Signature Dish

“Welcome to Little Red Riding Hood… How would you like your egg?”

The hungry couple sat opposite each other looking puzzled. They had been travelling all day on foot without provisions and looked forward to something to eat in the accidently stumbled-upon Diner.

A confused glance towards her husband of three years, Galyna prompted Dimitri to query the waiter.

“Can we see a menu?”

“No need, sir. We have egg, egg, or egg – depending on how you like it.”

“Nothing else?”

“A slice of bread,” replied the expressionless waiter.

“Do we only get one egg each?”

“Yes.”

“…And only one slice of bread?”

“Correct.”

“Any drinks?”

“We have coffee, Madam, but no water to spare – and no milk or sugar.”

“How do you stay open with such shortages?”

“We don’t, Madam. Since being voted the worst diner in Konstantinovka, business has dropped sharply. However, we take pride in the fact that we are the only diner open in a war zone. So, we serve to please…

The waiter’s dry wit caused Dimitri to survey their surroundings. Thick dust covered three quarters of the dated dining booths. The décor was worn and looked like something out of the 1970s. An amateurish attempt to paint the interior red had left the walls a washed-out colour of orange.

“Well, I certainly hope your food is fresh,” Dimitri irritatingly pointed out.

The waiter looked blankly at Dimitri.

“Indubitably sir… before the dust settled, it was fresh as a daisy…”

“Sweetheart… don’t be rude,” Galyna interjected. “What choice of egg do we have?”

“Boiled or fried… I recommend the fried.”

Dimitri chuckled loudly.

“That’s it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the bread?”

“Fried or fried, sir… I recommend the..”

“..Fried. Yes, I get it.”

“He’s saying there’s no water to boil anything, sweetheart.”

“Why is that?”

“There’s a war on, or did you not notice?”

“Oh… so, how does he make the coffee?”

“It’s iced coffee, sir… in a carton. He heats it in a kettle.”

“Can’t he fry it?”

Dimitri laughed loudly at his own joke.

“…Your wit is a wonderful breath of fresh air, sir… Please remind me to write that one down on a piece of paper… before using it as a fire starter…”

Galyna smiled apologetically at the waiter, then threw a dumb facial expression towards her husband.

“What if we want two eggs each?”

“Sorry, sir. We must ration our food for our customers.”

“But there’s no-one else here.”

“Our policy is only one order per visit...”

“What if we eat our food, then walk outside, turn right back around, and come back in?”

“…One order per visit… per day.”

Anxious to eat, Galyna decided to break the men’s clash of macho wills by enthusiastically but softly clapping her hands together.

“We’ll have one fried egg each, please… and one slice of bread each… fried.”

“Yes, Madam. Will you be paying in UAH, EUR, or RUR?”

Saying the words instead of the letters for the three currencies, caused Galyna to begin to repeat them like a parrot learning them for the first time.

“UAH, EUR or…”

A dumfounded silence enveloped the couple, then the lightbulb turned on in her head.

“Yes! I get it! Hryvnia. Erm, sorry, U.A.H.”

“Excellent choice, Madam.”

As the waiter turned to head to the kitchen, Galyna added one more query.

“Oh… er…. Are the eggs free range?”

“I can assure you Madam; they have had the free-est of space in my sister’s apartment… That is, until a Russian shell exploded through the window… The bread of course, is made entirely from captive flour… and the cooking oil is the most sought after by Russian tank units…”

Triumphant in his eloquently exaggerated explanation, the waiter left to prepare their meal.

“He’s a bit odd, isn’t he?”

“Dimitri, you could have been a little more cordial.”

“I’m hungry. I’ll be cordial after I eat…”

“Was he just testing us to see if we’re Ukrainian?”

“Galyna, I have no idea what he was doing.”

Dimitri studied the room again. At the farthest wall from the entrance, row upon row of empty liquor bottles lined the mirrored shelves, a visual memory of more profitable times. In front of the shelves stood a dusty bar, where once-upon-a-shot-of-vodka, the alcoholics would seat themselves drinking till they dropped, while others sought out someone to palaver by trapping victims into one-way discussions in a narcissistic desire to hear their own voice talk rubbish.

