A Dead Man's Dinner

On the 4th floor of the Newman Institute for Advanced Research, a group of students sat hunched over a wrinkled sheet of paper. The document in question was a small, rectangular thing, covered with scratchy writing and old food stains. On it was written:

4 cloves of garlic

Cabbage

2 tomatoes

3 cans of SPAM

Sea Salt

Pepper

Amaze me

The ingredients and instructions were provided by their principal investigator, Professor Robert Crawley. Crawley was a single 47-year-old man with thinning brown hair and pale, sickly skin. His face, littered with trenches that highlighted his arduous career, was always set in a disappointed look, blue eyes piercing through souls. On campus, Crawley was famous for both his rigorous graduate program, specializing in quantum physics, and the tendency to carry around a bronze cane in his hands. Crawley had been doing so since his early twenties, and when asked about this curious habit, all he would say was “someday, it might come in handy”.

It’s also important to note that Robert Crawley is completely, unequivocally, dead.

His passing was marked with a university-wide remembrance, countless speeches, and a 12 o’clock news story emphasizing his successful past and lasting impact. A photograph was hung in the school’s main hall, Crawley’s stoic face displayed with the words “forever remembered” etched below. Lucine Brant found the picture unsettling, unable to muster feelings of grief she ought to have. After all, she had worked with the man for the last 3 years, and although Lucine wasn’t an emotional person overall, she felt strange not shedding tears at the loss. When thinking back on her experiences with Crawley, all she could remember was months of exhaustion from completing last-minute tasks, persistent insults and degradation, and a hint of misogyny. Not much to work with.

There was one thing that he left her. More specifically, left them. She and the 2 other undergraduate students who were selected to Crawley’s selective lab (and subject to the same ruthless mentorship) were given a parting gift: instructions to “Create a meal worthy of Robert Crawley’s Dinner table,” followed by a list of ingredients and an address to arrive at in one month. The executor, who was a thin, frazzled man, mentioned that the will stated “a reward awaits the one who can produce the best dish”. Simply being a dishwasher in Crawley’s lab can lead one to a coveted Ivy League admission; there was no saying how valuable this “reward” could be. Something up his sleeve, even in death. Lucine knew her professor, and regardless of the press’s insistence, she knew Crawley would not pass away peacefully.

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Lucine, with her soft curves and cushioned abdomen, knew a thing or two about food. Even though her dorm was full of instant noodles and dirty takeout boxes, she still remembered her Hispanic father dancing around the kitchen, explaining the intricacies of formulating the perfect empanada. So, for the first time in 4 months, Lucine committed herself to something other than physics. She pored over food blogs from moms of picky children who never ate cabbage unless it was in a Cabbage-and-Spam enchilada. Countless cookbooks later, she learned the importance of procuring good ingredients, which were the fundamental forces guiding the dish. Weeks passed until Lucine was ready to enter the kitchen. She secured her long black hair in a clip, slipped on an apron, and began cooking.

4 cloves of garlic

Lucine took the white, crescent-shaped vegetable and ground it against a small handheld grater. Once done, she found the pads of her fingers stippled with cuts, the sharp stubble of the Microplane harsh on soft skin. Nevertheless, Lucine persisted. She took a pan and some olive oil and quickly sauteed the garlic paste, the kitchen now a deterrent to any vampire in a 20-mile radius. With her hands cleaned and bandages applied, Lucine moved to the Cabbage.

Cabbage

The cabbage she had found was from the University gardens themselves. Once a year, the courtyard would host its annual Cabbage Eating Contest, and it was here that Lucine asked for a head herself. Sourced from the Agriculture building, she had snuck out with her untouched cabbage hidden in her bag. She shredded the cabbage, scowling at the pointlessness of the school’s tradition. Then again, Lucine realized, she was the one cooking for a dead man. While throwing the strips into the pan, Lucine resolved that next year, she would be crowned Head Cabbage.

2 tomatoes

After a trip to her local organic grocery store, Lucine had chosen the ripest red tomatoes she could; firm, a slight give, crisp yellow leaves on the stems. She sharpened her knife, testing the blade with an old essay on the counter, and diced the tomatoes into nice, even squares. Red juice splattered across granite, and somehow, Lucine found a piece stuck to her ear.

