A MATTER OF TASTE

by Wilkinson Riling

The pearl black Prius slipped through the Uptown intersection slowing to a stop to unload its peculiar passenger. Beneath the fog muted streetlamps, the slim wire frame of Arthur Wellington Kilgore unfolded from the rear seat exiting the Uber. A biting Lake Michigan wind funneled along the empty avenue from the dock at the street’s dead end. The evening gust created eerie whispers from the few city trees still left with leaves. Arthur Wellington Kilgore felt a reflexive shudder, uncertain of the source of the unnerving chill; was it the biting cold or the ghost-like emptiness around him that generated a sense of foreboding?

Standing just over six feet tall, donning his signature bone-white bow tie and suited head to toe in black, Arthur’s countenance was reminiscent of Slender Man, the fictional supernatural humanoid who comes to life in children’s imaginations and nightmares. Arthur’s hair, dyed shoe polish black and combed slick, was styled on the left with a severe part. His Sherlockian nose protruded like an axe blade. His pupils, black as a shark’s eyes were just as unforgiving. Shielded by a rigid brow they were set deep in his angular face taking in every detail of the current environment.

Arthur scanned the deep shadowed alleys that separated the multi-floored buildings lining the vacant block. If not for the bright reds and greens of the hanging traffic signals along with a few electric neon marquees, the tableau suggested more of an ominous horror movie setting. It would prove to be the perfect backdrop for this night; a night Arthur Wellington Kilgore, Chicago’s most well-known food critic and gastronome had a reservation with destiny-- his own and the future fortunes of a gourmet restaurant, the famed Evelyn’s.

With his long arm and large manicured hand, Arthur cinched his jacket at the neck to stay warm. He couldn’t afford to catch cold on this evening of such importance. While his expression implied a grim demeanor, if you knew Arthur, this only meant he was now focusing on his upcoming task. For he performed his job with the solemnity of a Shakespearian actor. Tonight, the stage was set; dinner for one at Evelyn’s, starring Arthur Wellington Kilgore.

Twenty-nine stories up in a high rise located in the heart of North Side business district and only two years in business, Evelyn’s, like most of the top-tier fine dining establishments, counted on Arthur’s annual review to sustain their three-star Michelin rating. With new restaurants springing up all throughout the greater Chicago area, competition cut kitchen knife close. Evelyn’s management simply could not afford to lose their star status. The current owner was counting on a loan for expansion with additional plans to franchise. Interested investors preferred backing winners, not second place also-rans.

For Arthur there was no second-place in this elitist world he fought so hard join. Because of that travail, Arthur was merciless in his verdicts. He sometimes determined the winners solely based on something as obscure as the thread count in a cloth napkin or the ratio of oil to vinegar in a salad. Last year, Evelyn’s passed muster simply on a last-minute ability to amuse the stern critic. Last year’s stellar review and the reasons behind it still lay fresh in Arthur’s mind.

The critic’s high praise came after an evening of dining on a Black Truffle Souffle, Foie Gras Terrine and Muscovy Duck. But the callous gourmand’s favor was truly earned when the master chef indulged what little remained of Arthur’s inner child by serving him an edible balloon for dessert. The dessert, a proprietary culinary novelty, captured the imagination of the public, but most true epicurean’s see it as nothing more than a foodie’s gimmick.

For those not familiar with the playful confectionery, it is a specialty of the house at Evelyn’s. Here, Chef Cristophe Arjou practiced the science of molecular gastronomy, providing the gourmand with culinary concoctions based on the chemistry and physics of food. At least that’s how Arthur described it in last year’s review that placed the elite eatery among the world’s most renown restaurants propelling it to its three-star rating. This was Arthur; dry, almost humorless, with the seriousness of a tax accountant in mid-April.

Chef Arjou himself personally prepared the dessert for Arthur. The bladder, formed from a mixture of inverted sugar and natural fruit essence, is filled with helium. The string for the “balloon” is created from shredded green apple dipped in concord grape extract, then tied to the inflated membrane. Floating above the plate, the dish is served with the fanfare of a birthday cake. When bitten, the sugary confection bursts, releasing the gas. Like cotton candy, Arthur ingested the dessert while fully intaking the helium. This caused his voice to take on a cartoon tone, a cross somewhere between Bart Simpson and Mickey Mouse.

When Arthur spoke, each utterance descended on a tonal scale as he exhaled.

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

Arthur repeated the sentence until he expelled all the helium, and his voice returned to its original Karloffian tone. The whole experience managed to bring an unnatural chuckle to the stoic critic. It’s the closest he ever came to true laughter, though it was a laughter unshared, for Arthur has no true friends which was why he always sat alone. Patrons at other tables enjoying their meal, caught up with their own conviviality paid him no mind, nor did many recognize him despite the many books he wrote on gastronomy and numerous television appearances.

That was a year ago. Tonight, Chef Arjou would need something truly unique to insure a good review. In cooking terms, Arthur’s mood simmered with a petulance marinating in a reduction of irritability.