The Little Red Riding Hood bar and diner, sat in obscurity amidst four neighbouring apartment blocks. Due to the number of pre-war drunk patrons, the diner had been voted the worst place to eat. A label that ruined its reputation. Business fell off and with no income, the alcohol stopped flowing and the sympathetic ears of bartenders vanished into unemployment. The war was the final nail in the coffin. Most of the town’s residents had either escaped to Moldova or were well on their way to the promised land of Poland. Whomever remained were hunkered down shivering in their local cellars, while the Russian Wolf wailed its nightly barrage of screaming incendiaries at Grandma’s house. Ironically, The Little Red Riding Hood had so far survived the howling winter, mainly due to its inadvertently protected location. The surrounding apartment blocks provided a consistent degree of cover from artillery shells, absorbing the daily knocking of the wolf, keeping Red Riding Hood safe from harm. The owner patriotically decided to stay open to happily feed those that wandered in from the rubble-strewn streets, but few did.

“Funny little place,” Dimitri pointed out while scanning the room. “Did you notice the sign on the window that said, We Never Close? “

Spotting a 1950s style jukebox leaning against the opposite wall from them, Dimitri’s excitement couldn’t be contained as he leapt up to take a closer look.

“What a beauty! I’ll say this has seen better times. ‘Free to play,’ it says. Looks like there’s only one record sitting in it.”

Dimitri pushed a combination of buttons. The jukebox whirred, clacked, then broadcast the scratchy sound of a well-played vinyl record, before the dulcit tones of Roy Orbison started to sing,”

“A candy-coloured clown they call the Sandman…

tiptoes to my room every night…”

“BLUE VELVET!” Exclaimed Dimitri, referencing the movie by David Lynch that played the song in a bizarre scene mimed by the fabulous Dean Stockwell. “It’s from the movie!”

Dimitri swayed side to side, then waltzed around the restaurant as the music’s rhythm took hold. Then, grabbing Galyna’s hand, he led her in a slow dance.

“Dimitri, do you think he was kidding about the tank oil?”

“God knows. I can’t quite make him out. He’s either the most sarcastic person I’ve met, or he’s a bit crazy.”

“Maybe he was telling a joke.”

“It’s possible. Tanks can run on lots of things combustible.”

” Ah hah!” Galyna pointed towards the empty bottles at the bar. “Maybe that’s where all the alcohol went.”

Dimitri shrugged his shoulders, then nodded his head in a physical display of contradictory agreement.

“Wouldn’t mind a shot of vodka right now. I’m starting to get cold in here.”

“Coffee, sir, Madam?” announced the stealthy waiter carrying two mugs of steaming milky liquid, prompting the dancers to return to their booth.

“Fortunately, the sugar is already in the recipe. The taste? Well, let’s just say that’s a personal reservation of opinion.”

Dimitri took a sip of his drink, with Galyna following suit while the waiter hovered over them anticipating their reaction. With both taking a second sip, the waiter relaxed his posture.

“Not bad,” muttered Dimitri.

“We serve to please,” replied the waiter as he pirouetted in time to the continuing song, before disappearing through the swinging door leading to the kitchen.

“It’s hot, at least,” whispered Dimitri.

“…And sweet,” replied Galyna. “Lots of sugar. This will have me bouncing down the highway later.”

“It must be that chilled coffee drink you buy at the service station when getting petrol. I’ve tried it before. You know what? I think it’s better heated up.”

Unfolding a map she retrieved from her backpack, Galyna began to study it closely.

“How long do you think it will take us to get to the evacuation point?”

Dimitri pulled on the maps’ paper edge, then swivelled it so he could read it.

“We are here,” he pointed out with a coffee spoon. The evac location is… there – about 10 kilometres… Without detouring to avoid Russian checkpoints, maybe… three hours.”

“I’m starting to get shin splints. Never could run – let alone walk – on hard ground without getting shin splints. It’s a dancer’s curse.”

“Ah, the little Ballerina. Just a memory now.”

“To be re-kindled soon, I hope.”

“I can carry you all the way, if you like.”

“Thank you, my love. That’s very sweet of you…”

“It’s this coffee. I suddenly feel jumpy.”

“Your thin body’s not used to so much sugar… Watch out, food’s here.”

Before Dimitri could turn to look, the waiter had placed his plate down on the table, followed by Galyna’s plate.