3 cans of SPAM

Lucine cut the ham and threw it into the pan, the concept of canned meat dishonoring her and her family name.

Sea Salt & Pepper

Although this whole project lacked any semblance of logic, Lucine was surprised (and extremely disappointed) that salt and pepper were ingredients that needed to be specified. Lucine herself owned a plethora of spices, including turmeric, cardamom, chilli powder, and curry leaves, most of which ended up in her dish. As a finishing touch, Lucine cut up some fresh coriander and sprinkled it over her dish, turning the gas off and admiring her work.

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The next day, Lucine awoke with a jolt, excited for what the day had in store. When initially given the task, she had approached it like she does all things: devour the basics, analyze the masters, disassemble her work till all flaws are eliminated. This time, however, Lucine couldn’t know what shortcomings the judge would find, something that sparked both anxiety and curiosity on the drive to the mystery location.

When she arrived, Lucine was greeted by an old barn, the red paint chipping off the sides. It was missing the occasional panel and was likely defying all rules of physics by being upright. As she carefully entered through the doorway, Lucine saw three tables in the middle of the room. Opting for the center, she placed her creation down and waited for the others to join.

30 minutes later, all chefs were present. They waited for a while, eyeing their phones as time ticked on. Finally, about an hour after the designated meeting time, an old man hobbled in.

He was wearing a dark blue blazer, an aged white shirt peeking through the buttons. Brown leather shoes rested on his feet, and a bowler hat covered his bald head. A leather bag was looped around his shoulder. He made his way to the students, resting his weight on a cane. A cane, Lucine realized, was eerily similar to the late Robert Crawley’s.

The distance between the stranger and the group began to shrink, and the closer he got, the more similarities Lucine found with her late professor. Icy blue eyes, wide jaw, bushy eyebrows. Wrinkles and creases, some from old age, but some that she had seen etched across Crawley’s face just last month. And the same disappointed look that - Lucine was embarrassed to admit - haunted her dreams sometimes, chasing after her for a job poorly done.

“Well, what are you looking at?" the stranger barked out. The voice was rough and hoarse, and made Lucine (and the others) jump in surprise. This was the same voice that gave 2pm lectures to hundreds of students, that ordered around superiors double its age, and that was supposed to be in the afterlife.

Who was this stranger? He looked like Crawley. He sounded like Crawley. But Crawley was dead. The police had confirmed it. An autopsy was done to determine natural causes. His organs were donated for the cause of science. Furthermore, Crawley wasn’t a 70-year-old man.

As the students stood in shock, Old-Crawley took a plate from his bag and began tasting. From the first table, he took a sandwich, licking his fingers clean of mayonnaise and tomato juice. Lucine’s dish was served with a large thump, the stir fry she had created last night fresh and juicy. Old-Crawley widened his eyes at the first bite, and although still confused, Lucine was aware enough to register enjoyment for her dish. After the last sampling, which was a thick curry served on a platter of rice, their judge waddled to the center and cleared his throat.

“Yes, I’m aware that your infinitely small minds cannot grasp the fact that I, your beloved professor, am here in the flesh, aged with time. Unfortunately, I do not have the time to attempt to explain the levels of quantum entanglement that are at play here, nor do I want to. I am not here to help you succeed in life. I am here because in 121 years, long after your bodies become one with the earth, food is supplied in lousy omnipods of nutrition. Now, when I die, truly die, I can do so with the taste of SPAM leading me to rest.” Monologue completed, Old-Crawley spun on his heel and made his way back out, coughing as he moved. He paused for a minute, stared straight at Lucine, and threw her his cane, the bronze clattering against the wooden table. “Well done”, he said, pinning her with his stare. And then, as suddenly as he came, he was gone.

The students didn’t move, didn’t blink, their breathing was slow and slight. Then, from the sandwich table, a voice spoke up. “So, was the big reward the cane or the compliment?” he joked. Lucine let out a breathy laugh and admitted that even though she didn’t understand much of what happened, the prize was definitely the compliment.