The Ghoulish Gourmet

The host of Shadow Chef always seemed a little...strange. He never took his sunglasses off, his studio had several dimly lit corners he did his announcing from, all outdoor shots were at night, and any recipes involving garlic sent the contestant packing.

His personal life, though, proved this to be more than just quirky showmanship.

He never went anywhere during the day. People asked about this, but he kept deflecting the question with an excuse about Covid, even when they made it very specific that they referred to the months prior to March 2020. He kept gaslighting them, questioning the questioners.

On two separate occasions, he's been taken to court for biting his co-stars.

One time he ate at an Italian restaurant and got violently sick due to his garlic allergy. When the paramedics took him away in an ambulance, they arrived at the hospital without their patient, and only a foggy recollection about how they got there. They also noticed one of their blood bags had become emptied, but nobody could account for its usage.

This is all to say that, although it surprised me to hear about Grant Edison moving into the little ranch style split level at the end of our suburb, it didn't surprise me that much. The man was a recluse who didn't like signing autographs. 

He did pick a good place to escape the crowds. Our neighborhood, an obscure little development in the Midwest, wasn't known for much of anything except the Harry S. Truman Farm Home, and even that lay several blocks away from our location.

I'll never forget the day he moved in. Mr. Edison was nowhere to be found, and I saw the movers bringing dozens of plastic storage bins. One of them accidentally got overturned during transport, spilling a mountain of potting soil onto the pavement.

Following this, they brought out a casket. It had legs and a glass thing to go over the top. The movers kept saying stuff like, "Go easy with that coffee table, there's China inside."

I had seen that particular piece of furniture on a televised house tour before. Edison seemed a little anxious to move on to the bedroom.

He liked things spooky. I saw a lot of taxidermy animals going in, ominous looking statuary, a suit of armor, and naturally, his massive collection of cooking supplies, wines and culinary awards.

"Since you appear to be so highly interested in the contents of Mr. Edison's home, perhaps you would care to join us for dinner next Friday, when everything is put in its proper place?"

I guess I hadn't done a good enough job of hiding behind the shrubbery, or pretending to walk the dog.

I expected to see a hunchback with Marty Feldman eyes and a tattered labcoat, but instead I found myself staring at Grant's fat, spiky haired co-star, Edmund Fiero, clad in his standard black Nehru jacket and bell bottom slacks.

"Uh, sure!" I coughed. "Sorry about the spying, by the way. I'm a huge fan..." An overstatement, but I felt I'd already started off on the wrong foot.

"Do you try any of our recipes at home?"

I shook my head violently. "Oh no. The best I can manage is spaghetti and chili, but I use a mix. Can't even make pancakes without burning them. One time I tried to make lasagna and I set off the smoke alarm."

"A pity. We could have used an extra contestant."

"I wouldn't make it past the first round."

He laughed. "At least you're honest enough to admit it. Perhaps Mr. Edison will grace you with a lesson."

I reddened. "Great! I'd like that!"

Friday arrived before I knew it. At dusk (it seemed he'd chosen the hour of 6 P.M. on purpose) I arrived at Mr. Edison's front door, dressed in my best church clothes, and Mr. Fiero let me into the building.

Remarkable what you can do in only a week. I can only assume that someone had been working on it long before the move. While the exterior looked rather humble and ordinary, it resembled a mansion on the inside, the floor plan drastically altered from the style of all the other buildings in the area.

Of course, like the set of his show, it had to have The Addam's Family sort of Gothic look, tall candle holders, an elaborate chandelier, antique furniture, and of course the aforementioned casket coffee table, armor and taxidermy animals.

I pointed to the planter beneath the coffin, now filled with dirt. "That's cute."

"Just a bit of Feng Shui," Mr. Fiero assured me. "Some people use sand."

He led me to a long banquet table. Generally in houses of this type, there'd be a sliding patio door at the far end, but it had been remodeled so that only a little door stood there, with no light coming in. Framed portraits of creepy people and velvet curtains bedecked the walls.

I took an offered seat, and my apron clad host stepped out of the kitchen, offering me breadsticks with a delicious garlic substitute. "Mr. Gutowski, I heard you liked lasagna, so you're in for a treat..."

"It already smells delicious."

It was. Stromboli, a terrific chef salad, and a three cheese lasagna that made me realize how much I'd been missing at all those so-called `gourmet' restaurants.

I excused myself from the table for a moment. I really did have to go. The bathroom (or should I say `Bat-Room'?) had no mirror. I tried to do the movie cliche of snooping around the house under false pretenses, but the nearby doors had been locked, and I found Mr. Fiero breathing down my neck. "I'm afraid those are off limits due to safety reasons. The remodeling work isn't quite complete, you see."

"Sorry. I uh-"

"You got lost while looking for the lavatory in this small house. Yes, yes. You should really try to employ that routine before making use of the facilities."

Heat rushed to my face. "I'm sorry. I've been such a bad guest. You should probably send me away. I deserve it."

"What, before you sample dessert? Heaven forbid! What ever will the papers say? Mr. Edison has a reputation to protect!"

"Me? I'm nobody!"

"Tsk, tsk. Don't be modest. Come back to the table."

What could I say to that?

I resumed conversations with my host as I ate. For a man the tabloids labeled a vampire, he really enjoyed good food and good wine. He sat with me at the table, talking about various incidents that happened on the show, but he seemed bored with them, and more than a little fascinated with me, despite my repeated protests that I lived a boring life and he was just about the only interesting thing that happened around there since Old Budd Brown got arrested for shooting squirrels in his front yard a couple years ago.

I told him my life story, complimented him on his cooking, and the house. When the man laughed, I noticed that the rumors of him filing his canines into fangs were true. He did not wear plastic appliances on his TV show.

His co-host mainly stuck around the kitchen, assisting the master chef with his preparations. Was he Mr. Edison's butler? Lover? Both? It would have been rude of me to ask. Besides, it seemed their relationship tended to lean toward the platonic side.

Still, I made one attempt. "Boy, a guy like you must get all the ladies!"

Mr. Edison smirked. "I've had a few...Yourself?"

I reddened. "Still looking!"

He snickered. "I believe you will have better luck finding one if you do not stand outside their hedges and spy on them."

His comment left me as much in the dark about his personal life as if I had never opened my mouth. "Look. I'm really sorry about that. It's just that you're so...mysterious."

"I prefer...private."

"I apologize. It was rude. Won't happen again."

"I imagine not."

I eventually had to bid him farewell, as I had work the following morning. The man responded by giving me a huge meal in plastic containers. My eyes bugged out when I saw it all. I again thanked him profusely, promised to bring back the empties, but he said it wasn't necessary.

On my way out the door, he brushed back the hair around my neck, leaning forward like he intended to bite me.

"That's an interesting tattoo you have."

"Thanks," I stammered.

It could have just been my imagination, but I suddenly felt thankful I had decided to get one of an old wooden cross.