“She wants the zombie beef!” Pierre’s voice burst over the orchestra of banging pots and stirring spoons. The kitchen grew quiet as the staff looked to me.
“Who does?” I asked.
“Annabelle Mitchell,” Pierre replied.
“The food critic? Here?”
“At table four.”
I resisted the urge to peek out the kitchen window. “I’ll have to get some out of the freezer.”
Pierre frowned. “Don’t you have anything fresh?”
I shook my head. “Epidemic’s slowing down on the farms. Not too many cows getting infected now. Has she signed the waiver?”
“She has. And regardless of her condition at the end of the meal, her magazine reserves the right to review us.”
In other words, don’t mess this up because a review could make or break us as a three-star dining establishment.
I thawed the beef, avoiding a close inhale, for it was zombie cow meat after all, and even wrapped in plastic, the smell of raw roadkill filled the kitchen. The menu described it as zombi du boeuf, our mouthwatering specialty that blended notes of garlic with a powerful raw, earthy flavor.
My head thrummed louder than the clattering dishes as I pictured Annabelle Mitchell putting my creation upon her tongue. I turned my head to take a few meditative breaths, like I’d learned in yoga class, then pulled on my rubber gloves, mask, and goggles.
Pierre peered over my shoulder, but not too close. He didn’t have a mask or goggles, after all. “Make sure you get this perfect.”
“Relax,” I muttered to Pierre, and also to reassure myself so I wouldn’t accidentally slip with the knife. Preparation was simple: remove the really rancid bits, coat in my special blend of butter and garlic, then grill to perfection. There was a trick to leaving just enough raw zombie meat — not too much, not too little — so the customer wouldn’t transform, yet would still get that slightly dead feeling for a few minutes.
I garnished the dish with a sprig of mint, then passed the plate to Pierre, who dashed to table four. Peering out the kitchen window, I watched Pierre present our zombi du boeuf with an overly florid bow. Annabelle Mitchell lifted a bite to her lips, then chewed slowly with an approving nod.
A meal well received is like walking lighter than air on whipped cream and cherries, the sweetest feeling in the world. I savored each chew of the critic’s delicate lips.
The cherries soured when I saw Annabelle Mitchell look up at Pierre, a dead hunger in her eyes.
Pierre stumbled backward. “Call sanitation!” he hollered. “We’ve got a situation!”
The restaurant shook with the vibration of overturned chairs and tables as people scrambled for the exits.
“Dammit! Under-cooked it,” I muttered, barricading the kitchen door with the rest of the staff. “We’re going to lose our rating.”
—
Carol Scheina is a deaf writer living in a traffic-jammed world, dreaming of new places to explore. She has been published in “Daily Science Fiction,” “Enchanted Conversation Magazine,” and “On The Premises.” Her works can be found at carolscheina.wordpress.com.
This story is a little gem. I loved it. And it’s strangely relevant to our times.