and almost pressed it twice, before taking the plunge and pressing a short burst on the button. I heard a bell like sound ringing from inside.

I waited but there were no discernible signs of life from within the house. After what seemed to me like a jolly long and extended little while, I started to experience a feeling of relief. There was no one home, it had all been a joke and I would just head home for cheese on toast, the cheese under layered with a fine smattering of best truffle olive oil, with a cheeky glass of chilled red (the sort that needed to be chilled of course) one of my many favourite comfort food fixes.

But then I heard movement inside and the sound of footsteps coming down a hard surfaced hallway. My heart dropped to the bottom of my boots, and I seriously considered taking to my heart filled heels, but my adult sensibility of feeling rather silly running away tethered me to the spot.

The door opened and there stood a little late middle-aged lady in an apron. As her eyes registered my appearance her face broke out into a beaming smile. ‘Hello dear, sorry to keep you waiting. I was just out the back fattening up the dogs. Can I help you?’

“Fattening up the dogs”? That rather caught me off balance as a few horrific images plundered through my imagination.

‘Er. I… er, well I was looking for the erm… Lone Dining Society.’ I flustered, feeling extremely foolish but then following this up quickly with, ‘But I think I may have come to the wrong place.’

‘No dear,’ she answered. She had a kindly down to Earth, put you at ease sort of voice, ‘You’ve come to the right place. I’m not too modest to say that I am a very good judge of character.’ She studied me for a moment before continuing. ‘Yes, yes. You’ve definitely come to the right place.’

‘Oh.’ was all I could manage, along with, ‘Okay.’

‘Come on then love, in you come.’ she said, opening the door a little wider, allowing me to observe that the hallway disappeared away behind her into total darkness. She picked up a little lamp from a side shelf with a soft flickering light given by a single candle, and with an encouraging smile and a gesture from her head we set off, side by side into the darkness of the hallway. I could only see a couple of metres ahead and all I could make out was a lovely, tiled floor and simply but elegantly decorated wallpaper on the walls. We passed a door on the left.

‘I’m Doris.’ Doris announced.

‘Arthur.’ I returned.

‘Like the King?’ she jested.

Of course the legend of King Arthur was familiar to me as a hazy memory of childhood, although in the modern Bubble era, these old legends had fallen from fashion and weren’t mentioned in any form. Aside from the one about the Wolperdinger of course. It was quite strange for this antiquated almost forgotten legend to be raised in a conversation, if you could call it that. Surely, we should have been still at the small talk stage between two strangers who had only just met, rather than any deeper meandering diversion. However, I allowed myself to chuckle politely. ‘Actually, my last name is Schwarzkoenig. It means Black King in Allemanic.’

Doris made an acknowledging sound. We continued for a few more steps. ‘Do you like dogs?’ she asked, seeming to me apparently out of nowhere. But then I remembered her words as she answered the door, that she was “fattening up the dogs”.

I laughed nervously to compensate for feeling suddenly completely out of my depth. Into what depraved gastronomical hell hole had I blundered into? I glanced across at Doris. She didn’t appear to give off any evil witch vibes and seemed like a very ordinary and reasonable person. But sometimes, as I had heard in many a horror story, the ordinary friendly and put-you-at-your-ease types were often discovered late in the tale to be psychotic crazed loonie tunes.

So in reply to her question of ‘Do you like dogs?’ I answered as decisively and calmly as I could muster, ‘Er... yes.’ with almost a rise in pitch at the end as if I was answering a question with another question. I wanted to qualify my statement with: “But I don’t like eating them.” But I just couldn’t bring myself to utter the line. To actually say that out loud seemed entirely ridiculous.

‘Mmm, me too.’ Doris mused lost in some pleasant thought.

We continued in silence for a dozen or so steps.

‘It’s quite a long hallway, isn’t it?’ I decided to break out of my horror-story-inner-thoughts by attempting something of a conversation conducted between two normal people.

‘It does me legs good. Bit of exercise you know. And no stairs, so it’s good for me knees too.’ Doris answered.

I glanced behind me to find my eyes almost sucked into the void of utter blackness only kept flickeringly at bay by the single solitary candle.

‘So….’ I paused because I wanted to try and keep up a normal conversation, but I hadn’t yet thought of a suitable topic. Then it came to me, mercifully breaking through the vision of a cauldron full of barking dogs, bubbling away with a cackling Doris stooped over them, tossing in seasoning with abandon. ‘...have you been here long?’

‘I couldn’t say dear.’

I tried a camaraderie-tinged chuckle, ‘I know what you mean. It’s the same with me. Time flies and then after a while you really can’t remember how long you’ve been there at all.’

‘No dear. I just can’t say.’

I looked across at Doris to see if I could detect a hint of playfulness in her features; either she had a skilled poker face or she was just in her default straight as a die mode. I’d known Doris for mere minutes and in that short time I’d grown to know her as both down to Earth, approachable and at the same time just a little bit strange.

