The Primordial Soup

              The Primordial Soup

Henry Doddle loosened his shoulders, sucked in a breath of balmy night air, and construed a searching leonine gaze down Restaurant Row. He fumed at his wife Daisy for not allowing him to wear his cowboy hat, but managed an uncomfortable contorted swagger suited to meandering among the fashionable diners. However, Henry’s effulgence diminished, and his façade began buckling under the weight of social expectations. He mused, ‘Daisy should have let me wear my hat. People would think I’m a good time rebel from the outback. I feel significant wearing my cowboy hat.’

Daisy Doddle had earlier attempted masking her husband’s imperfections. She tossed aside his annoying cowboy hat and fixed his collar, but unfortunately, even dressed like a department store mannequin, he still resembled a bumpkin. With mottled face, tyre-tube lips, and recalcitrant hair resistant to change, Henry was more cowering hyena than noble lion. An attractive looking woman by his side would serve to expose Henry’s ordinariness. Fortunately for Henry, Daisy herself was not attractive, ordinary or in the least unexposed. She stood half-a-head taller than he did, frame supported by gangly limbs more suited on a stilted clown. Her neck, slender and tubular, stretched skyward. Onlookers couldn't avoid following that swan-like extension, which ultimately disappointed, culminating in the visage of an emu rather than a swan at its apex.

Daisy walked ahead along Restaurant Row in a jumbled attempt at refinement, occasionally glaring back with angry avian intensity toward Henry, who clung tightly to a few remaining shreds of self-worth. Henry mentally repelled Daisy’s intimidation while shuffling along behind, searching for vindication of himself as significant, with or without his cowboy hat. Unfortunately, by the time they reached the end of Restaurant Row, Henry had lost all sense of leadership.                                                                                                                                                            Culinary options beyond his comprehension coagulated into confusion, and neither Henry nor Daisy could differentiate between yum cha and dim sum, penne and ravioli, or pakora and poppadum. Daisy though, had no intention of choosing, preferring instead to watch Henry stew in the juice of his own ignorance. Henry, in a quandary, scanned back down Restaurant Row, and decided against retracing their steps, considering it an indecisive walk of shame. He scratched his messy head, attempting to regain composure, and blurted out a pre-prepared joke, “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse radish.” He grinned foolishly at Daisy and scuffed his shoes on the pavement.

“What a stupid joke,” she finally replied. “You really are an idiot Henry, but you brought me all the way here. So, what will it be…Indian…Chinese…Italian?” Henry cupped his chin in an imitation of intelligent contemplation. Finding no immediate inspiration, he looked a second time down the street before craning his lump head and glancing around the street corner. He noticed Daisy waiting impatiently, so pulled his head back in. “Let’s have a look there,” he blurted out, pointing to a tatty banner with the name of the establishment in faded print, ‘Creations Restaurant’.

They peered in through a window of the dimly lit restaurant, anticipating the wafting scent of succulence, but there was none. Although there were zero customers, a waiter flitted here and there, setting tables. Daisy fingered a brochure by the doorway. 

“Shall we give it a try?” Henry asked.

“I’m reading,” Daisy snapped, continuing her perusal of recommendations by previous customers…

Creations Restaurant is out of this world: Alvin Nosetub - Globe food critic

A once in a lifetime experience: The Gobbling Gourmet

A meal you will never forget: Alzheimer’s Digest Magazine

I’ve never tasted anything like it: Charlie Gumble - World eating champion

                                                                                                                             Meanwhile, the waiter arrived at the doorway.

“Welcome to Creations Restaurant,” he said, beaming and swinging the door wide open. Henry and Daisy, caught by surprise, obediently obeyed the waiter's invitation to come inside. Once seated, Daisy glanced across at her husband, who seemed pleased with himself. He pushed back his scruffy mop of hair, attempting to resurrect his leonine countenance, then surveyed the décor through critical eyes.

