To Kill a Line Cook

Alex held his jacket over Leila as the thunderhead above rained down a firing squad. His hands were busy, so Leila rang the doorbell. Lightning flashed. Thunder clapped. Icy beads hit them at an angle, outflanking the protection of the eaves, their only line of defence. While they waited, his fingers went fishbelly white with cold; he felt his kneecaps freezing over like two small ponds, and when the door finally opened, he was swept by a chilling horripilation. 

“Come in, come in!” cried Mrs. Amin. “It must be awfully cold out there.”

“Freezing,” Alex confirmed with a nervous chuckle. He noticed the shoe rack and promptly found a place for his wet sneakers. Leila followed suit. 

“You must be Alex.” And then Mrs. Amin planted a sloppy middle-aged kiss on his unsuspecting lips, followed by a tight hug. 

Alex shot Leila an over-the-shoulder look that said, You could have warned me about that, and then he returned to beaming at his girlfriend’s mother. 

“Hey! That’s my wife!” Mr. Amin stood in the partition leading into the kitchen; his arms were crossed, brows furrowed. Then he broke character with a laugh and clambered on over to greet them.

“Don’t worry, kid, I won’t French kiss you,” said Mr. Amin, to which his wife responded with a playful smack. Alex laughed and outstretched his hand. They shook.

“It’s nice to finally meet you both. Sorry we’re late. Hell of a storm.” Thunder clapped to back him up, and Alex made a ‘see!’ gesture. 

“That’s not why you’re late,” Mr. Amin said simply. “Leila told us you two had a little spat before you left. Want to tell us about that?”

“What?” Alex looked at Leila, who shrugged, then back at Mr. Amin. “I, uh, didn’t think … yeah, I don’t know. I guess we did, yeah.” Why would Leila think that their argument was any of her parents’ business? He made a mental note to ask her about it on the drive home. 

“What kind of man are you, Alex?”

Alex chuckled, waiting for Mr. Amin to break character. He didn’t. “Uh, loaded question.”

There was a long silence. Rain pelted the windows outside. Lightening. Thunder. And then, “Just messing with you, kid!” Everyone laughed, and Alex allowed himself to relax. The argument detail might have been a lucky guess. Leila squeezed his arm to let him know they were okay. He liked it when she did that. 

Another spell of silence fell over the room. Leila broke it this time. “Is dinner ready?”

“Almost,” said Mr. Amin, rubbing his hands together. “Boy, do I have a treat for you. Can’t have what I’m making anywhere else in the world. No sir!”

“Oooo,” Alex enthused. “Can’t wait. I’ve heard amazing things about your cooking.”

“Me too,” he joked, then said, “Right this way,” waving them into the dining area. 

“It smells delicious,” Alex said, breathing in the hearty haze. 

“Thank you, young sir. Special tonight is lamb.”

“Lamb?”

“Lamb.”

“It’s always lamb,” Leila muttered, then winked at Alex for some reason. He winked back. She smiled, and he relaxed further, feeling more at ease—although a part of him was itching to ask her whether or not she had told her parents about their fight. 

They sat down at the table while Mrs. Amin went to get wine. “Cabernet Sauvignon, anyone?” she said upon returning. 

“Moi,” Leila said, sliding her empty glass across the table. Mrs. Amin poured. “Merci.”

“Moi, aussi,” Alex said. 

“Whoa!” Mr. Amin exclaimed. “Bilingual?”

“If bilingual means I know two French words, then yes.”

Everyone laughed. Hard. And they kept laughing. To the point where Alex found himself itching his arms for something to do. He’d never heard Leila laugh this hard in all the months he had known her. She must have been really nervous. Why was she so nervous?

“Funny man,” Mr. Amin said. 

Silence once again swept the room. Why was this so awkward? Alex found himself picking at the cushion’s patchwork. 

“Where’d you get these chairs?” he asked lamely. 

Mrs. Amin clicked her tongue, pondering. “Marketplace, I think.”

“Cool, cool.”

“Mhm!”

More silence. So much silence! Ah!

Then, following more uncomfortable small talk and two glasses of wine, came the lamb. The lamb, as Mr. Amin explained, was a slow-braised shank and, according to him, caramelized to perfection. The red sauce was made with pomegranate molasses, garlic, and Aleppo pepper, ‘giving it a perfect balance of sweetness, acidity, and heat.’ No wonder the house smelled so good, Alex thought. 

