Mr. Dawson's Dinner

I stare at the ornate letter “C” carved into the large oak door before me. A letter stamped with the same “C” unexpectedly arrived at my home a fortnight ago. To my disbelief – and great elation – Nathaniel Cutler, the greatest and most celebrated chef in history, had requested my presence at a private dinner hosted in his mansion!

The door opens and reveals a man with slick, dark hair. He is wearing a black suit and waistcoat and looks at me through rounded spectacles.

“Good evening, Mr. Dawson,” he says in a regal voice. “My name is Rejean and I will be serving you tonight. May I take your hat and coat, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Right this way, Mr. Dawson. Your host is waiting for you.”

Rejean leads me through the corridors of the mansion and into a small room just off the kitchen. My host is waiting for me there, staring out a large window. He turns to face me.

I feel waves of nervous excitement. My muse, my idol, culinary genius, god of the gourmet arts, paragon of cuisine, is here, making his way toward me. I’m so in awe that it takes me a moment to notice that he is now standing right in front of me with an outstretched arm.

“Mr. Dawson, I presume?” he says. I finally break out of my trance.

“Yes, sir!,” I say, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. I grab hold of his hand and shake. “Thank you for your invitation,” I conclude in a calmer, more appropriate tone.

“You flatter me, sir. I hope your journey went well?” he asks as we each take our seats.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply. “I must also express my gratitude in having your personal stagecoach pick me up from the railroad station.”

“Anyone invited to my home is worthy of such a luxury. It’s important to me that my guests are always served at the highest quality possible.

“And I thank you for travelling such a long way at the behest of this old man. You’re young and still new to this business, but I see a bright future ahead of you. So tell me, what do you hope to accomplish with your career?”

“I’m quite content where I am right now,” I say.

Mr. Cutler let out a sharp laugh.

“Oh, come now, where is your ambition?” he asks, bewildered. “With feelings of contentment we would never have the beautiful artwork of the Sistine Chapel or the sweet sound of ‘Für Elise.’”

“It’s what my father impressed upon me,” I reply. “He warned me about the danger of being overzealous in pursuit of one’s greatest aspirations. Ambition can turn a good man into an immoral one.”

“Strange. My father taught me to always do whatever it takes to be the best, to have my name echoed for eternity. How many countless names have been lost to history because they lacked the proper ambition, eh?”

“I agree that a healthy dose of ambition can undoubtedly lead to success, but it’s important to be wary of its enticing pull,” I conclude.

There is silence as Mr. Cutler digests the conversation. His brow furrows as he ponders what was said, and then a moment later he smiles.

“Food for thought,” he says at last. “And speaking of food, I hear that your restaurant is doing quite well.”

“Yes, I’m very grateful for my thriving business, but it is nowhere near as prestigious as your restaurant. It’s more popular now than ever before.”

“Yes, but most people don’t know that just before the boom in popularity, we were losing business,” Mr. Cutler admits. “At the time, my joints had completely succumbed to arthritis. My frail old hands could not cook like they used to, and so I was forced to retire, and the restaurant suffered. I needed a change, something new to draw the people back in.

“My solution? Exotic creatures imported from all over the world that I use in my recipes. My menu says ‘beef, pork, chicken, veal,’ but I’m serving them something far more delicious.”

“Like what?” I ask.

Mr. Cutler’s expression turns bitter.

“The ingredients in my recipes are secret. I don’t share that information with anyone, especially another chef that owns a restaurant and might want to steal my recipes for himself.”

I’m horrified! It was never my intention to insult him.

“No sir, that’s not what I meant!” I say frantically. “I didn’t mean for you to feel threatened. The day my restaurant and skill can rival yours will be a marvelous day – a day I’ve dreamt of for years – but it is not today.”

Mr. Cutler sighs heavily and rubs his eyes.

“I’m sorry for my accusation. I’m just fiercely protective of my recipes. However, that is no excuse to treat a guest in such an improper manner. I sincerely apologize for my inappropriate behavior.”

“No need to apologize, sir,” I say, relieved that he no longer seems to be upset with me. “I’m terribly sorry for the slight against you.”

“Oh, you are a true gentlemen, Mr. Dawson,” Mr. Cutler says, his bright smile returning. “In fact, I think a toast is in order. Rejean, fetch the champagne bottle from the top shelf.”

Rejean presents us with lovely crystal flutes and pours the champagne.

“This, too, is a recipe of my own creation,” Mr. Cutler boasts merrily. He then raises his glass, and I do the same. “To true gentleman. We are few and far between.”

“Til god helse,” I whisper, draining my flute. The champagne is not like any I had tasted before. It is sweet at first and then sour, it tickles at first and then sends a fiery tingle down my throat. It is the most unique and delicious drink I have ever had.

“What’s that?” Mr. Cutler asks.

