Bon Appetit

Death, crime,

The black limousine with tinted windows and custom-made license plates pulled up in front of “L’hippocampe d’argent” in the heart of Paris. Its passenger, Jean Luc Toussaint, an overweight man with unusually short legs, wobbled out onto the ice-covered street, fighting for breath like a trout caught in a net. The fairy lights on the Christmas tree outside the restaurant's entrance flooded his face in greens, reds, and yellows, giving the impression that he was about to collapse in front of the festive crowd on their way to the nearby Moulin Rouge.

With one final agonizing groan, he heaved his massive weight out of the vehicle, waved off the driver, and then took three shaky steps towards the entrance, where a liveried doorman, with a pronounced stammer, welcomed him nodding curtly.

“Bo…bonsoir, Mon… monsieur Tou…Toussaint."

“Bonsoir, Philippe. I hope my table is ready."

"Of co…course. Mo…Monsieur La…Laurent has ma…made sure that... e…everything’s ju...just as you asked."

Holding the door open for the man, Philippe got a whiff of sour sweat and unbrushed teeth.

“Fifty million euros in his bank account, and he stinks like a pig about to be slaughtered,” he winced but maintained a professional demeanor and a poker face.

It was warm and inviting inside, with the aromas of ripe satsumas, mulled wine, and beef stewing in a spicy sauce. But because it was the night before Christmas Eve, the place was virtually empty—only one table by the window was occupied, and a loved-up couple sat at the bar holding glasses of Aperol garnished with orange wedges. They didn’t look up when Toussaint hobbled past them like a Humboldt penguin skidding on ice.

A moment later, a tall man dressed in a striped black and silver waistcoat sprang into the dining room from the kitchen like a human Jack-in-the-Box. His tie was fastened at the collar with a silver seahorse, the restaurant’s emblem.

"Monsieur Toussaint! The last time we had the pleasure was… let me think…Yes, before the pandemic, that nearly put us out of business. January… no, March 2020, if I remember correctly.”

Toussaint nodded and coughed, his face turning crimson as if even this minimal bronchial effort was too much for his congested lungs.

"Well, yes… I don’t go out much anymore, not with my asthma and the stupid pandemic. In fact, yours is only the second restaurant I’ve visited in over three years. On Saturday, I dined at Le Jardin du Montparnasse, the new vegetarian bistro.”

"And being more of a fish and meat man, you certainly were not keen on their veggie menu,” the man in the striped waistcoat said.

“Not one bit,” Toussaint spat out.

"And I let them know it. In fact, I let all of Paris know it,” he chuckled, his laughter laced with malice.

"France Soir published my review, and so did Le Parisien. Not to mention my own Maison de Gourmand. And you know, it sells thousands of copies each month.”

“So I’ve been told,” the tall man answered.

"The owner of the place, a certain Mademoiselle Pauline, tried to make me retract. Offered me a free lunch for two. But you know me. I always speak my mind. It’s not my fault that her restaurant is not up to standard,” Toussaint laughed again, the sound resembling the grunt of a sow suffering from acute emphysema.

“Not up to YOUR standard, you bastard,” the tall man thought.

"They didn’t have any decent Chablis. I specifically asked for one from the Bleneau area, where the sunshine suits this kind of grape. But Mademoiselle offered me one from Tonerre, where the average summer humidity is over sixty-eight percent. Any wine connoisseur will tell you it makes a very dry Chablis with unpleasant wood undertones. And it certainly doesn’t sit well with peaches,” the veins in his neck inflated with indignation, making his voice high-pitched.

It was well known among Parisian restaurateurs, maîtres d’, and chefs that for Toussaint to write a reasonable review, one had to satisfy his every whim, including his trademark drink—a fruit punch made with fresh peaches and the white wine of his choice. It was never the same type of wine, never from the same vineyard, or even from the same country.

One day, it could be a Chilean Chardonnay, another an Italian Semillon, and yet another a German late-harvest Riesling. But if the restaurant failed to produce adequate wine and make the punch to the food critic’s specific instructions, he would destroy its reputation.

Because of his scathing reviews, Toussaint was said to have helped over twenty good restaurants go out of business. One restauranteur even jumped off the Tour Montparnasse when the critic called his wine selection “an abomination."

So, whenever Toussaint booked a table, fearful restaurant managers hurried to buy white wine from the world's most remote corners, even if they couldn't sell it to anyone else afterward. It was not worth the risk because a single word of praise or criticism from the culinary critic could make or break a business. As a result, Toussaint became the most despised man in Paris, and even more so now, with the post-pandemic flow of tourists sluggish, when a negative article could kill a restaurant.

“Anyway, Monsieur Laurent, I’m sure we won’t have such a dilemma. You specialize in fish and seafood, so you must have a formidable collection of white wines in your cellar."

