Maison Malade

As Greg removed the intricately folded napkin from his plate, the coarse texture of the fabric made him wonder if by using that napkin he was going to lose his fingerprints that evening. Upon inspection, the fabric of choice was tulle, except it had been starched to an inch of its life. Scrunching his mouth up to his eyebrows, he looked around in utter confusion.

Greg Pundit had a sterling 20 year trajectory as one of North America’s most prestigious and renowned food critics. While his initial start had been a stroke of luck, the New York Times snatched him up after just two of his reviews as an independent reporter. 

Restaurants around the globe hoped Greg Pundit would show up and grant them the possibility of earning their Michelin Stars. From Jean-Georges in New York to The Fat Duck in the UK, his discerning palate and uncompromising standards were infamous in elite culinary circles. When Greg bestowed a favorable review, a restaurant became booked months in advance. His non-recommendation is akin to a death sentence.

Sitting in the florescent light of the insulting Maison Malade, Greg’s nostrils flared as the swirls of a stench entered through his nasal cavity. The distinguishable smell of body odor in a fully packed European public transportation system impacted his gag reflex. He grabbed his napkin and coughed into it, only to pull the fabric away from his face as if a frayed wire had just shot electricity into his limbs. The tulle left scuff marks on his nose.

The suffocating space boasted red and maroon velvet drapes on the windowless walls. Chrome pillars stood in blinding lighting on each corner of the room. The circular tables, empty except for his own, proudly displayed a white tablecloth with enough lace and trim to make any grocery store sheet cake envious. The centerpiece candelabra, dripping in imitation gemstones, stood tall among the black dishes and utensils.

There was an uncalled for juxtaposition between the food court of a mall and the quarters of an ancient seamstress who continued to favor the color palette her mother once deemed fashionable.

"Welcome, Meester Pundit. The one and only Greg Pundit, in our traditionally French establishment. What a magnificent honor and surprise," the stout and olive-skinned man, who could not have been more than 5 feet tall, said. His dark eyes were bright and excited, and beneath them, a heavy black mustache covered his oversized lips.

"I am Pedro Mereles, the owner. It is truly a delight to have you here, Meester Greg," Pedro continued, undeniably and genuinely thrilled to have a food critic of Greg Pundit's caliber at his restaurant.

"This is an interesting space you have here, Mr. Mereles," Greg said dryly. Pedro beamed.

"Yes, it has been my dream to open up something like this ever since my mother's cousin went to Paris in 1982 and studied at the Cordon Bleu."

Greg nodded.

"Yes, she was gone for a week and came back to teach us all of the dishes she learned."

"A week?" Greg asked sternly.

"Well, it was a very thorough week," Pedro's toothy smile continued to grow with each interaction. "Shall we review the menu? Giovanni, please get the mon-sewer a glass of our welcome wine."

Greg blinked, watching Pedro turn to a tall, muscular young man with long eyelashes and rosy cheeks, obviously neither French nor Mexican. He pulled out his phone to triple-check the email he had gotten from his assistant. He had been hesitant to hire someone so young, but his previous assistant had finally retired and he needed the help. Besides, his daughters had been encouraging him to connect with the younger generation, and maybe this was that chance.

"Maison Malade, Thursday, October 5th, 555 Main Street, New York, NY." It checked out, but the confusion continued to nag in the forefront of Greg's mind. Perhaps the chef will dazzle me, he hoped.

"Well then, shall we begin?" Pedro stood holding his hands over his chest, one hand inside the other, a proud mother bird perched on a branch, unaware her unprepared chicks were about to plummet to their deaths at any second.

"As I said, my aunt Maria Eugenia Natalia Patrice went to Paris in the 80s and came back with knowledge that delighted me. Between our tamalitos and enchiladas, I realized my knowledge of Mexican cuisine as well as my pellet needed to expand. And so, I learned how to make items such as garlic scum and the wolf of the sea."

Greg held out a hand and shook his head. "Excuse me, I'm sorry," there was a stabbing pain in his temples. Am I experiencing an aneurysm? "First of all, it is a palette, not pellets. And second of all, please repeat the dishes. What do you mean?"

The wrinkled grooves on Pedro's previously radiant leathery face shifted into a scowl. "The wolf of the sea. Loo de Mehr," he pointed at the piece of cardstock he was holding. Printed in embossed lettering, with illegible deep red calligraphy, Pedro displayed his menu. The depiction of what Greg assumed was a shimmery watercolor rendition of an Eiffel Tower surrounded by cherubs playing the trumpet adorned the entire bottom half.

"The Sea Bass, Loo de Mehr," he repeated.

Greg took the thick piece of paper and read it: "Loup de mer sur lit de lentilles." Beneath it, in stark serif font, "wolf of the sea on a bed of contact lenses."

"Mr. Mereles," Greg suppressed the shot of heat that spread out over his body. He did not know whether to laugh or cry. Before he could voice his thoughts, the young man arrived with a glass of wine.

"Le Cupcake du jour, for you, sir," he said as he pulled out the $8.99 bottle of Cupcake brand Sauvignon Blanc, most commonly available among college students, if that.

Greg lifted both hands this time, "Please, none for me." He was not smiling, and he was not going to give any further explanation either.

Pedro's face deformed. The sparkle in his eyes was replaced by a watery glaze as his cheeks dropped down almost to his chin. "But, the dessert wine?" It was almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of an entire classroom's worth of kindergarteners learning that Santa Claus was not real.

"Mr. Mereles, I am sorry, but I am not going to be able to stay for the dishes. Your menu has clearly been translated directly from the internet, with no understanding of what the ingredients actually are–"

"No." A devastated voice popped behind the beaten owner and confused waiter. "You have not even tried the amused bootch!" A tall and slender woman of East Asian descent walked out holding a spatula. Wearing the chef's hat and white uniform with visible black stains on the chest, she approached Greg.

"It has been my husband's lifelong wish to open a French restaurant, and if we want to attract the social media influencers, we need you to write a blog about us." Her eyes widened with gravity, as if the fate of humankind depended on the blog Greg was about to write.

"Mrs. Mereles," Greg started.

"My name is Wanda," she shot, visibly offended.

"Wanda," Greg tried a second time, "I understand your husband had high hopes for this place, but I simply, in good conscience, cannot stay."

"But why! Why the hell not!" If Wanda had been a robot in a futuristic Sci-Fi movie, her eyes would have turned into machine guns.

"Ma'am, your husband has offered me garlic scum, and your menu says you will be serving The Opposite of Apples in the Nipples of Goats with Cheese." Greg pointed at the third line on the menu.

Pedro Mereles burst into tears as he turned to cry into his wife's bosom, "My mother taught me how to cook that. It has her secret sauce." His body heaved as his wife patted his shoulders.

"Mr. Pundit, I am going to ask you to leave. You have insulted us enough for the evening." Wanda pointed at the front door, jaw visibly clenched, lips paper-thin.

Greg Pundit, in utter shock, confusion, and relief, grabbed his coat and phone from his table and speed walked out to the brisk New York evening. The fresh air filled his lungs. He inhaled as if it was the first time he had had access to oxygen.

His pocket buzzed as he received an incoming text message from his assistant: Hi Mr. Pundit! Please disregard the address for tonight’s review. I meant to send that to Carl who is doing a TikTok  list on the top 10 places to avoid in New York City. Talk to you soon!