“Voila sir, Voila Madam! Your fried egg and bread… Bon Appetit.”

Hovering once more, the waiter smiled as if prompting the couple to start eating. Galyna observed that the plate had been decorated with a red sauce resembling tomato ketchup, and that the letters, L.R.R.H had been artistically inscribed on the plate, right beside the fried bread.

“Little Red Riding Hood,” explained the intuitive waiter as he let out a controlled chortle. “…It’s our signature dish.”

“Cute,” Galyna commented, before cutting a piece of fried bread and egg, then hungrily devouring them. “Ooh, that’s good, Dimitri. Fried bread and egg. Who’d have thought? - and the sauce! That’s delicious.”

“We serve to please, Madam… enjoy.”                    

Retreating to the kitchen, the waiter left the hungry couple alone to eat in peace.

“It’s amazing how good food tastes when you’re starving,” Galyna happily crowed as she hastily devoured her meal.

Dimitri smiled back at her, then froze in mid bite as the diner’s door opened and four heavily armed men with thick dark beards entered. They were clad in black security-style clothing – indistinguishable as to their origin. Advancing in formation towards Dimitri and Galyna, they were two tables away when the waiter suddenly reappeared between them and the couple, halting the men’s progress.

“Eating in or taking away?”

“We are not here to eat…”

The self-appointed leader of the group spoke in a distinct Chechnyan accent, forewarning the waiter.

“…Yes, sir… then, how would your men like their egg?”

The waiter drew the Chechnyan’s attention to his men, who were making themselves comfortable in a dusty booth. Several nods of hungry heads urged him to reconsider.

“Show me your menu,” demanded the Chechnyan.

“No need, sir. I am the menu… It’s egg, egg, or egg.”

“That is all you have?”

“Bread also, sir.”

“…Eggs all around… and toast.”

“We can only offer fried bread, sir.”

“Fried?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind of restaurant is this, anyway?”

“The worst one in Konstantinovka, sir… but may I add, the only one left… thanks to Russian bombs…”

The Chechnyan studied the waiter’s face, looking deeply into his eyes for a hint of insincerity that may require punishment for his insolence. Satisfied that the waiter meant no disrespect, the Chechnyan turned his attention to Dimitri and Galyna, sitting silently, trying to avert their eyes.

“Hey you!”

Slowly, Dimitri finished swallowing the large lump of food stuck in his throat, then looked at the Chechnyan.

“…How’s the food?”

Surprised by the question, Dimitri rigorously nodded his head and replied with two thumbs up. The Chechnyan men seated at their booth, immediately stood up protesting a gesture they deemed rude. Intrigued, the waiter silently studied their demeanour, before they slowly backed down when the Chechnyan understandingly laughed.

“Eggs it is then!... and fried bread!”

“How would you like your egg, sir, boiled or fried… I recommend the..”

“..Fried, you fool,” interrupted the Chechnyan. “…And coffee!”

“Excellent choice, sir. We serve to please… I’ll bring them over to you in a few minutes.”

The Chechnyan turned to re-join his group but was stopped in his tracks by the waiter.

“Will you be paying in UAH, EUR, or RUR, sir.”

The Chechnyan turned his head slightly, producing a formidable side glance at the waiter.

“We’ll pay you… if we like your food.”

Scrutinising the group with his eyes, the waiter loitered deep in thought determining how to deal with them. Their appearance and demeanour suggested they could be trouble. Realising his hesitation being noticed by the men, he smiled a fake smile, then pirouetted and quickly headed towards the kitchen.

Dimitri and Galyna, searchingly looked at each other for something to say. The presence of the soldiers had dampened their spirits to the point of wanting to get out of the diner as quickly as possible. Dimitri rose nervously and started to head towards the kitchen door.

“Hey,” interrupted the Chechnyan’s voice. “Where are you off to?”

“We need to pay the bill.”

“No-one leaves before us. Sit!”

Dimitri immediately slid back into his seat, as Galyna reached across the table to hold his hands.

“Hey! What is that noise over there?”

“It’s Roy Orbison, the singer,” replied Galyna over her shoulder.

“I didn’t ask you. I asked him.”

“Roy Orbison,” Dimitri confirmed.

“Turn it off, it hurts my ears,” commanded the Chechnyan.

