Close Encounters of the Tasteless Kind

Imagine flying half way across the galaxy to be seated beside the toilets. Eau de toilette had taken on a new meaning, but at least there was a waft of jasmine and five spice masking the smell of May’s disappointment.

‘Where do I begin?’ May typed as if she was fuelled by hell fire itself. The clacking of her vintage typewriter beating the speed of the clock who ticked pitifully nearby. It was a wonder the keys were not giving off steam, the poor thing melting as it took the brunt of her pure unadulterated critique.

“Never in my days -” she paused, sliding her typewriter to start a new line. It released a clink of relief, before the clacking continued, “have I ever had an experience like this! And considering how long it took to get there, not only was it money down the drain but days of my life I will never get back.”

May hesitated, then let out a frustrated grunt, tearing the page from it’s holder and scrunching it into a ball. Her chair making a creak of protest as she reclined, she lugged the rejected pile of words over her shoulder to join the others that huddled around the bin.

The taste of coffee lingered on her palate, her tongue plastering itself to the roof of her mouth - four cups in and she was still thirstier than a fish dumped in the desert. ‘Not as bad as a long haul plane journey’ her arse. It had been a week since she’d touched down back on mother Earth and yet she still chugged a glass of water every hour as though she was expecting a restraining order from the blessed liquid. Her brow creased in concentration as she ran her tongue over the front of her teeth, trying to regain some moisture.

Converting her misery into readable sentences was proving harder than she’d expected. She wasn’t satisfied with simply saying “The food was bad. The experience was bad. I wish I’d never gone.” Oh no, May wanted her readers to suffer as she had. If she got the wording right, then maybe her review would even trigger an out-of-body experience for them. She wanted her readers to shield their eyes from the suns beating against the metal runway, to titter on their feet as they adjusted to the gravity, to feel the pop of their ears as they step from one airlock to another, to then stare in awe at the rugged beauty of Alpha Z Seven’s terrain. She wanted to lull them into a false sense of security only to give them the most intense whiplash they had ever experienced in their lives. No detail could be spared. No emotion could be miscommunicated. Each word had to be chosen carefully and steeped in her anguish until the readers could taste the horror. She imagined their eyes wide, their mouths agape as they absorbed her words. They’d stand so fast there would be a chair shaped hole in the wall behind them and flee from the room, tripping as they scrambled to cancel their reservation. A smirk pulled onto May’s lips; what could she say? Her misery loved company.

The experience was ingrained in her memory like an earworm that was beginning to give her a migraine. Arrival had been fine. Transport to the restaurant had been fine, if not a little too speedy for comfort. When she’d reached the restaurant, and had been seated at her table, that’s when the problems began.

The restaurant itself was nicely done. Green flames flickered over head in the chandeliers, the whole décor obviously chosen by someone in their goth phase, and yet the metal frame of the building was left visible giving the space a futuristic appeal. A wall of glass revealed a view of the clay mountains in the west and the city of Selion in the east. The whole place screamed expensive, just as May had hoped. There was one thing unusual. Despite being wrapped in green Selionian silk and requiring the sitter to book far in advance, the seats remained empty. Given she was the only customer there, May could not understand why she was seated at a table with the most spectacular view… of a wall. Baffled did not describe the emotion. Perhaps perplexed? Confused? Infuriated? She didn’t know. She tilted her head and stared intently at the wall as if was trying to tell her something.

A few minutes passed. The wall failed to divulge its secrets and May was prepared for action. She stifled a deep sigh, not wanting to use up more air than necessary, and attempted to get the waiters attention. Several waves and slaps of the translating device (who seemed to see the voyage as a holiday and had forgotten how to work) later, she was no longer in her original seat. However, the new table was not an improvement.

Turned out that her original table hadn’t been hers in the first place; that luxury was for a lucky couple from Mars, who had requested the spot specifically for their golden wedding anniversary. As she was forced to migrate, May took her time to survey the restaurant in a hope that someone would come to their senses and see that she was a person of great importance. One deserving of a less demeaning table. No such luck. Grumbling under her breath, she made her way two tables back.

Standing, May took in the view of the triple suns as they ascended over the horizon, the sky shimmering in ‘Vermillion red’ (as the brochure had put it). Seated, a new view took her breath away for all the wrong reasons; with the correct timing between the swinging doors, May was blinded by the glint of a chromium toilet seat.