Cheap prints adorned the walls. Plastic covers concealed blemished and aged tables. Paper shades obscured the already dim lighting. Henry opened his rubbery lips in an attempt to spark intelligent conversation, then wordlessly closed them. Daisy frowned with superior condescension. She considered herself bright and beautiful, when in reality, one would require a fun-house crazy-mirror to transform Daisy into a semblance of beauty. She stared down her gun-barrel nose, disconcerting Henry. The waiter continued busying himself although Henry and Daisy remained the only customers. Finally, sensing the time was right, he swooped gracefully toward them. The waiter was thin and pale, with a bean-like head resembling an unripe apple on an unhealthy tree. As compensation for smallness of head the waiter had arranged his hair in a twisted, swirling bouffant. 

“Are we ready to order?” He said, in a baritone timbre, startling Henry. Daisy, on the other hand, became immediately enamored. The waiter stood before her, tall and lithe, pencil and notepad at the ready, like a royal valet before the Queen. Daisy unabashedly surveyed the waiter from head to toe. Henry averted his eyes from the appalling spectacle and perused the unfamiliar menu: Primordial Soup: Big Bang Casserole: Darwin’s Natural Selection…all totally unfamiliar to him. The waiter noticed Henry’s dilemma. “I see you are overwhelmed with the many delicious choices,” he said. “Let me assure you the recipes here at Creations are accepted by food scientists the world over as classics in the field. May I suggest, for starters, the Primordial Soup?” The waiter again transferred his attention to Daisy. Bending from the waist, like a bird pecking seed, he leant in close, and indicated the Primordial Soup. Daisy, feigning shyness, fluttered her eyes in her best come-hither swoon.

“The Primordial Soup sounds divine,” she enthused. “What do you think Henry?”

Henry could only think that Daisy and the waiter resembled a grotesque caricature of courting grasshoppers, but relented.

“Primordial Soup it is then.”

As an afterthought to put his own stamp back on proceedings, Henry ordered a main course of Big Bang Casserole.

“An excellent choice sir,” the waiter said. “Primordial Soup and Big Bang Casserole coming right up.”

He straightened, turned, and pranced off.

“If he were any straighter they would mount him in the town square and use him as a flagpole,” Henry sniggered.

Daisy's lips curled. “You uncouth beast Henry. He is a charming and expert waiter. You could learn a lot from a man like that.”

They sat in shared silence, both deep in thought. Daisy had recently enrolled in some new-age studies, and contemplated how to use her white-witch skills to capture the heart and soul of a man like the waiter. ‘Aromatic candles, a little crystal

therapy for chakra awakening, soothing reiki massage, and I would have him eating out of the palm of my hand, and planting soft kisses on my slender, swan-like neck.’

Meanwhile, Henry conjured his own dream, ‘I should take up Latin dancing. I would look better than that waiter in a tuxedo. After all, I’m almost fifty, and dancing is what fifty-year-old men do to charm the ladies.’

Private reveries were soon broken by the waiter, who had returned to the table with two bowls of Primordial Soup. Henry stared at the creation. It resembled creamed oil slick; greenish black, almost metallic. He bravely smiled and folded the napkin before him. With attempted elegance, pinky finger upraised, he tasted the soup. For a moment he remained expressionless…then a look of ghastly horror crossed his face as he expunged the vile liquid with a violent, heaving spray. The soup flew through the air in countless tiny droplets, the majority of which collided with the front of Daisy’s dress.

“Henry, you stupid beast!” Daisy screamed. “Look what you have done.”

But Henry, with no time for niceties, ran for the bathroom, gagging. He thrust his head under the basin and washed his mouth out repeatedly, before towelling himself dry and reluctantly returning to the table, where Daisy and the waiter were apologising to each other on Henry’s behalf. Daisy’s face was red with shame, although she seemed appeased by the waiter dabbing a napkin at the soup stain on her flat chest.

“Daisy…don’t eat the soup!” Henry exclaimed. “It’s horrible.”

“Are you a complete imbecile Henry… making a spectacle like this,” Daisy replied. She then addressed the waiter. “Please excuse my husband. He is a retarded moron. Next time I visit your establishment I shall come alone and enjoy your service in civilized decorum.” She smiled a seductive invitation to the waiter, her thin unsensual lips forming a single line beneath her nose.