“Try it,” Mr. Amin said. “The meat will fall right off the bone. You’ll see.”

“You first,” Alex said.

Silence.

“I’m just kidding,” he added quickly, and they all laughed again. Way. Too. Hard. 

He took a bite in the spirit of politeness. They watched intently. It was good. Really good. Alex wasn’t pretentious enough to consider the ‘notes of smoked paprika and aged Aleppo pepper’ or whatever. It was simply good, so he said, “It’s good!”

Mr. Amin fist-bumped the air. “Another win!” Leila exchanged looks with her mom, although Alex wasn’t sure what that meant. Then everyone started eating. This kind of silence wasn’t so bad. This kind of silence was a compliment to the chef.

And then Mr. Amin set down his fork. “So, what inspires your creativity in the kitchen?”

For a moment, Alex didn’t realize he was talking to him. “Me?”

“No, the other chef in the room. Yes, you! How do you incorporate inspiration into your dishes?”

“Oh, I’m not a chef. I’m a line cook.”

Mr. Amin glanced at Leila with an unmistakable look of betrayal, then back at Alex, beaming. “Yes, well, you still make food, don’t you? There’s always room for creativity in cooking.”

“Not in a bar and grill,” Alex said with a humble chuckle. “Fish and chips are fish and chips. Burgers are burgers.”

“He’s just being modest,” said Leila. “He’s a phenomenal cook. His pesto chicken is to die for.”

“A monkey can make pesto chicken.”

“Not like yours,” said Leila, and he accepted her compliment with a smile. 

Silence. Long, long silence. Mr. Amin gulped down his third glass of wine and wiped his lips.

“Aren’t you going to ask him any more questions, Dad?”

Mr. Amin crossed his arms. Alex had a nagging feeling there was something else going on. Perhaps Mr. Amin had a peculiar vendetta against line cooks that Leila conveniently forgot to mention. God, was this ever uncomfortable. 

“Er, it’s okay, Leila,” Alex said. “Really, there’s not much to know about a line cook.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Amin said. “There’s not much to know about a line cook.”

Alex did not like his tone. Not at all. 

They finished eating in silence. Mrs. Amin collected the plates and returned a few minutes later with ice cream. That might have been the longest few minutes of Alex’s life. They hated him. They absolutely hated him, and he couldn’t figure out why. Perhaps it was the argument he had with Leila before leaving. Pretty classic couple stuff: she wanted kids, but he didn’t. Not yet, at least. Had she really told her parents about it, though? If so, why would her parents care this much?

Mrs. Amin dropped a bowl of vanilla ice cream in front of him. One scoop drizzled in chocolate sauce. Compared to dinner, dessert seemed plain. It was as though they had decided against wasting the fancy dessert on him. Alex stared down at it. He had no appetite but a sudden urge to wolf it down and get the hell out of there. 

He cut into the ice cream with his spoon. The others followed. He took a bite. But the chocolate sauce wasn’t chocolate sauce—it was barbeque sauce. He looked up. Leila and her mother were busy eating, but Mr. Amin watched intently. What kind of sick prank was this? 

Alex paused, letting the ice cream melt on his tongue as he made up his mind, and then he swallowed, scooping up another bite. The Amins didn’t deserve the satisfaction of watching him spit out the ice cream. He would wolf down their stupid dessert with the gross sauce and drive Leila home. They would probably fight in the car, but he wouldn’t back down. Her parents were crazy. Crazy, Goddamn weirdos.

“How is it?” Mr. Amin asked, borrowing a sneer from Hell. 

“Delicious,” Alex replied, swallowing the last bite and licking his lips in protest. “I especially loved the sauce.” And then to Leila: “Ready to go?”

Leila was suddenly extremely interested in the palm of her hand.

“Leila?” 

“See, Leila?” said Mr. Amin. “Always trust your gut. On top of everything, he is a liar.”

Liar? So the barbeque sauce was some kind of honesty test? To see if I’d fess up and say it’s gross? You guys are weirdos! That is what Alex wanted to say, but the words weren’t coming. 

Then, Clank! His fork dropped from his hand and clattered on the table. He went to pick it up and place it neatly in the bowl—he decided he would be annoyingly polite—but the handle had become incredibly difficult to grip. Just when he thought he had it pinched perfectly between his fingers, the fork dropped from his hand and clattered once again on the placemat. Why was everyone staring at him? Everyone except Leila, the palm reader. 