“It’s Norwegian, sir. It’s what my family would say every time there was a toast. I’m afraid I don’t know much more of the language other than that phrase. My parents always told me I should learn it out of respect for my heritage, but I was never interested.”

Mr. Cutler lifts his glass again, and Rejean refills mine.

“To heritage, whose blood runs through our veins,” Mr. Cutler declares. We drink again.

The champagne goes down easy. So easy that I am starting to feel drunk after only two glasses. But these flutes do hold a substantial amount of liquid, and I have not eaten in hours, so my stomach is empty. And speaking of eating…

“Mr. Cutler, may I ask, who is the chef this evening?”

“Goodness, where are my manners? You’ve already met my wonderful butler, Rejean, but I have not yet introduced you to my chef. Pierre, please come in here!”

A moment later the kitchen doors swing open and someone sinister-looking approaches. He has a terrible limp that drags his right foot along the floor and a horribly hunched back that makes him stand only four feet tall. His nose is too large and his head is too small, and when he opens his mouth he reveals what appear to be serrated, yellow teeth.

“Oui, Chef?” the man hisses.

“Sorry to keep you from the kitchen, but I just wanted to introduce you to the guest we are serving tonight. Pierre, this is Mr. Dawson, a fellow culinary expert. Everything must be perfect for him. Now, off you go.”

Pierre stares at me intensely for a moment before hobbling back to the kitchen, singing to himself in an eerie voice:

Sharpen the knives

To cut up the meat

Prepare with a glaze

To make it taste sweet

Warm up the cauldrons

And ovens and stoves

Then add in the oil

Paprika and cloves

That entire interaction was quite…disconcerting. Along with Pierre’s gait and his song being sung to no one, I feel obligated to inquire if the man is well enough to be that close to fire and sharp utensils.

“Mr. Cutler, I hope I don’t offend you by asking, but is your chef...?”

“A bit mad? Yes,” Mr. Cutler confirms. “He suffers from the curse of many great artists. For without a bit of madness, there cannot be excellence.”

“May I ask as to how he came to be in your service?”

“Yes. I found Pierre in an asylum on my last trip to France a few years ago. I had just retired and needed someone to cook for me, as I no longer could. I needed someone whose culinary skills were on par with mine, someone who could replicate my recipes and assist me in creating new ones. And where the world saw insanity, I saw great potential, and so I secured Pierre’s freedom. Another toast is in order!”

We raise our glasses again after Rejean fills mine.

“To the art of cuisine, and the misunderstood artists that bring her to life,” Mr. Cutler says.

This man will surely toast to anything! I’m becoming more inebriated with each toast and want to stop so I don’t humiliate myself. But I already gravely insulted my host evening, so I must continue.

“How noble of you to rescue Pierre from such a terrible place,” I say, stifling a hiccup.

“Yes, it was quite awful, but thankfully Pierre is here now. Rejean, too, is originally from France, though he has worked for me much longer. He is my most loyal servant, and he is paid well for it.

“Although, it would have been nice to have filled these halls with the laughter of children and grandchildren instead of paid servants. But alas, I’ve always been married to my work, instead of a woman.”

“I too am not married, nor do I have children,” I confess. “Food has always been my true love.”

“Quite lonely though, eh?” Mr. Cutler says sadly.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or a feeling of empathy, but I call Rejean over to fill my flute and then lift it high in the air. Mr. Cutler seems happily surprised and raises his glass, too.

“To food, whose love is enough to satisfy any man who hungers for her!” I shout.

“Here, here!” cheers Mr. Cutler.

Over the next half hour we toast to many things I can’t remember. Drink, toast, refill, repeat, until my stomach growls loudly.

“Our guest is getting rather hungry!” Mr. Cutler laughs. “As am I. Rejean, can you please check on dinner?”

“Oui, Chef,” Rejean says, and he enters the kitchen to inquire about dinner. As he returns to the dining room I catch another verse of Pierre’s strange song before the doors close:

Mince and grind

And chop and slice

Sprinkle in sugar

Then add in the spice

Heat up the sauces

And keep the flames steady

One more ingredient

Then dinner is ready

“Dinner will be ready soon, Chef,” Rejean reports.

“Goodness, that sounds like an interesting assortment of ingredients. I’m eager for dinner to be served,” I say.

“As am I,” Mr. Cutler replies. “It’s a new recipe that I will try for the first time myself. A final toast,” he says suddenly, raising his glass. Rejean pours the last of the champagne into my flute. “A toast to ambition. May we reach its greatest heights and be wary of its steep summits.” We drink one last time.

I don’t know how I’m able to come to this conclusion while excessively drunk, but I notice something odd. The champagne in Mr. Cutler’s glass has remained untouched. I had seen him bring the glass to his lips for every toast, but it appears he never drank any. To solidify my theory, I remember that Rejean only stayed near my side of the table. He only refilled my glass.