The exchange with the French-Selionian head waiter had only left her gnawing on the inside of her lip as she tried to control the annoyance building inside her. Never before had she seen such a combination of cultures in one being. It wasn’t the heavy French — if she was right, Parisian — accent rolling off his tongue that made communication difficult. It was the clicking of the large pinchers that jutted from his jaw. She fixated on them with a pout, wondering if he had control over them or if the pointy things had a mind of their own. She guessed the latter; why else would they interrupt him mid-sentence? Gustav, as his polished name tag stated, had pointed out quite bluntly the word “RESERVED” placed precisely in the centre of every table. May had squinted, pushing her spectacles up her nose and willed her eyes to see people who were, as far as she was concerned, definitely not there.

The conversation seemed to go in circles. Her mind struggled to process what Gustav was saying as she forced herself to not stare at his pinchers. She couldn’t recall any laws, customs or rules against it, but it seemed rude somehow. Gathering her will power, she locked eyes with him and pushed a polite smile onto her face. ‘I can see they are reserved,’ she gestured to the room, ‘but surely I could sit at another table until everyone else arrives?’

‘That will not be possible, Madame.’ Gustav hadn’t missed a beat, didn’t even seem to think about her suggestion before replying. May was sure she had even heard a small scoff behind one of his clicks. Gustav seem unmoved by her plight, ‘the restaurant is fully booked.’

May opened her mouth to complain, but Gustav held up a hand to stop her. ‘Tables can not be changed,’ he said, then immediately scuttled off before she could get another word in.

May stared after him, her jaw clenched so tightly that it began to ache. If she wore pearls, she would have been clutching them. Her own table had also been “RESERVED” several months in advance. How much earlier the others must have booked, she did not know, but she doubted it was in this light-year.

Light music drifted across the restaurant. The sound conjuring up a sense of familiarity as May adjusted her seat to have a better view of the room. Nestled in the far corner was a piano, or what at least it sounded like a one, but instrument was much larger and the player had far too many arms for her liking. A smile tugged at the corner of May's mouth as she mused to herself, she could play just as well with two.

It wasn’t long before the first plate was placed in front of her with a flourish. May’s tummy rumbled in recognition. A metal dome obscured her view of what she could only expect would be a masterpiece, a work of the gods gifted to man/alien kind by the skilled hands of Chef Dididoboi. May leaned in, her eyes glued to the lid, her mouth watering as she struggled to contain her eagerness. She had to remain cool, calm and collected; after all, she was representing humanity.

She barely paid attention to the waiter as he pulled the stainless steel cloche away with a elegant twirl to reveal… nothing. May blinked rapidly, her jaw slowly falling open. She looked from the plate to Gustav to the plate again, hoping for some explanation.

Gustav, seeming to perceive her look as one of awe, bared a sharp toothy grin. “This is Chef Dididoboi’s famous taste of the sea. Delicate aqua mousse on a bed of Weizer crystals with a Aer tuile.” He gave her a small bow, then trotted back to whence he’d came with a swagger in his step, pinchers clicking all the way.

May stared down at her plate. Her hands clasped in her lap, her thumb rubbing small circles over the other in a soothing manner. Upon closer inspection, there was food… but enough food to feed who? A meagre pile of mousse was covered with bubbles that evaporated like sea foam leaving small crystals on the black slate. The miniature tuile crisp pointing towards the sky gave the plate some dramatics, but where was the rest?

The aroma of spices had almost cauterised her nostrils when she had first walked in, so naturally she had hoped for a decadent display of flavour, herbs and colour. She’d hoped for her moneys worth. ‘Taste of whatever’ could not possibly be worth the extortionate amount she had paid for the special menu. May took a steadying breath as she reassured herself. Maybe quality over quantity would be the case? After all, Galactic regulations made this kind of dish impossible to make at home.

Tentatively she scooped the whole potion onto her spoon and placed it in her mouth. There was a smoothness to the mousse, a freshness she couldn’t put her finger on, followed by the residual flavour of nothing. Well, not nothing… water. She’d stared at the empty plate for what felt like forever, contemplating whether it was pure genius or despicable. They’d literally given her a spoon full of water. Aqua. H2O. The free stuff that falls from clouds. Her brain struggled to comprehend how something could be flavourless, yet flavourful enough for her to immediately recognise it.

Gustav appeared, disrupting May’s internal crisis. When he’d asked how the food was, she’d taken a moment to decide on the correct word. In the end she’d simply chosen the most honest answer she could, “refreshing.” Gustav practically beamed at her as if he’d cooked the meal, aka water, himself. May pursed her lips. She had to say something, she couldn’t help herself. “I was expecting… a little more flavour,” she said with a sheepish look. Gustav’s grin vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

When the second plate arrived, it looked okay. There was no other word to describe it. Not overdressed or fancy, just a simple and clean design. Red gelatinous cubes were piled in the centre with a sprig of what could be mistaken for mint placed at the peak. Nothing like the decorativeness of the first dish, but this portion was generous at least. A smear of maroon sauce began a circle around the tower, but stopped interrupted as if the slate had been slid out of the chefs grasp before the work could be completed.