Doris returned my question, ‘Have you been here long?’

‘It seems like it.’ I thought to myself. Was this Doris playing with me? Was she taking the proverbial Michael?

‘Here?’ I questioned. And immediately felt a little, shall we say, mentally challenged.

‘Yes dear, here.’

‘You mean here in this hallway?’

Doris chuckled pleasantly, ‘No silly. I mean here in the Bubble.’

‘Just thirty years.’ I could also play the fish. That was my age: thirty.

‘Oh. Quite a while then. So, you were here before it happened?’

‘Before the Bubble? Yes.’ I was ten years old when it happened. I may have been a child wrapped up in my own childhood world, not interested in current events or politics or “boring” adult things but something like that, well you never forget it.

‘And before that?’

“Before that?” what did she mean, how old did she think I was? So I used my well-honed conversational skills and inquired incredulously, ‘Before that?’

‘Yes dear, where did you come from, originally like?’

‘From my mother.’

‘From where?’

‘I popped out of my mother,’ I paused for effect, ‘as a baby.’ The effect did indeed take a grandiose effect, and Doris came to a sudden stop and turned towards me for the first time since our minutes long forever march along this unlit and bare hallway.

She studied my face as if she too was looking for poker face ability or dumb normality. Then suddenly she broke out into a little laugh, ‘You’re a strange one aren’t you dear.’ she turned back to the blackness before us and resumed the march, ‘Popped out of your mother as a baby.’ This stimulated another little burst of gentle laughter that echoed eerily around the corridor.

Doris carried on for a few steps while I stood rooted, just staring after her, my dumb not only being founded but also well and truly floundered.

Catching back up with her, as I didn’t want to be left alone in the dark in this bizarrely long hallway, I just kept a calm and steady pace alongside, concentrating on simply walking and resolving to leave attempts at conversation for another time.

Eventually, and I really couldn’t say how long, we reached the end of the hallway. At the end was a simple door and on the right of the corridor was what looked like an old-fashioned lift, what I believed was called a birdcage elevator.

‘Here we are then.’ said Doris. ‘Now. Stairs,’ she said, pointing to the door and then to the right, ‘or lift?’

The door had nothing extraordinary to say for itself, but the lift looked elegant and of the Old World. Two beautiful and antique looking wooden doors with large glass windows allowed the view of a most beautiful ornate “cage” that was the lift. More wooden panelling in the lower area and above decorative open iron work. There was so much detail that one could spend hours admiring it.  Also visible was an old fashioned Pershian style carpeted floor and in the corner was a small red velvet upholstered stool. All in all, it truly was a wonderful cage of descent, or ascent if one was coming the other way. Whether or not it was wonderfully safe, was another question and it was obviously completely out of place here.

Doris must have been observing me admiring this Old World contraption and probably took my general demeanour as a vote for descent by birdcage, as she sighed and moved over towards a large winding handle that I hadn’t until now noticed, set into the wall beside the elevator. ‘They always take the lift.’ she mumbled to herself resignedly and stooped to grasp the winding handle. She looked smaller compared to it, her birdlike frame bent awkwardly, her claws grasping the dark wooden handle looking almost as if she wouldn’t be able to move it. She looked up at me with a pathetic and sorry expression that made my guilt response whirr into action. Surely, she wasn’t going to wind me down in this lift? Many questions bobbed through the stew in my head: was Doris capable, could I trust her, was she a dog eating harpy, was I overthinking?

I really was torn between experiencing such a beautiful old and fascinating piece of machinery, and the fear that I could be walking into a cage in the hands of a possible dog-eating witch.

‘I’ll take the stairs. Bit of exercise before dinner will do me good.’ I felt I had to make an excuse for not choosing the lift.

Doris sighed with relief and straightened up. ‘Alright then love, through that door.’ she smiled and nodded in its direction before saying in a voice that I couldn’t decide whether it was my imagination making it sound sinister or not, ‘Enjoy.’

There was one thing that was still on my mind, ‘Doris?’

‘Yes dear?’

‘You said you were sure that I had come to the right place and that you were..’

‘A good judge of character, yes dear.’ she finished for me.

‘Well, if you don’t mind me asking, what sort of “character” do you have me down as?’ I actually physically made the quotation marks in the air with my fingers.

She looked at me and smiled then turned and walked back down the hallway as she said, ‘All the best weirdos come here, love.’

The light diminished remarkably quickly, and I was left with seconds to act. I twisted the door handle and opened the door.

To my relief light enveloped me and I could see that the stairs descended immediately from the door and were of a red brick constitution. The light seemed to come from glass encased constructions that had a striking similarity to my early childhood memories of paraffin lamps, although I couldn’t smell the tell-tale “paraffin” aroma.

I looked back down the hallway but there was neither sight nor sound of Doris. ‘Back into the dark abyss she slides.’ popped into my head; a line perhaps from a book I had once read.

