Recipe for Murder

In the history of humankind, murder has always been associated with jealousy, that green eyed monster.  Starting with the brothers Cain killing Abel over the envy of who had God's favor, the recipe of murder has changed very little since then.  Having dedicated myself to culinary mastery , I thought my envy of Evan Broche was unique in its origin, only to find that there was nothing novel in my motivation to rid myself of such a gifted rival.  

Pacing my twelve by twelve cell for the hundredth time, I find myself in the throes of despair at the prospect of my impending murder trial.  While the community of my peers have expressed their shock and dismay at my crime of passion to the ravenous media eager to feed the eager public; a public eager to feast on the crumbs of my humiliation. 

I can't help thinking this whole affair is some horrible mistake of miscalculation and a misbegotten blunder. I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I am the victim here.  The untouched tray of what they boldly call my dinner, still sits where they placed it earlier in the evening, sickening and unfit for consumption.  Since you have asked, I will tell you my story as I perceive it, even if it does not coincide with the accounts you have read in the newspapers.  I, Nolan Berlansky, wish to testify to my innocence, not as the murderer of Evan Borche, but as a victim caught in the most dire of circumstances from which there was no escape, no other option to redeem myself.  

You see, Evan Borche was a monster.  No one else perceived this facet of his diabolic character, but me.

Alvin Larpse, a food critic from the New York Times, wrote me up three years ago as one of the promising chefs under 30 in the New York Metropolitan area.  I hung a copy of that article near my food station where everyone could see it. And until Evan Borche emigrated from Belgium, I was setting my sights on bigger and better things.  Three years ago was before my thirtieth birthday while Evan is yet to reach twenty-seven. Thus I tasted my first flavor of disappointment which was bitter like bile.  The taste was made intolerable by an article by Alvin Larpse proclaiming a new master chef under thirty years old.

One of the staff hung that article up over mine which had held the place of honor at La Tete du Sanglier which sounds more classy in French than The Boar’s Head does in English.  But considering that fact, La Tete du Sanglier is one of the prime restaurants in Manhattan with a reputation for excellence according to every food critic who has armed his or herself with a fork.  Since I am the head chef, I take great pride in this where my creative instincts have put us on a place of honor on the map.

All that changed a few months ago when we received a subpar rating from Melissa Trapp who felt the Braised Pork Belly with pickled radishes did not rise to our usual expectations according to Ms. Trapp.  Meanwhile Evan Borche was praised for his coq au vin served to Owen Mattiesse at De Grandes Attentes which I always considered a second-rate restaurant despite its translation of Great Expectations.  

After reading this article, the green monster living inside me, rose up and put a fire in my belly that no amount of consolation could extinguish.  

My enemy had emerged in my eyes.  I had to extol my revenge.  I had to show this ingrate how I would deal with his insolence.

I did not consider murder then, for I felt this was a blip on the screen that I could smooth over in time.  

But Evan would not go away.  Since rising to notoriety reserved only for those who were truly noteworthy chefs, I would find a way to beat him at his own game.  Using only the finest ingredients available, I attempted to recreate his signature dish of coq au vin consisting of traditional braised chicken stew which I marinated overnight producing a succulent flavor that could not be matched.  Sending an invitation of Ms. Trapp, I waited to have my revenge, but half way through the meal served with a very fine French wine, she placed her napkin on her plate and told the waiter that the dish was inedible, because the sauce tasted like bile.

I nearly went berserk when I heard this from the waiter who froze in fear that I was preparing to use my cleaver on him as the bearer of awful news.

I still did not contemplate murder. Yet. 

I did wander out into the dining room where Ms. Trapp was preparing to leave.

“Madam Trapp.” I addressed her.  She turned to face me, “May I ask what you found objectionable?”

“Everything on the plate.” She answered, her face beet red as she spoke. “You are the chef?”

“Oui.” I nodded.

“I had heard you were once one of the best, Mr.  Nolan Berlansky, but I am greatly disappointed.” She put her finger in my face before departing which left me in a mood to murder.  Again the waiter gave me a wide berth when I returned to the kitching spewing obscenities and calling on God for justice.