“I don’t know how to.”

With that, the Chechnyan sprang from his seat, rushed to the jukebox, and pulled one side of it away from the wall, causing the record’s needle to scrape back along the record to the beginning of the song. Looking behind the jukebox for the plug, he pulled on the cord and was surprised to find that it wasn’t plugged in.

“How is this playing?”

“Can I help you, sir?”

The instant appearance of the waiter caused the Chechnyan to momentarily hesitate.

“…It’s not plugged in.”

“Battery operated, sir… from a burnt-out tank, courtesy of our neighbours in the East.”

“Turn it off,” the Chechnyan angrily commanded.

“As you wish…”

Complying, the waiter opened the front panel of the jukebox and disconnected the battery lead. Silence ensued as the waiter and Chechnyan quietly studied each other - the waiter forcibly suppressing his growing dislike of the Chechnyan.

“…We serve to please, sir… Your eggs are ready. If you would kindly return to your table, I will fetch them for you.”

A grunting Chechnyan returned to his men as Galyna quietly mouthed the words, “Let’s go” to her husband, who returned a mimed, “We can’t.” Like two inanimate mannequins, the couple just worryingly stared into each other’s eyes. The growing amount of nervousness enveloping their mood was slightly lifted as the waiter reappeared with a tray of food and proceeded to serve the soldiers. As he passed by the couple’s table, Galyna noticed the customary letters inscribed in a sauce on the plates were slightly more orange in colour than theirs had been.

“What are these letters?”

The Chechnyan eyed the waiter curiously enough to warrant some suspicion.

“L.R.R.H, sir… for Little Red Riding Hood… our name… It’s our signature dish…”

A few moments of contemplative silence, was broken with the Chechnyan laughing out loud, explaining the joke to his men, who joined in the spontaneous frivolity. The smell of the eggs and fried bread had made them happier, and they exhibited their pleasure by breaking out into cheerful conversation as they ate their food. Within moments, the waiter returned with four mugs of coffee for the men. Stopping by the young couples’ table, the waiter laid a piece of folded paper at the end of it, then disappeared into the kitchen once again.

“Finally,” an exasperated Dimitri blurted out. “I’ll pay.”

Unfolding the paper, Dimitri’s posture stiffened as he read the note.

“Dimitri, you look shocked. How much is it?”

Discreetly handing Galyna the piece of paper, she turned it around to read the words, ‘Don’t panic, you are safe’ written in red capital letters.

“What does this mean?”

Dimitri shrugged his shoulders. The couple were so perplexed as to what they should not panic about, they almost failed to notice the deft quietness suddenly emanating from across the room. Curious, Dimitri leaned to one side to peek over Galyna’s shoulder. All four men sat uprightly rigid, as if time had suddenly stood still, their leader menacingly staring at the couple, a gurgling sound rattling from his throat. After what seemed ages - but was only thirty seconds - a deathly silence filled the room.

“Galyna, I think they’re all dead…”

Galyna quickly turned to discredit his seemingly erroneous analysis.

“Orcs,” explained the waiter, who had stealthily crept up on the couple. “Chechan Orcs recruited by the Russky… They would have killed us all after they ate. No doubt about that.”

“How did they…”

“The sauce, sir. The orange is always poison… the red… delicious… The mouthy one over there skipped the sauce, but the coffee got him…”

Dimitri and Galyna sat chillingly stunned by the waiter’s disclosure, before being startled by his following cry.

“FOR MY SISTER AND THE HENS!”

Hurriedly gathering their things, the young couple signalled their exit.

“Compliments of the house, sir, Madam… Safe journey to freedom for you both.”

Galyna stopped to give the waiter a warm hug.

“Thank you.”

“We serve to please, Madam…”

Sauntering over to the jukebox, the waiter reconnected the battery, resulting in Roy Orbison once again singing the wonderfully haunting, “In Dreams” song. A cold breeze wafted through the diner as Dimitri and Galyna exited the building and faded into the distance. Approaching the door, the waiter flipped the ‘We never close’ sign around to display a hastily scribbled sign saying, ‘Closed for the war,’ then locked the door. Stopping at the dead men, he began to clear the table.

“How was everything, Gentlemen? No need to tip. We serve to please… I’ll be right back to clear you from the room…”