I stepped carefully onto the staircase and closed the door behind me.

The stairway curved away in a spiral to the right. So off I set. Although I got the impression I was in some cellar, there was no dank or dusty scent that one might smell in such places, for a cellar-like enclosed area, the air was remarkably fresh.

In comparison to the exceedingly long dark hallway that, I mused, may well set me back a small fortune in therapy, the winding brick staircase was of a more reasonable scale and in almost no time I stood before another door, this one was leather padded, a deep reddish brown, which gave it the air of a door belonging to a rich gentleman’s club.

I took a deep breath. After my little adventure, I felt it was time to enter this world, for good or bad and before my overthink conscience took hold, the spherical intricately cast bronze door knob was in my hand, turned, and I pushed the door open.

I entered an area that was obviously some sort of welcome lobby. A large Pershian carpet lay over the wooden floor and beautiful wood panelling gave the impression of something Old World and distinctly upper class. In front of me a smartly black suited man stood at a desk, obviously waiting for me.

I walked over.

‘Good evening, sir.’ he greeted with a subtle smile. ‘You’ve arrived at the Lone Dining Society.’

‘Good evening.’ I replied, thinking that his wording was a little unusual and wondering if I should ask for a table for one. But then I thought, perhaps I should look at the menu first, just to be sure.

‘Table for one sir?’ the man asked.

‘Are there tables for more than one?’ I asked curiously.

‘Not here sir. It’s our little joke. It’s tradition such as it is.’ the man said, straight as a Sunday pancake.

‘Oh. Yes, nice one.’ I chuckled and cleared my throat to try on my best formal voice, ‘Table for one please.’

‘Very good sir. Could I inquire as to your name?’ the man held an expensive looking pen at the ready.

‘Of course. Arthur, Arthur Schwarzkoenig.’

The man’s eyebrows rose slightly upon hearing my name and I wondered if he may have read my food review column. He jotted it down in a large book then looked up to ask, ‘Any dietary requirements or allergies sir?’

Of course! I should’ve known this was coming in a place such as this, that was obviously very exclusive and therefore very expensive. I leaned forward conspiratorially and said in a low voice, ‘I have a vegan allergy.’

He just looked at me for a moment before understanding dawned and he smiled, ‘Ah yes! Well, you don’t have to worry about that sort of thing here sir. We are an unashamedly vegan free establishment.’

Upon hearing these words a huge and genuine grin united both my left and right ears. In the Bubble, the word “vegan” did not exist. Or should I say, wasn’t used. The reason for this was that all consumables were vegan and because everything was vegan there was no need for a special term to distinguish it from other foods that involved animals in any way shape or baking form.

But amongst the rich and powerful, there was what one might call an under the counter option, for those with a more discerning palate and of course the healthy bank balance to back it up. This option was only available at the most expensive restaurants and was a practice to which an eye, inadvertently squirted with the lemon wedge garnish, was turned.

One just needed to know the correct phrase to alert the waiter that a different menu was required and the magic phrase was: ‘I have a vegan allergy.’

At these words an immediate up front, usually around two-hundred credits fee would be paid, on top of the final bill and shortly after, depending on the establishment and or clientele, one would either be escorted to a private chamber, or a special “vegan allergy” menu would be brought to the table. Of course, the prices were always extortionate, but in my opinion well worth dishing out the moolah for. It was in these moments, having taken my first bite of my “vegan free” dish that I was most grateful for being a successful journalist, and felt a huge fat dollop of pity for the less fortunates, who had to live on a diet of bland veganity, day in day out. Oh, those poor, poor people.

‘Sir. Sir!’ the man’s voice dragged me back to the present from my vegan free happy place.

‘Sorry, I was kilometres away.’ I apologised and was ready to be led to table.

‘One last thing sir and I’m sorry for any inconvenience or distress this may cause, but we will be needing your =phone.’ the man said in an apologetic tone and tapped his finger onto a rectangular section on the desk, that had a gap all around it, as if it had been cut out. Upon it a little inlaid sign read, ‘Please place =phone here.’

It was like going from sauna to ice dip, except not in an exhilarating, cleansing manner. One minute I was feeling happy with a warm vegan-free paradise glow, and the next minute I felt as though this man wanted to rip out my very soul. And it was something I was not very happy about.

‘My Al!?’ I stated defensively, taking half a step backwards.

‘Yes sir. We require your Al.’ the man was very calm in the face of the sudden drop in temperature.

‘Why do you want my Al? What right do you have to confiscate it? I won’t stand for it do you hear!’ I’d wound myself up to an almost hysterical state, which I have to admit even surprised myself.

The man remained impressively calm and professional, ‘Calm yourself sir. It is merely a request. Your =phone will be returned to you after dining. It is a house rule sir.’

My heart was thumping like nobody’s business, ‘But, but how will I pay for my meal without it?’

‘When you leave the dining area you will be escorted to the resting room where you will be reunited with your Al, payment may be made at this time.’