Daisy then craned her long neck to meet a spoonful of the turgid soup, and swallowed. A visible lump of resistance immediately formed in her throat. Resembling a rat being swallowed by a snake, the glob of Primordial Soup slithered downward. Within a moment, Daisy had screwed up her napkin and jammed it into her mouth, while her convulsing stomach tried to regurgitate the inedible substance.

With eyes almost popping out of their sockets, bulging face, and napkin stuffed in her mouth, Daisy could have passed for a sideshow clown swallowing a ping-pong ball. Gurgling sounds reverberated from within as a high-pitched whistling emanated from her nose. The waiter flitted from foot to foot, unsure whether to stay or run and hide. Eventually, and with great effort, Daisy fought off the gut-wrenching queasiness.

“This Primordial Soup is disgusting! I demand to speak to the chef,” she screeched.

The waiter, looking flustered, replied, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“What do you mean, not possible?”

“I mean you cannot speak to the chef madam.”

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Bring the chef here immediately.”

“I can’t do that,” the waiter replied.

Daisy pushed her chair back. “Then I will go and speak to him myself.”

The waiter blocked her passage. “The chef is not here madam.”

“Then phone him at home. I must speak to him about this disgusting soup.”

“The chef is not at home either, I’m afraid.”

“Then where is he?” Daisy was losing her patience, her avian face screwing with contempt. The waiter, trapped by Daisy’s volcanic glare, replied,

“It may seem a little unusual, even difficult to comprehend, but the Primordial Soup is not made by a chef.”

“Then I wish to speak to whoever created this abomination.”

“There is no creator of the Primordial Soup madam.”

“No Creator!”

“That’s right madam…no creator. The Primordial Soup…how shall I put this…the

Primordial Soup…well…it just is!”

Henry beamed at the ludicrous scenario as Daisy continued arguing.

“Do you realize how absurd you sound?” she said to the waiter. “What do you mean the Primordial Soup just is?” The waiter cleared his throat nervously.

“Well, you see…the thing is…when I arrive at work every morning, the first thing I do is go to the kitchen, and there on the stove is a pot full to the brim of Primordial Soup, with no creator.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “That’s crazy! Everything comes from somewhere…from something.”

“Not the Primordial Soup madam. It comes from nothing.”

Henry chuckled louder and louder the longer the conversation went on, until Daisy and the waiter were drowned out by his laughter. He wiped happy tears from his face.

“You pair make no sense at all, theorizing about the origin of that ghastly soup. In any case, I’m still famished. How’s the Big Bang Casserole coming along?”

“I will check for you sir,” the waiter replied. “I must apologise again about the Primordial Soup. I would speak to the creator myself…if there was one.”

Daisy and Henry looked at each other, firstly frowning, then laughing.

“Ludicrous,” Daisy chuckled.

“Outrageous,” Henry laughed.

“Awful,” Daisy patted her mouth with a fresh napkin.

“Disgusting,” Henry said, with a foul looking smirk.

“Well, you did promise me a night to remember, Henry Doddle,” Daisy said as their eyes met, a flickering kinship passing between them - a fleeting memory of younger, carefree days. For the first time in ages, Henry felt a warmth toward Daisy. It reminded him of the times he had spent courting her. Back then he had been in awe of Daisy. She intimidated the smaller men, and could dance like a whirlwind, arms and legs a maelstrom of energy. Daisy, in her own reminiscence, had caught a glimpse of a younger Henry - shy and insecure, but brave enough to ask her for a dance at the school formal.

From the kitchen came a loud hissing of pressurized steam, followed by an almighty explosion. Henry and Daisy rushed to the scene. The waiter lay spread-eagled on the floor, dazed but otherwise conscious. He rubbed his forehead while slowly regaining focus. The kitchen was splattered with the remnants of the Big Bang Casserole, oily sauce running down the walls. The waiter propped himself up, still clutching the recipe.

“I don’t understand it,” he said.

Henry hoisted the waiter up off the sauce smattered floor. The waiter flicked chunky gobs of tomato off his shirt.