I feel uneasy. Something is amiss.

Perhaps Mr. Cutler really did take my accidental insult much worse than he let on. Maybe he wanted to remain sober to see me act like a drunken fool as retribution for what I had done. How humiliating!

“Do you know why my ambitious nature has been such a success?” he asks suddenly. “Because I’m willing to push the boundaries of what is acceptable to become the best. I go to extreme lengths to maintain my position as the greatest chef in the world with the most incredible recipes.”

A sharp pain tears through my abdomen. I gasp and hold my hand to my stomach.

“Are you alright, Mr. Dawson?”

I suddenly feeling warm and lightheaded.

“I just drank too much without having any food,” I pant. Something is terribly wrong, and I suspect Cutler knows what it is. I swallow my fear and focus: I need to escape.

“Perhaps if I go to the restroom and get a damp cloth, I’ll feel better,” I say, rising to my feet. As soon as I stand the pain shoots throughout my entire body and I collapse to the floor. Cutler now stands above me.

“You could say my ambition is hungry,” he continues. “It’s an insatiable hunger that has not yet been satisfied. It never will be.”

Just then it hits me: he does feel threatened by me. So much so that he needs to eliminate me.

“You poisoned me!” I scream. That is the only conclusion I can come to, but how could he want me dead over a comment I made out of politeness? Cutler looks shocked.

“My good man, you have me all wrong! Of course I didn’t poison you. You of all people should know that tainted meat is not safe to eat.”

Oh.

I feel my feet starting to go numb, and the sensation travels up my body. I turn toward the open window and crawl across the floor. We are on the first level so I would not have to jump. I just need to make it to the window but the numbness has reached my arms. It continues up into my throat and face.

“I put a serum of my own creation into that champagne before you arrived. It contains ingredients that are safe to consume once the meat has been thoroughly cooked. It took me a while to get the dosage right. There were so many wasted meals. I have now perfected it but you must drink the whole thing for the paralysis to be complete. So, bottoms up.”

My feeble attempts to shove him away are futile. My arms are now fully numb. He tilts back my head and pours his champagne into my mouth. I choke on the liquid as my throat seizes up. It feels like I’m drowning.

Once the flute is empty I immediately feel the effects of the last of the serum. I drool in pools all over myself as my tongue slides out of my open mouth. The paralysis is almost complete.

“I'm sure you understand now why I don’t disclose what’s in my recipes,” Cutler says, hovering over me. “Please know that I harbor no ill will toward you, or anyone else. I’ve hosted many chefs these last few years. I’ve found that the easiest way for me to convince people to come for dinner is under the guise of commonality, and they come willingly. You could say that many of them are exotic peoples, imported from all over the world. I had Rejean check your history and I selected you as my guest merely based on your heritage, but that enticing invitation got you in the door, eh? I’m quite excited to sample a young Norwegian male.”

I am only able to choke out a guttural sound in response.

“I have left Rejean instructions on how to recruit like-minded people so at the time of my demise, others can carry on my work. The future generations will credit the quality of the best food in existence to Nathaniel Cutler, and I will be immortal! That is where my ambition has led me.”

He smiles broadly then turns to Rejean

“Tell Pierre to bring the cart,” he says.

My stomach drops. I don’t want to go anywhere near Pierre. I hear the sound of turning wheels. I use the remaining strength in my facial muscles to whisper “Wait…wait…”

“Unfortunately, we cannot wait any longer, Mr. Dawson. We waited too long once before and the serum overpowered the flavor of the meat. It was such a waste of a meal and I don’t want that happen again. It’s also very important to me that animals are slaughtered as humanely as possible, and since you are paralyzed, you won’t feel a thing.

“It’s dinner time,” says Cutler, just as the wheels of the cart stop. “Pierre, Mr. Dawson has made a mess of himself so be sure to clean him up before dinner. We want our guest at his best when he is being served.”

“Oui, Chef,” Pierre cackles. He limps over to me and with inhuman strength hoists me up above his head and throws me onto a man-sized wooden board atop the cart. He secures my wrists and ankles with leather straps at all four corners of the board, splaying my body out like a human X.

The last sight I see as I am wheeled toward the kitchen is Cutler sitting in his chair, stuffing his napkin in his collar, casually waiting for dinner without a hint of remorse. The serum takes its full effect, and once I close my eyes to blink, they remain shut. There are no words to describe the fear coursing through my being.

I can hear the doors swing open and the cart come to a halt. I can hear the unmistakable sound of a knife being removed from its sheaf. The only thing I can still feel is terror, and the last thing I hear is the finale of Pierre’s haunting song:

Scoop out the eyes

And carve out the nose

Sauté the fingers

And boil the toes

Slice a man open

From pelvis to chest

Take out what we need

Then burn all the rest!