‘But I need it!’ I almost wailed. I was about to concoct some fib about writing an article on the restaurant and needing my Al to make notes, but the man seemed to have second guessed me.

He held out a beautiful little leather-bound notebook, ‘If sir requires something with which to write?’

Both distracted by, and enamoured of the beauty of the small notebook, I took it so I could feel it in my hands and examine it more closely. I hadn’t seen anything like it for many years. So, he did recognise my name, I thought, and he believes I’m writing an article about the Society.

I looked up at the man, ‘How do I write...’ I began.

‘There is a small pencil inserted into the spine.’ the man pointed towards the spine of the notebook in assistance.

I looked back to the notebook and pulled out a small tubular piece of wood that had a sharpened grey tip at one end. “Pencil” my brain slowly recalled. I hadn’t seen a pencil since I was a boy. And then it occurred to me that it would be impossible to write any sort of review about an establishment that served anything remotely connected to a living breathing animal. Of course, my articles were mostly about the vegan-free under the counter meals, Marjorie handled all the vegan dishes, but I used coded words and phrases like, “succulent, surprisingly realistic meat substitute beef roast” that people in the know would understand. To actually write an article about a restaurant that was so open about their non-vegan menu was, well the repercussions were something best not to dwell upon.

I looked back up at the man, that look on his face, his eyes were telling me: he knows. He knows I can’t write an article, and he knows I know. And he probably knows that I know he knows.

I tapped my nose twice on the side and whispered, ‘Mum’s the word.’ and gave a subtle wink as I slid the pencil back into its bed.

I thought I saw a flicker of an eyelid, was that a return wink?

Somehow this unspoken, unwritten contract of trust or for want of a better word “bond” between us warmed me to him and seemed to soften the most uncomfortable sensation I was experiencing, with the mere thought of being separated from my Al.

The man smiled as a substitute for restating his request, and once more twice tapped the: what I now understood to be a receptacle for my =phone on the desk.

I drew out my Al. It was a thing of beauty, encased in dark leather with my initials “A.C.S.” in a flourished script design standing out in relief. I ran my finger fondly over it and I thought about what we had been through together, my Al and I.

The man cleared his throat.

‘Come on,’ I thought to myself, ‘I’ll see you soon. It’s just for a short while.’ and I concentrated on the image of a beautifully roasted lamb or possibly a decadent bacon sandwich with chips on the side, my mouth salivated slightly.

‘We’ll take good care of it sir.’ soothed the man, waiting patiently.

Slowly I extended Al towards the flat receptacle, my hand starting to shake slightly and I could’ve sworn I felt a bead of sweat run down my back. Al hovered in my hand near it’s designated landing position, we inched a little closer and then suddenly, giving me quite a turn, he was ripped out of my grasp by some invisible force to land flat and unmoving upon the receptacle and before I could grab him back there was a whirr and a series of clicks as, in a flash, the rectangular section flipped over 180°, swallowing Al into the depths of this monstrous desk. Where Al had temporarily rested before being consumed, was now an empty polished wooden rectangle as before, except now the little inset sign read: “Thank you for your understanding”.

I became aware that I had audibly cried out as Al had disappeared and stood there, hand still outstretched with a numb, cold feeling starting to seep through me.

I felt suddenly alone, completely alone, despite being in the presence of this upstanding gentleman maître d’. I couldn’t remember a time I had been without my Al. Were tears welling up in my eyes?

‘Perhaps sir requires a pick me up?’ the man said, holding out a small glass of a dark liquid, that by the way it moved in the glass, was probably some sort of spirit. I hadn’t even seen him pour it. ‘It’ll make you feel better, sir.’ the man assured me, ‘Let’s make a toast together.’ and he picked up a second similarly charged glass from beneath the desk.

I certainly needed something. I was desperate. So, I took the glass, trying to smile in courtesy.

The man raised his glass towards me and said with genuine enthusiasm, ‘To new experiences!’ Our glasses clinked together and we both downed our drinks in one tip. It was a most delicious brandy that felt warm as it descended.

The man took my glass and said proudly, ‘Welcome to The Lone Dining Society, sir. If you’ll follow me.’ and he walked towards two double doors that were so tall they almost reached the ceiling.

I staggered stiffly after him, feeling pale and still in shock, into the most beautiful and elegant Old-World restaurant I had ever seen. It was also possibly the quietest restaurant I had ever been to, despite there being a few guests at single tables around the hall the only audible sounds were the clink of cutlery on plates and the tap of glasses as they were re-placed onto the tables.

There were three huge chandeliers that hung from a relatively high ceiling and the hall was divided up with elaborately carved wooden screens, some spaces large, some smaller and what looked like very small single booth-like areas.

The tables, as well as the chairs were not all of one design. There were round tables, square and rectangular tables, yet all seemingly constructed mostly from wood. There were no signs of any plastic and all were most elegant, and certainly as fitted the decor of the hall, of the Old World style.

