Essence

The night before, Tom had spent the evening at the pub with his friends. When Helen walked in, he was sulking, and he didn’t even notice her. He had just been beaten at tetherball by Bunting’s son, the one with the scruffy cap and long beard.

He, the ladies’ man, with his tight white jacket and confident smile.

She, on the other hand, with her red pants, mascara, and daring neckline, certainly didn’t look like a schoolgirl in trouble. In fact, as expected, she stole the show.

All she was missing were fishnet stockings and black lace; she had everything else: a glass of whiskey in her hand, the looks, the moves, and the voice!

“Will you buy me another, darling?” she asked directly to Tom. “Won’t it hurt you?” he replied. Helen tossed her head back dramatically, letting a lock of hair fall across her face.

He looked at her as if she were a 1960s diva. “Two more like that!” he said to the bartender. She drank: glug glug glug, like fresh water. He drank too, continuing to gaze at her, enchanted by her bold and irresistible charm.

Then, whether due to the liquor, the heat, or some other unmentionable thing, he swept his hair back, took her by the arm, and flashed his charming smile. But there was no need! She had already done it all.

They exited the venue, chased away by the deafening noise and raucous laughter.

Wolf couldn’t make up his mind. With his tongue hanging out, he looked at his owner, then at Tom; finally, he turned his head and briefly licked Tom’s hand, as if he were embarrassed.

“Good old dog,” Tom said, smiling.

“You really like dogs, don’t you?” Helen asked.

Tom’s hand was still on Wolf’s head, but his smile faded, and his answer was slow to come.

“I used to have a dog,” he finally said. “I shot him in the head.”

“Was he sick?” she asked softly.

“No.” Tom tore his gaze away from Wolf’s head and stood up.

“He ate too much,” he continued. “He stole the dishes I prepared in the kitchen of my bistro.”

She watched him silently, without saying anything more.

Tom turned to look at the hill. He could catch a glimpse of the top of the oak tree where he had buried him. “He was an Australian shepherd; he knew how to give me his paw and fetch things I threw. He was five years old.”

Listening to him, Helen couldn’t tell if it was a true story or just cruel. Tom turned back. “It’s been ten years,” he said abruptly. “By now, he would have died anyway.”

“But in those ten years, he would have been alive,” she replied. “He would have followed you and waited for you. Ten years is a long time.”

‘It’s too long,’ he thought. ‘And damn too long for what lies ahead.’

“Nobody believes in me,” Tom said.

“I do,” she replied.

Furrowing his brow slightly, Tom looked at her. She was beautiful, unhappy, and perhaps sincere. But she was neither simple nor innocent; she wasn’t wearing white cotton underwear but silver-scaled panties and bra.

The next morning, Tom felt chills; his eyes burned, and his neck was stiff; by the afternoon, he had a high fever. His back ached as if it would snap in two. He managed to brew a tea with willow bark, and after a few hours of rest and sweating, he started to feel better.

He headed to his bistro to prepare the ingredients for Monday’s dishes.

Tom had left sage and rosemary drying inside a bag attached to the external door of the pantry. When he went to grab it, he found the contents scattered on the floor. It was late, and there wasn’t a breath of wind. “Damn bastard,” he said as he stepped back inside, “You’ll do all the cooking today!” Determined to carry on, Tom pulled out a frying pan and turned on the stove. The pan began to hover over the flame. Above it, an alchemical mixture started to sizzle gently. It was an arcane blend, a fusion of earthly and intangible ingredients from places that existed only in dreams, forgotten memories, and the folds of time.

He decided to taste it. He carefully grasped the plate, even though it appeared empty. He brought the fork to his mouth, and in an instant, he was overwhelmed by an explosion of flavors. Sweet and salty, bitter and sour mixed together. Every taste never conceived, every aroma lost over the years revealed itself in one extraordinary sensory symphony.

But something was missing in the end. The aftertaste left his mouth dry. An undefined and bitter flavor, akin to the stale smoke of a dead fire, crept into every corner of his palate. The feeling of sharing, the one that could have given balance and fullness, was entirely absent.

Tom hung a sign at the entrance: ‘Closed tomorrow for iniquity.’

“You need to make some corrections! Right now!” he cursed. “Can’t you see what you’ve done?!”

It wasn’t long before guests began to arrive.

The Wandering Artist approached the plate, scrutinizing it closely. He stroked his chin. “It needs a touch of freshness... and liveliness. The eye wants its part, as does the palate. Colors speak to the senses more than one might think.” He pulled out a small bag of herbs and edible flowers and took a handful of calendula petals and fresh basil leaves, sprinkling them on top. “These will not only visually enrich the dish but will also add a depth of flavors that is still missing.”

“This dish is too modern,” said the Wise Elder with a calm but firm voice.

“It needs roots; it needs a pinch of nostalgia, something to bring it back to the flavors of the past.”

The woman rummaged in her apron and pulled out a small piece of cheese wrapped in paper. “Aged goat cheese. An ancient flavor that recalls home kitchens of old. Just a little, only a touch,” she explained, crumbling it. “Tradition has the power to give depth to everything.”

The Food Critic approached the plate and quickly assessed it. He raised an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he said in a somewhat metallic voice. “But perhaps it lacks a fundamental element: crunchiness. A dish without a contrast of textures is like a melody played on a single note. I propose a sprinkle of toasted hazelnut powder. A small touch, of course, but enough to elevate this dish.”

He pulled out a tool from his pocket and, with quick and precise movements, ground some hazelnuts on top. “There,” he said, satisfied, “a small change can make a big difference.”

The Spice Merchant approached with his bag of treasures. “Allow me to contribute,” he said with an enigmatic smile, pulling out a small vial of spices.

“A pinch of sumac,” he said, pouring a reddish powder into the dish. “It will bring that touch of acidity that balances the flavors. And let’s not forget cardamom,” he added, pulling out another vial. “It will add warmth and intensity.”

“Just a pinch,” he said confidently, “or it will be like the crackle of a fire!”

"Tommy, Tommy!" his mother exclaimed, walking in with determined steps. "It’s past midnight, what are you still doing here? And what’s with those four chairs around the fireplace?"

His mother! She had never been a woman interested in cooking, nor in the company of others. "What’s that mush in the bowl? It smells quite peculiar," she said, leaning in curiously. Without asking, she tasted the mixture.

There was something different about her now. She didn’t seem like the same person: it was as if she had found new energy, and there was an unusual gleam in her eyes.

What or who had changed her so deeply?