Laurent thought he could detect a threat in the man’s voice.

“But why don’t you better take me to my table? I am parched and starving,” Toussaint said with a hint of reproach and coughed again, his nostrils flaring like fish gills.

Laurent motioned him to a table. The fat man shuffled behind him, gasping like a beached whale, but failed to inhale much oxygen like a sharp hook stuck in his windpipe.

“Well, Laurent. What’s your special for tonight? And according to that, I will choose my punch,” Toussaint heaved and inserted himself into the chair, failing to reach the table because of his girth.

“Well, Monsieur, just like you are a wine connoisseur, I am a fish expert, so I’d recommend our new specialty: globefish sautéed in herb and garlic butter with a portion of string beans on the side. The chef is filleting the fish, freshly bought at the Daguerre Marée market.”

“Globefish, you say. I never heard of it. I’ll take it if you assure me it hasn’t too many bones.”

“It’s a fillet, monsieur. No bones at all. The meat is white, not unlike the Dover sole you had when you came here the last time.”

“Globefish it is, then. And for my punch, let me think. Like Dover sole, you say. I’ll have a malvoisie—the 2015 harvest. Its fruity flavor will go well with the peaches. Just make sure they are peeled. I remember that once, the sommelier served me punch with peach cubes full of fluff. I could feel the hairy stuff even when it was already in my stomach. You can imagine the review I wrote.”

Toussaint chuckled, making his three chins and jowls wiggle like pineapple jelly.

“I can certainly imagine,” Laurent answered and sighed inwardly. The nasty man was proud of his meanness! He didn’t give a damn about destroying someone’s reputation and their business because the fruit in his punch had fluff!

He gritted his teeth and said through compressed lips, “I’ll make sure everything is perfect. And I can assure you that the globe will be a life-changing experience.”

While the food was being cooked, the table by the window emptied, and the couple at the bar finished their Aperol, leaving nothing but orange peel, and left the restaurant. Toussaint was the only remaining customer when the kitchen door swung open, letting Laurent out with a steaming dish, expelling aromas of browned butter and Provencal herbs.

“One globefish fillet and a side order of string beans,” the manager said as he laid the plate on the table.

“Magnifique!” Toussaint exclaimed.

“The maître’d is finishing your punch. He wanted to make sure the malvoisie was at the right temperature, so he left it in the freezer for a few minutes. Why don’t you try the fish, and I’ll let him know you are ready,” Laurent said, bowing his head so low he nearly hit the table.

The maître d’ watched through the round window on the kitchen door. So did Philippe from the entrance.

Toussaint picked up his fork and poked at the white flesh of the fish. It fell apart into crumbly pieces, steam curling like perfumed coils. He put the first mouthful between his lips, chewed, then swallowed. He greedily devoured the fish and then the string beans dripping with butter sauce while no sound or movement came from the kitchen. He put the fork on the table and was about to raise his hand to ask about his punch when a peculiar expression came over his suddenly blue and pinched face. Confusion crept into his eyes. He clutched the collar of his shirt and tugged at it helplessly, trying to tear off the tie and the two top buttons. A burst of pain tore through his gut. His head felt heavy, and dizziness started to kick in, blurring his vision. Soft moans bubbled out his mouth as he thrashed wildly in his chair, beating the tabletop with his fists and sending the cutlery and the plates crashing onto the ground.

He looked around beseechingly around, but no one came to his rescue. They all watched as his cannonball body rolled onto the floor. He pulled the tablecloth on top of his enormous belly and grunted, his neck muscles stiff with the pure effort of trying to breathe. But his throat was closed, and no oxygen reached his lungs. Ten seconds passed. Twenty… Thirty... He looked up at Laurent with despair, finally lifting one hand to grab his leg, but the restaurant manager took a step back. Toussaint’s frantic fingers closed, grasping nothing but air. Exhaling one more frantic sigh, he no longer felt anything as his heart stopped beating.

Laurent waited for a minute, approached the fleshy man on the floor, and prodded him with the tip of his shoe. Then again, but Toussaint didn’t stir. His face was relaxed, the open eyes staring at the ceiling fan, stirring the stale air. A ribbon of spit oozed from his mouth and dribbled onto his three chins, disappearing in the crevices of the skinfolds.

Laurent turned towards the kitchen, where the maître’d stood, watching wordlessly.

“Call an ambulance, Pierre. Tell them a client has had a heart attack. Then phone Pauline and tell her it’s done. And tell Chef Takahashi that his pufferfish fillet did the trick. Tetrodotoxin, indeed, works like a miracle. Stops the heart in a beat,” he smiled cruelly.

“The old fool will never write another vile review in his life. Unless they have restaurants in hell."