The maître d’, my drinking companion, led me across the hall and it seemed that he was mindful to move slowly enough to match my snail like pace, as I still staggered stiffly in his wake. And somehow he managed it with a grace and elegance of movement that seemed in no way awkward or out of place.

Then we were at my table, a beautiful round varnished oak with a disc veneer of marble making up most of the surface.

He pulled out my chair and I dropped into it, grateful for the seat.

The man made a little bow and said, ‘A waiter will be along presently, sir.’ And then he was gone.

It was a strange sensation, sitting alone in this quite large space at a table for one. No piped music, no TVTube or news channels, no sounds of conversation or laughter from fellow diners. I had to admit it was a little unnerving.

I glanced nervously around. There were a couple of lone diners nearby, but they seemed utterly engrossed in their dinners, seemingly with absolutely no thought or care for anyone or anything else around them. I watched one lady for a little and what came to mind was the game: “what’s wrong with this picture?”.

Most times I had ever seen anyone dining alone, or sitting having a coffee alone they would mostly have their =phones lying on the table in front of them and would be almost constantly checking or writing messages, scrolling, surfing and so on. Not this lady and she looked entirely relaxed and as if being there, was the only place to be at that moment.

I looked away and around the restaurant, taking in its splendour. I could imagine this place would be absolutely the polar opposite of where Marjorie would probably be around now. I pulled out Al, or at least I tried to and remembered he wasn’t there. I started to panic a little and my rate of breathing increased.

‘Water sir?’ a voice appeared, and a hand poured some water into a glass in front of me. Was it that obvious that I was having a little panic attack?

‘Thank you,’ I gasped and took a little drink of water.

‘And a menu sir.’ the waiter said, handing me a black padded menu with “The Lone Dining Society” embossed in gold on the front with a little tag line of, “We reserve the right to dine alone”.

‘Oh. The menu. Thank you.’

‘Any drinks to start with sir?’ the waiter asked, but I had to check something first.

‘Just a second.’ I said, as I opened the menu and scanned through it as fast as possible. ‘Oh, thank god. No dog.’ I breathed in a sigh of relief.

‘Dog sir? I should think not. What sort of establishment do you think we run here?’ the waiter didn’t come across as angry or indeed offended, just politely firm.

‘Oh sorry. I didn’t mean to, er… sorry, forget I said that. It was just something that happened...’ I was bumbling incoherently in my embarrassment.

‘It’s quite alright sir. Happens to the best of us.’

‘Does it?’ I asked incredulously, looking up at this immaculately dressed young man, his facial expression answered on his behalf, ‘Of course not sir.’

‘Right. Yes, quite right.’ I internally monologued.

‘A beverage to start sir? Perhaps an aperitif?’ the waiter inquired. He was similarly as professional as the maître d’ and no one if they had just arrived at my table could possibly guess that a moment ago I was checking to see if dog was on the menu.

Normally I would only start with a water proceeding a meal in order to have a neutral palate, ready for the starter. But somehow this evening was turning out to be anything but ordinary. I also had a feeling of being on holiday. A meal without Marjorie was a rare occasion indeed and that fact alone was something I was looking forward to, and perhaps reason for a little more celebration. Besides, I already had a particularly strongly flavoured brandy under my belt. ‘Oblivit!’ I swore to myself in abandon. ‘I will have an aperitif. Tonight I will truly let my hair down and loosen the belt a couple of notches to boot!’ So: I said, ‘Champagne please.’

‘Excellent choice sir.’ the waiter continued with, ‘Bottle?’

‘Bottle!?’ I mirthed, with a little sprinkle of laughter, ‘That might just be overdoing it, don’t you think?’ I expected the waiter was making a little joke, despite his dead frying pan expression.

‘We do have bottles for one, sir.’

‘Bottles for one?! Well I never.’ I mulled the proposition for approximately half a second, ‘What the hell! Go on, I’ll take a bottle for one!’

I was beginning to become more relaxed and I felt I was on the tipping point of a gentle rollercoaster of enjoyment.

‘Certainly sir.’ and the waiter left.

I watched him glide away, bemused at the overall fascinating impression this Lone Dining establishment had already, in such a short time, garnished me with. I made a short chuckle to myself. Quite remarkable.

I turned my attention to the menu. It was a relatively short affair, not too many options, which in a restaurant is always a good sign. Overcrowding the menu just confuses the customer and I’m always suspicious of restaurants that serve pizza, sushi, Asian and “traditional” Bubbler fare, all in one evening.

What did strike me however, as I read through the menu, was how un-international it was. Most restaurants in the Bubble had a rich and varied range of dishes from different cultures around the world, the best restaurants often creating ingenious fusions or variations of a particular culinary style; a different take on Indonassian food for example, blending it perhaps with something more “contemporary”.