Whatever, he thought. I’m out of here. And then he tried pushing himself away from the table. Only he wasn’t strong enough. His heart was hammering in his throat and ears now. Something was very wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Ambulance,” he tried to say, but it came out, Ami … lens.

Alex continued to struggle for a minute or two until his head was too heavy to keep up—then it hit the table with a dull thump. He was paralyzed. He couldn’t manage a wiggly finger even if he tried.

“Curare,” Mr. Amin finally said, standing up. “Fun fact: curare was traditionally used on poison-tipped arrows. Pretty sinister history, if you ask me. But it dissolves well into liquids, making it easy to infuse into melted ice cream before refreezing.” And then to his family: “Hunny, clean up, would you? And Leila, go to your room. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Mrs. Amin cleaned up the dishes and vanished.

Alex heard Leila’s chair scrape across the floor, and then he felt her breathing next to his ear, the one pointed up at the ceiling. “Alex,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t want this for us. I wanted you to be the one. But my dad decides, not me. That’s how it goes. My dad decides, and you aren’t cutting it. Baby, I wish you wanted kids. Why don’t you want kids with me? And why couldn’t you just be honest? I told them you were honest. Why are men never honest?”

A groan escaped his lips in reply.

“… Dad,” she said, “I love this one. I can make him see. I know I can.”

“You bring me disappointment after disappointment, Leila. A line cook? Really? Not only that but a line cook that doesn’t even want your kids? That alone is an insult to our family. You know my criteria. The Amins have standards. He doesn’t want kids? Good. I’ll make sure he never has kids. Not yours, not anyone’s.”

“Dad—”

“Go to your room.”

Leila sniffled once and then disappeared. Thanks for putting up a fight, babe.

It was only Mr. Amin and Alex now. Alex was drooling on the placemat. Mr. Amin was securing a grip under his armpits. He counted to three and then hoisted Alex out of the chair, letting him drop to the floor with an echoing thud. He wanted to scream, but it was impossible.

His girlfriend’s father grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him into the kitchen, through a dimly lit hall, and down some cold, concrete steps. His head went, thump, thump, thump, down the stairs. He had a strange urge to fix his shirt so his belly wasn’t showing. Perhaps he wanted to salvage some sort of dignity before whatever happened happened. 

“First, you’re going to shiver. Hard,” Mr. Amin said, bending down. “Not right away. You know, because of the ice cream. But once that wears off, you’ll really start to shiver.” Alex’s head lolled back as Mr. Amin picked him up, his vision tilting. His eyes were loose marbles rolling over painted consciousness. A smear of silver, a swirling face, and then his body was lowered, his back pressing against something hard. 

Cold metal chilled his spine. He desperately wanted to curl in on himself to hold onto some heat, but he could not move. His body was useless. Just a slab of meat in the hands of a world-class chef. A man he had hoped to impress. 

“Your muscles will start to contract violently,” he continued. “Your body’s way of trying to generate heat, but it won’t be enough. Your teeth will chatter so loud you’ll feel it behind your eyes. In your brain.” He clicked his teeth together in a mocking fashion and then laughed at himself. “Then, your fingers and toes will start to burn. That’s your blood retreating to your core, abandoning your limbs to keep your heart and brain alive. Soon, you won’t be able to move at all. Not one bit.

“Numbness will set in next. Sweet relief. That’s your nerves dying, Alex. They give up before the rest of you. You’ll still be alive, still be aware, but you won’t be able to feel your own body. Not long after that, you’ll start to feel warm. Cozy, even. That’s the worst part. Some of Leila’s exes even stripped naked right before they died, convinced that they were overheating. It’s called paradoxical undressing. I’d tell you to Google it, but … you know.”

Then back to business: “ ... your thoughts will slow down, as though your brain itself is freezing over. You’ll start to dream while you’re still awake—childhood memories, maybe—and just before the end, you won’t be afraid anymore. You’ll just want to sleep. And when you do, that’s it. Just sleep … ” He paused, holding onto the freezer door. “Oh, and Alex? I’m glad you enjoyed the lamb.”

He closed the freezer door. The panel of light above became a sliver, and the sliver became darkness. Then, the click of a padlock. Alex could no longer hear the rain.