“Nolan, please calm yourself.” The owner Jacques Toulane patted me on the back as I continued to rage.

Talented artists have the right to rage if their masterpieces are ravaged by a critic.  It is true that Michelangelo would drop a paintbrush from the scaffolding of the Sistine Chapel whenever the Pope would wander in to view the master’s progress on one of the greatest works of art in human history and while my artistic quality did not meet his, I felt it was good enough for consideration.  

I spent my youth at two of the finest culinary schools in Paris where I was chosen among dozens of students to continue on to study under one of the greatest culinary teachers alive.  Upon returning to Manhattan, I quickly rose through the ranks until I was considered a true master.  New York Times critic Alvin Lapse even said so in his article.  Food Network had me on some of the more popular shows and I even got to meet Emeril Lagasse who signed a napkin which hangs next to the article.  

As distasteful as it was, I could not help sampling the dish that Ms. Trapp had returned and I had to admit, the dish lacked a certain flair I had become known for.  As I thought about it, I became even more enraged.

How dare this Philistine, this Melessia Trapp come into  La Tete du Sanglier and tell me that the meal I prepared for her did not meet her persnickety expectations.  Who did she think she was?  The article the next day was dreadful. Sous Chef Louis la Fourdage suggested that I go to De Grandes Attentes incognito and see what Evan Borche was preparing. 

“Excellent idea, Louis.” I snapped my fingers.  He smiled, because I did not often give out lavish compliments to the staff.   Early in the morning, I called for a reservation at six, putting it under the name of Pete Smith. 

I could hardly wait for six when I would finally get to meet my rival face to face or tete a tete as he would call it.

“Good evening, monsieur, do you have a reservation?” The maitre d asked.

“Oui, under Pete Smith.” I nodded.

He opened the book at his podium and nodded, “Ah here it is.” 

I allowed myself a smile as a waitress took me to my seat.  From my vantage point, I could see the kitchen staff working through the window into the kitchen.

“Merci mademoiselle, could I inquire if Chef Borche is working tonight?” I asked as she handed me a laminated menu.

“Oui, right there.” She pointed to the tall man with long chestnut hair.  His concentration was on the steamy stove in front of him. Every now and then I could see the tongue of a flame appear above the window frame.

If I had been an actual food critic, I would have commented on the tasteful decor and ambience completed with classical music wafting over the speakers creating an atmosphere befitting a French feast.  All the waitstaff were dressed in fancy costumes including my waitress who fluttered about the dining room filling glasses and delivering the entrees.

“What would you like this evening, monsieur?” She asked me with pen and paper in hand. 

“Would you recommend the Toulouse-Style Cassoulet?”  I asked.

“Oui, it is one of our best dishes prepared by Chef Borche.” She nodded.

“I will order that.” I handed her my menu.

“Tres bien.” She smiled and then left with my order. 

I would like to say that the cassoulet tasted like bile, but it would have been a complete lie, because every bite was delightful.

This experience left me reeling knowing I was no longer the star of the culinary world in lower Manhattan.  A few years ago,  I would be able to cook circles around this upstart, but the sad fact was staring me in the face; I was a has-been.  Maybe it was time to pack my bags and move out west where nobody knew me.

I was going to run away?  I had never run away from anything in my life. I was not about to start now.  

“Why don’t you murder him?” My brain spoke to me.

“I can’t do that.” I argued.

“Why not?” My brain mused.

“This is not how master chefs handle things.” I reasoned.

“If you let him, he will disgrace your superior talent.  Do you want that?” My brain was really smart in matters like this.  “Rat poison comes to mind.” 

“Shush, brain.” I put my finger to my lips.

I ended up walking home in the rain which gave my brain more time to reason this whole thing out while I listened. I ended up meeting a couple of panhandlers on my way home.  One of them looked like a skinny version of me.  I’m sure my brain had set the whole thing up to show me what could happen, but I ignored all of them until I got home.

I sat on the couch and turned on the television.  I channel surfed because everything showed a violent murder taking place.

“You know where the rat poison is.” 

“Shut up, brain.” I yelled at my inner voice.  

“You saw him.  He looked like you from four years ago when you came here from culinary school in Paris.”

“Shut up, brain.” I repeated.  