I had to admit, I felt a little deflated as I studied the offerings. It appeared, well, rather ordinary, as it only seemed to contain dishes that as I recall were more “traditional”. Or rather, shall we say, used to be “traditional”. It was full of Old-World Islander “classics” (which in my opinion was something of a contradiction), which no self-respecting Bubbler restaurant would dare to present, not only because Islander food had a reputation around the world for being at best: bland and not very good. To, at worst: awful, overcooked, cabbage smelling slop. And don’t even get me started on the bread!

I conceded that personally, I found the regular Bubbler diet to be bland. But that was beside the point.

The spell of enchantment was broken. I sighed and took a sip of water. ‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘I’ll just order only one of each course and I suppose nothing would compel me to forcibly finish everything.’ Although, reflecting upon that point, in a place such as this, one could not be entirely sure.

Possibly the only shining light to this otherwise lonely dismally grey-clouded menu, were the prices. Considering, especially that the menu was “vegan free” and not even just vegetarian, but with many meat options, the prices were incredibly cheap.

Yes. Cheap. Probably cheap quality, tired vegetables, cheap cuts of meat and unskilled sloppy and clueless chefs that most likely were unable to obtain a position anywhere else in the Bubble, let alone open a can of baked beans.

I tried picking out a selection of something that at least approached the slightly interesting. For starters: Onion & Goats cheese tartlets. Main course: Steak & Kidney pie with mashed potato. And for dessert: Apple Pie with vanilla ice cream.

I was so glad that Marjorie or even worse, any of my foodie friends were not here to see me make my order. It was positively common and thoroughly demeaning. I would never have lived it down. And regarding the “food” I only hoped that I could keep that down, at least until I arrived home.

My champagne arrived, a crystal champagne glass and a cute little ice bucket with mini champagne bottle. It was of course a name I’d never heard of. Probably cheap, most likely had never been anywhere near L’Francey.

The waiter popped and poured. I sipped and immediately recognised a champagne of the utmost quality, fine bubbly bouquet, mild sharp tang and fresh floral yet vaguely fruity after taste.

Perhaps, to get me through my courses I would order several more of these cute “baby” bottles, because to be frank, this whole experience seemed destined to be a sham.

The waiter stood poised with his pencil and pad, ready to take my order, drawing my attention to another odd quirk to add to the increasingly growing list of peculiarities about this place. Nobody used Old World and frankly neanderthal writing implements any more, paper, pen or pencil. Everything was digital. I was reminded of the beautiful leather-bound notebook and mini pencil in my pocket and briefly toyed with the fantasy that, maybe even a neanderthal could have culture and something almost verging on the beautiful, but then again perhaps that was going a little too far.

I made my order, in a slightly lower voice. There wasn’t anyone else close enough to hear, but it felt so embarrassing hearing myself say these dishes out loud, almost as if I was ordering a new set of compromising sex toys.

I sat silently, sipping this wonderful champagne, it’s relaxing and warm glowing effect now starting to radiate through me, the brandy having also given it a good kick on it’s way too. Only a couple of times did I feel the Al reflex, my hand dipping down towards my pocket for the automatic extraction of my =phone. The second time, as a surrogate I reached into my inner jacket pocket and pulled out the notebook. I just looked at it as I supped my champers. It would never replace my Al, but it did have a charm of its own.

My starter arrived on a small white plain porcelain plate along with a small fork.

I had to admit they did look rather good, the pastry looked solid, just browned enough without being burned, yet it looked also: soft. Well, the proof was in the pudding, so to speak.

I forwent the small fork, I was a hands-on eater for such culinary varieties. I picked up one of the tartlets and tentatively bit into it. It was still warm, the pastry was as it looked, soft yet firm enough to give real satisfaction and the taste as it blended with the onion and goat's cheese filling was nothing other than divine! I literally made a long muffled  ‘Mmmm’ sound as I chewed, mouth closed of course: I was a messy eater, I could admit that, but mouth open when eating was a step too far.

Oh, there went a few crumbs down my front and some of the filling was probably smeared to the side of my mouth, although I didn’t know for sure. And there was no Marjorie here to point it out. In fact, there was nobody here at my table sitting and observing my deficiency. It was heaven.

I took a sip of the champagne in between bites. Okay, so the champagne didn’t exactly match so well with the tartlets, but it didn’t matter, I was enjoying myself. These tartlets really were superb!

‘Now, now, Mr. Schwarzkoenig,’ I thought to myself, ‘Don’t get over excited only to be let down with the next course. These could just be commercially made tartlets, obviously from a high-quality bakers, warmed up in the oven. Don’t get your hopes up. The main course will probably be a huge disappointment. Inedible I shouldn’t wonder.’

My eyes fell upon the menu. Perhaps there was a way to check if these tartlets were some sort of fluke, an unintentional gem in a sea of bland slop, ordered by mistake by an incompetent buyer?

I opened the menu and drew my finger down the list of starters.

I signalled to the waiter, which was remarkably uncomplicated and quick: they were good, alert and observant. ‘These are delicious.’ I had to first make the compliment.