“Terribly sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. According to this recipe the Big Bang is very easy to make. It says here to simply toss the ingredients together under pressure, add heat for volatility, and kaboom, a succulent casserole is formed.”

“Maybe you added too much of the kaboom,” Henry said.

“A little heavy on the big bang possibly,” Daisy joked.

“Not according to the recipe,” the waiter replied. “The Big Bang Casserole has been vouchsafed by the world’s top food scientists as being fail-proof.”

For now, the Creations Restaurant Big Bang Casserole remained unformed - a messy array of disassociated ingredients. The waiter again began to apologise, but Henry cut him off. “I’m beginning to lose my appetite anyway,” Henry said.

“At least we got a free science lesson,” added Daisy playfully.

The waiter screwed up the recipe and threw it on the floor. “Looks like that big bang casserole is all fluff and no substance,” he said. “Let me compensate both of you. We have lots of other creations…on the house.”

Daisy thought for a moment. “Maybe a salad would be, let’s say, less dangerous.”                                                                                                                                 

“An excellent suggestion,” replied the waiter.

“Do you make it yourself?” Henry asked cautiously.

The waiter replied, “I understand your concern sir, but in actual fact our star apprentice makes the salad. It’s even named after him, Darwin’s Natural Selection.”

Unfortunately, the apprentice was nowhere to be seen. The waiter searched frantically amongst the rubble, then under benches and inside cupboards.

“Darwin…Darwin… where are you?” he called. A clatter of pots and pans finally revealed Darwin’s whereabouts.

“You can come out,” the waiter coaxed. From behind the washing up rack clambered a chimpanzee. The waiter ruffled its head.

“Did the big bang scare you Darwin old boy?”

Daisy jumped back, “It’s a monkey!” she screamed.

“A chimpanzee actually,” the waiter corrected her. “And please don’t scream. Darwin is extremely sensitive.”

“But what is he doing here?” Henry asked.

“He has been in the Creations family since before our time. Some consider Darwin our closest ancestor. And wait until you try Darwin’s Natural Selection. No one can tear a lettuce like he can.” He gazed proudly at Darwin, while holding onto a big chimp hand.

“Are you telling us that a chimpanzee makes the salads here?” Henry said, while eyeballing the pouting chimp. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if you expect me to accept Darwin’s Natural Selection.”

Henry and Daisy started to back slowly out of the kitchen.

“Oouuuooo,” said Darwin the chimp, seemingly offended.

“Don’t leave,” pleaded the waiter. “At least stay for a drink. Darwin makes a terrific banana smoothie.”

Henry and Daisy fled, hurriedly retracing their steps. This time there were no harsh words or fostered resentment between them. Daisy clung tightly to Henry’s arm, as they laughed, jaws aching and teary eyed. Restaurant Row felt different now. Henry, insecure no more, without need of cowboy hat or pretense. Patrons and pedestrians moved aside for the podgy but self-assured man and the statuesque, enchanting lady.

 “I might have a surprise for you when we get home,” Daisy said.

“Baked beans on toast?” Henry questioned hopefully.

“That too,” she replied. “I’ve also been learning a little aromatherapy massage recently and I need someone to practice on.”

“I’m your man,” Henry replied, while tentatively patting Daisy on the leg. He pondered for a moment. “I’ve been thinking of taking up Latin dance lessons.”

“Really?” Daisy sounded surprised. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

“I want to become the type. I’ve been reminiscing about the old school formal when you danced like a Dervish delight. Daisy, would you consider being my dance partner?”

Daisy smiled. “I have always been you partner. I was just waiting for the invitation.”

“Thank you for an interesting evening Henry. I had fun,” Daisy said.

“Don’t thank me Daisy. Thank that terrible restaurant. While stewing over that disgusting Primordial Soup, I noticed a real spark of life coming from you.”

It was only a matter of time before the woeful Creations Restaurant closed down. When Henry next drove past, the tattered banner had gone, and the restaurant reborn with a new name: ‘Soul Food for Life’.

‘Catchy, we might try it again someday,’ Henry said to himself, but drove on by.