Considering the first disappointment, May’s fork went in with low expectations even though the light aroma of mixed spices caused her mouth to water hopefully. The first cube was a shock. It didn’t have the texture of jelly like she’d expected, more like plastic. Each chew wore it down until it seemed to surrender and disintegrate completely. There was a hint of berry with a herbal-ness and spice that she couldn’t quite place. May narrowed her eyes trying to hone in on the flavour. There was something else there. Cumin? Cinnamon? Aniseed? It was as good a guess as any; Gustav hadn’t stuck around to explain what anything was the second time. He practically dropped the plate, vanishing with a small huff and his nose stuck in the air.

May popped two more cubes into her mouth, hoping to double the flavour all the while praying Selion had the equivalent of a McDonalds. The more she ate was the more the gelatine left a starchy residue, a new tingling sensation blossoming across her tongue. She swallowed thickly, the paper-like remnants hitching at the back of her throat. That was when the flavour hit her. Not a trickle, or a gentle introduction to something new… no, that would have been kind. Everything intensified by a hundred: the favour of the single herb became a forest, the berry became a bush, and then there was the heat. The heat rammed into her like a police raid in the middle of the night. It rampaged through every sense. Her eyes watered, her throat closed up, her nose dripped like a leaking faucet onto the cream pressed table mat. Even her vision began to cloud with a sort of haze.

Upon reflection, May had one reprieve; at least the restaurant had been empty. She’d coughed and spluttered, making noises like a woman possessed by the spirit of a walrus. Tears streamed down her face as she felt the cube of fire continue it’s descent. Death had never felt so close. She was right there, locked in its chilli infused grip, being dragged to hell for a string of bad choices (the latest being the restaurant, but she was sure karma was taking its dues after an accidental case of shoplifting the month prior).

Needless to say, Gustav had not been impressed. He’d leisurely wandered over with a towel draped over his arm and a glass of water in hand. He used an exasperated tone to dish out words of concern while he appearing more concerned for the tablecloth than May. Between the gasps and coughs, she was sure she heard Gustav say under his breath, “was that enough flavour for you?”

The embarrassment still lingered weeks later like a bad case of food poisoning. The continuation of the experience had been just as traumatic. She was pretty sure Gustav would have been left her to her struggle if she hadn’t looked like she was about to pass out and take the whole table with her… but that wasn’t important any more. She was home, not a Gustav to be seen. Plus with any luck, once she’d finished her review, her mind might be able to repress the memory.

Sir Tastealot hopped up into her lap, letting out a needy meow as he dragged his tail under her chin. She shot him a stern look, the last thing she needed was a distraction. The beady eyes stared up at her, pleading for attention. She took in the grey forming around the base of his whiskers and begrudgingly scratched between his ears, sending him small kissy noises. Sir Tastealot relaxed into her touch, his purrs vibrating through her chest, untangling some of the tension that had knotted itself there.

Granted, the review had absorbed much of her life. She paused people mid-sentence to whip out a notebook, scribbling slanders onto the page. Something so witty written in such haste that the letters merged into some new form of alien, sorry… ‘non-human originating’ language (as the government insisted they call it). It wasn’t until later that she realised that she hadn’t heard the rest of Jenny’s breakup story or seen the pictures from Martha’s wedding to whatever-his-name-was. Even her husband had pretty much stopped talking to her as he refused to discuss the restaurant. In his words, she was like “a bulldog latched on to the postman’s cojones.” It wasn’t an inaccurate comparison, but May preferred the words ‘tenacious’, ‘persistent’ and ‘motivated’.

It wasn’t personal. Even May was feeling a bit neglected. She managed to find the willpower to shower, but 10-minutes of self-care could only do so much. Not even an hour of combing could make a dent in the nest-like hair that had led her husband, Mark, to nickname her ‘birdy’. While she could have blended into the African bush as some sort of tumbleweed, she was doing a poor job of fitting into the east side of Marylebone. This was evident by the bulging eyes and eyebrows lost to the hairlines that followed her as she went about her way on her weekly shop at Waitrose.

May stretched, the wave of discomfort edging into relief as her shoulder let out a satisfying pop. Finally, the review was done. There was at least one positive from the experience; if worst came to worst, without a doubt she could open a Michelin Star restaurant in her backyard. Glancing out the window, the fairy lights she’d left up from last Christmas twinkled at her encouragingly. May smirked, it could be a new project. Her voice full of determination, “Hey Alexa, make me a restaurant website.”

Perhaps she’d send Gustav an invite.