‘Thank you sir, the chef will be delighted to hear it.’

Chef? I had a sneaky suspicion that the chef had nothing to do with it, aside from turning on an oven and popping them in. But still, one shouldn’t jump to conclusions, even though I was sure I was right. ‘Would it be possible to order a second starter? There was something that caught my eye and I would really love to try it.’ it was a little white lie, but no one would ever know.

‘Of course sir. The main course can be delayed, no problem at all.’

‘Wonderful, thank you.’ I tried to suppress a smug smile, ‘I’d like the mini sausage rolls with three pot dips please.’ Let’s see how those turn out. Sausage rolls indeed, in a restaurant!

‘Sausage rolls,’ the waiter repeated the order as he wrote it down, his tongue working away in the corner of his mouth in concentration.

‘Oh, and another bottle for one please.’ I added, I might as well make a night of it and at least I’d have something quality to wash away any bad or stale tastes that might be heading my way.

‘Certainly sir.’ the waiter said, clearing the plate and ice bucket after emptying the last of the champagne to my glass.

The mini sausage rolls arrived. I hadn’t seen a sausage roll since I was a boy, but I did remember them, I was always into my food. Sausage rolls, as I remember, were okay but tended often to be flat and a little stale. These however were nothing short of a delight. Perfect puff pastry and my word, the sausage: with a hint of smokiness, was it? And then the dips. There were three distinctly different dips, each tasting as if it had been freshly prepared: one slightly sweet, one quite tangy with a little heat and one a sort of minty refreshing mixture, yet it wasn’t simply mint sauce. I did question whether these dips would pass the Old World “trad.” test, but I was too lost in ecstasy to care.

I tried to make the most of coating these delicious mini sausage rolls in the dips, possibly a little too enthusiastically as the dips started to find their way onto other surfaces other than the finger food.

Some ended in my lap, some on my shirt, on my jacket sleeve and I believe I may have even, somehow, managed to get some in my hair. But no rebukes, no face wiping and tutting. No, ‘Can’t you eat like a proper person?’

The champagne flowed from bottle to glass and from glass to mouth, oh and there went a little down my front.

I had specially picked out a shirt to wear for this evening and for just such a situation. Marjorie hated it, so I rarely wore it out of the house. It was a vibrant multi coloured almost impressionistic masterpiece of tailoring, or at least I thought so. Marjorie said it looked as if an elephant had thrown up over me. But perhaps that there was the magic of such a shirt. Stains and spills were, one could say, camouflaged. I thought about Marjorie and what she thought of my shirt and messy eating and smiled to myself.

I made a silent toast to Marjorie and hoped she was having a good time with the girls. I was certainly having the time of my life and I gave up a little prayer of thanks to St. Marjorie for giving me this special time alone, to eat and feel completely relaxed.

The champagne really was taking hold now and mixed with my euphoria over the first two starters and my free rein to eat as I liked, it headily combusted into a quite preposterous almost primal urge, rashly born in anticipation of the main course, ‘Maybe I can take this up a notch? It could be fun.’ I giggled a little. No, I couldn’t. Could I? Perhaps not here.

I ordered another bottle and gestured to the waiter to come closer, and I whispered my request into his ear, it was all I could do to stop from bursting into hysterical laughter as I explained. I must admit at this point I was quite tipsy, possibly even quite drunk.

The waiter straightened up and I expected him to look embarrassed and caught offguard, not knowing how to deal with this drunken customer. All the best weirdos come here love, echoed from the long dark hallway.

But to my surprise the waiter smiled obligingly and said, ‘Of course sir. We can definitely accommodate. If you would be so kind as to come with me, we will find a more suitable table for you.’

He led me away from my table and I was halfway across to the other side of the hall when I realised, I still had my champagne glass in my hand. ‘How uncouth,’ the words slurring even in my head. I knocked back the remains and without a care I popped the glass down on a table as I passed, now swaying slightly (myself, not the table).

I was led to an area out of the main hall, down a corridor, up some stairs and eventually in front of a door that after a polite knock and a short wait from the waiter, was then opened and in we went.

It was quite a beautiful room with a single table positioned in the middle, on a tiled floor of what looked like Portugahlish origin. The walls and indeed ceiling were also tiled. In fact, even in my inebriated state, I observed that there was no fabric of any kind in the room.

‘Please take a seat sir. Your main course and bottle for one will arrive momentarily.’ the waiter said, his voice echoing curtly against the hard surfaces in the room. He left and closed the door.

Marjorie would never believe this. What a bizarre and wonderful experience! I had a great urge to share this with her and also with my social media, only for a few seconds until I realised that sharing this experience might serve me up into a large pan of hot water.

I once more, like a Pavlov’s dog, went for my Al. ‘Oh.’ I moaned.