“You are still the best.  It’s time you claimed it.  It’s time you took your rightful place, Nolan.” 

My dreams were filled with thoughts of murder as I fell asleep on the couch which I had been doing a lot more often lately.  I thought of a title for this whole affair, “Recipe for Murder,” but it sounded too Agatha Christie to me.  

“I am not a murderer, I am a chef.” I kept trying to convince my brain.

“John Wilkes Booth was an actor, but he murdered a president.” My brain pointed out.

“Hey Nolan.” Jacques Toulane called me into his office.

“Yeah, what can I do for you?” I was putting my apron on.

“Your blanc sauce was flavorless.” He shrugged.

“Says who?” I felt my temperature rise.

“The customers.  Most of them.” He scowled. “I’m a bit concerned.”

“About what?” 

“About you, Nolan.” He sighed, “It seems you are struggling and I was wondering if you need a few days off.” 

“Nope. I’m fine.” 

“Are you?  Are you?  I am hearing that you are a bit on edge.” He tilted his head like a mime in a box. 

“Who’s saying that?” I tilted my own head so we could communicate on even ground.  

“Everyone.” He rubbed his hands together as he did when he was nervous. 

“I’m fine.” I said before walking out of his office. 

“If you continue, I may have to find another chef.” His voice reached me and I stopped in my tracks.

I managed to get through my shift, but I surprised myself when I went into the janitor’s closet and removed a new box of rat poison.

As I saw myself sprinkling rat poison into Evan’s supper, I began to think this whole thing was preposterous.  It was like some stupid sitcom I had watched on television when I was bored out of my skull.  

One night, I told the cab driver to head over to De Grandes Attentes. Before I could talk myself out of it, I walked into the back door of the kitchen where the cooking staff had gathered to prepare that evening’s meals.  

There he was, Evan Borche appearing confident as he mixed some sauces together with the sous chef.  I had rat poison in my coat pocket.

“Can I help you?” Someone asked, startling me, and I nearly jumped.

“I’m just here to compliment the chef.” I answered with the only answer my brain could come up with. 

“I will pass it on to him.” The maitre ‘d stated.

“No, no, I’d rather do this in person.” I smiled.

“Only kitchen staff are allowed in the kitchen.  It’s the rules.” He insisted. 

“Very well.” I let him lead me out the door I had come in.

Once in the alley, I found a window where I had a full view of the kitchen staff.  I waited for over an hour until they all took their places before sneaking in the back door again. 

In the kitchen area, I found many places to conceal myself and I studied the movement of the staff from a vantage point.  I put my hand in my pocket where the rat poison was and readied myself for the moment when I would put a couple of spoonfuls on Evan’s supper.  

I could not believe it had come to this, but I was tired of suffering in silence any longer.  I found out that Evan intended to dine on the stew he and his sous chef had made earlier in the evening.  

Why was I hiding in this kitchen like a scoundrel? I was not a killer, but here I was skulking around like one with rat poison in my jacket pocket.  

Standing over the stew, I removed the rat poison and opened it, but it slipped from my grip and fell box and all into the stew.  I watched in horror as the white powdery poison dissolved into the sauce.  Anyone who ate from the pot of stew would succumb to the poison.  I could hear someone coming into the kitchen and much to my dismay, I saw the kitchen staff was coming to have dinner. 

“You did it.” My brain told me as I grabbed the handles of the pot.  

“Stop thief.” Evan blocked me from dumping the stew into the sink.  Taking a ladle, he poured some of the lethal stew into a bowl. “How dare you abscond with my stew.”

“I wouldn’t-” I tried to warn him and the others but it was too late.

They all began to gasp and turn blue as they took their last breath and fell to the floor.

“Murderer!” I heard someone shout. It would be the last thing I would hear until I felt the police put the handcuffs on me and lead me away for the multiple murders of the kitchen staff, among them my rival Evan Borche.  

So, it is true.  I have done the unthinkable.  The entire kitchen crew was wiped out by my ruthless act.  So just like some badly written murder mystery, I played my part badly and now must pay for it.  Jealousy is the green monster that lives in us all, tempting us to do away with those standing in our way of success.