Momentarily, as promised, my new, fourth bottle? arrived. Shortly followed by my main course. A steaming plate with a proper pie, no ceramic pastry wall surrogate, the whole pie was constructed of pastry and very tasty it looked too. Mashed potatoes, topped with a few crisp fried onions, carrots, peas and a luscious gravy that coated a third of the pie and lay around the plate like a beautifully undisturbed quagmire swimming pool. I couldn’t wait to dive in.

‘Would sir care for a napkin?’ the waiter asked, putting a hand on his forearm that I only now noticed was draped with some white cloth. ‘Regular, large, extra-large, or full body suit?’

‘Oh, yes.’ I said, ‘Regular please.’ One should always take care to wear protection, especially when two sheets to the wind.

The waiter handed me a small napkin that I ceremoniously tied around my neck. He was about to take his leave when he stopped by the door, ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Would sir like the mirror?’

I was thrown. What did he mean, the mirror? So, I investigated with, ‘The mirror?’

‘Some clients find that a mirror enhances the experience.’ he said gesturing towards what looked like a large wooden set of horizontal slats positioned directly in front of me.

Well, what can you say to that? ‘I’ll take the mirror.’ I slurred.

‘Very good sir.’ and the waiter pulled on a band that lifted these slats upwards to reveal a large mirror. And also, to reveal myself sitting looking at myself with a stupid open mouthed my-brain-is-not-at-home expression. ‘Oh,’ I thought. Seeing myself in my stained shirt, for despite my theory that the pattern was a disguise for my sloppy eating, the bright light in this room definitely debunked this. And from a distance and at this point in the evening, Marjorie’s comment about elephant vomit was making more sense.

‘You can really see everything, every stain and splotch.’ I mused drunkenly. I was past trying to cover up my alcohol induced speech.

‘We can dim the lights sir?’

‘Oh, no. Not nessry.’

The waiter nodded in understanding and left the room, closing the door behind him.

I looked down at my Steak & Kidney pie, lifted my glass to it and said almost romantically, ‘Alone at last.’ before taking a sip, not letting my eyes slip from the beautiful pert and succulent looking pastry wall. I growled breathlessly. You’re mine, I thought, all mine.

I sighed pleasurably and took up my knife and fork. Battle, or perhaps a passionate dance was about to commence. I struck home mercilessly into the heart of the pie, it fell open, steaming, a surge of rich dark gravy spilling out onto the plate. I made a second incision creating a small wedge that I quickly scooped up with the aid of both weapons and projected toward my mouth. I almost made it perfectly, but the piece of pie, slathered in gravy, knocked against the side of my mouth pushing the viscous liquid across my face and a little up towards my nose. But no matter, the majority found its way along to delight my palate. Oh, the joy! What flavours! The sauce and meat long and slow cooked and developed to such a state of almost perfection. Oblivit! Here and now for me, my darling pie and I, it was perfection. I couldn’t imagine a world without her. I struggled to keep my mouth closed as I ground my teeth, wanting to draw breath in this passionate culinary embrace.

Next, a scoop of mashed potato, I could hardly wait to deliver it to my mouth and so I flung it with abandon at my face, hoping beyond hope that my maul would find purchase. It half did, the other half, and what did I care, hit the side of my face and rebounded onto my shoulder and off somewhere behind me. Oh! Happy Day! I was in my element. This is what I was born for. To be in the moment, unfettered, unashamed, gorging myself without shame.

Oh cheeky carrot, where art thou? Oh, there you are! Cheeky little carrot! I didn’t even bother to use my cutlery, I aimed a drunken aim and launched my mouth snarling at the poor doe-eyed carrot without mercy and savagely grasped her with my incisors, throwing my head back to pull in this gorgeous and beautifully steamed root vegetable into the Black King’s jaw of despair. Drunkenly, and I really was quite drunk, I rounded on the peas, I fenced with them, stabbing with my fork, but my technique was found to be severely lacking, or perhaps it was just the champagne. So, I proceeded recklessly to plan B, I slammed my hand down on top of the innocent virgin and so very green peas. Oh how many years later I would hold my head in shame and weep for what I inflicted on these so young, oh how so young, yet succulent, fresh albeit now totally squashed green peas of the garden variety.

My hand, grasping the crushed and defiled bodies of the peas and coated in gravy, relentlessly slammed in the general direction of my mouth. I estimated approximately 66.7% were lost into my culinary abyss.

Although feeling tinges of remorse and guilt of my un-gentlemanly behaviour and at the same time my appetite being both aroused and stimulated just by the thought of it, I ploughed on. More pie, dollops of mashed potato, the veg, the gravy, swinging by to slurp the champagne that had fuelled the whole episode. This dish was orgasmic, by way of flavour and quality and genius level artisan cookery, or perhaps even, dark seductive devilish cookery. And much of it was lost as attrition in this passionate war or affair against wall, ceiling, floor, table, mirror, clothes, face and hair. Interestingly enough, and in retrospect, the surface that was least covered in the stains of passion was my regular sized napkin. Which was an interesting observation.