Arthur looked back with a shoulder glance checking both directions to see the Prius was gone. The street was completely empty. It struck him odd that he never heard the car drive off, as if it had never been there to begin with. With an impatient shrug he headed for the revolving entrance door to the building. The marquee above the entrance had the restaurant’s name in LED white script reading “Evelyn’s.” Crossing beneath and reaching for the door handle, Arthur stopped dead in his tracks as if he’d hit a glass wall. His nose tilted up, drawing in huge dollops of air.

Swiveling as he sniffed, Arthur smelled something odd. What was it, garlic? Pungent and weighty, the smell infiltrated his nostrils like smoke from an exploded firecracker at the same time delivering a tiny bee sting like feeling deep inside his nasal cavity. Arthur continued, turning in a tight circle, testing the air. Where was that odor emanating from? What could it be? He reached for his handkerchief covering his nose with a wince, “Sriracha!”

At that exact moment at the building’s edge something caught his eye. A man, whose exact age was difficult to estimate, other than old, slowly shuffled, pushing along a vending cart from out of an alley way. The vendor’s umbrella was tied closed due to wind. The wheels of the cart whined and wobbled along the concrete walkway. With his cooking lids locked in place, it appeared to be an end to his long day. There was a large, covered stewpot imbedded into the top of the cart. The steam wafting from it was swept away with each gust of lake breeze. Still, the heavy chili pepper smell of sriracha lingered behind. It was obvious that the food cart was the origin of the attack on Arthur’s nostrils.

Arthur called out. “You there! Stop!” Arthur marched towards the old man’s cart.

The Latino man’s head barely cleared the level of his cooking kiosk. The first thing that stood out to Arthur was the man’s right eye covered by a patch strapped to his leathered face. The pattern on the patch was made up of Aztecan geometric lines on gold felt, accented by a red saffron jewel placed dead center like some kind of evil eye. Facial creases contoured other lines formed from age and struggle. His bright silver hair, drawn back in a ponytail, pulled his furrowed brows into an angle parallel to the open wedge containing his good eye. The shock of white hair contrasting his caramel skin. Despite his pirate like visage, the old man smiled the warm way a grandfather greets a child.

“Can I be to help of you, Señor?” His English was as chopped as the onions in his steaming pot.

“You can’t sell your slop here!” Arthur gestured towards the lake. “Go away, do you hear me? Or I shall report you!” Continuing to wave him off, Arthur’s voice raised. “It’s against the law! Can’t you read?” Arthur pointed to a sign on a pole by the curb. It contained the silhouette of a street vendor with an umbrella cart circled in red. A red slash cut diagonally through the black shape. Above it, large white letters against a deep red background read “NO VENDING ZONE.”

The few food carts in operation in the city could be counted on one hand and were only found in the lower-class sections of town. Arthur knew all too well Chicago had strict laws against street vendors. Arthur, himself, helped push through the discriminate legislation. With just a few heated editorials, Arthur single-handedly put a stop to the street vending business in Chicago proper. He had always given a long look down his nose at fast food and street fare. The laws and regulations he helped push through not only made it hard for some immigrants to make a living. He saw to it so it would create a boundary keeping the “undesirable” in their crime ridden neighborhoods. It was a form of red lining that targeted the poor and cut one more rung from their ladder to success.

Arthur was visibly upset. Prepared to have a gourmet meal at one of the most exclusive restaurants in town his sense of smell has just been assaulted by a stench he could almost taste in the back of his mouth.

The old man’s smile remained as he lifted the lid to a hot tray and removed a corn flour tortilla. He raised the cover to the steamer and spooned out a huge helping of meat infused with a hodgepodge of ingredients, placing it neatly into the breaded blanket. Next, he lovingly set the food in a piece of aluminum foil, wrapping it snug to keep in the heat. Arthur watched like the old man was a street hustler running a shell game.

“What? What are you doing?” Arthur shouted.

“Pruebalo. Taste.” The man’s weathered hands held out the steaming soft taco cradled in foil. “Good.” “Taste.”

Almost instinctual, Arthur slapped it from the man’s hands sending it to the ground in a splatter. “Who the fuck do you think I am, Anthony Bourdain? I don’t eat that street shit!” Through grinding teeth Arthur punctuated his point in a deliberate cadence. “Arthur Wellington Kilgore does not eat junk food.”

The old man’s smile was replaced with a look of confusion, and he quickly started to prepare another taco. Holding out another serving he pleaded. “No. No. Pruebalo. Good. Taste. Recipe, me. Good. Taste.” He then added the Mayan words for eat. “Hanal.” “Comer.” The old man leaned closer. “Cochinita.” The Mayan dish Cochinita is made up with thinly sliced meat of choice mixed with other spices and/or vegetables. In this case, the Cochinita was marinated suckling pig in achiote paste, brown sugar and garlic and so much more.

Arthur smelled the air again and leaned back holding his nose. “Yes, yes. Cochinita. A Mayan delicacy, right? I know, I know.” Arthur extended his other hand out then finger counted the ingredients. “Suckling pig marinated in citrus juice, plus brown sugar, garlic clove…” He sniffed the air again. “…sesame seeds, achiote, cilantro, red onion, and way, way too much sriracha!” Say what you will about Arthur Wellington Kilgore, he may have the heart of a rabid Doberman Pinscher, but he was gifted with the olfactory sense of a bloodhound. Arthur slapped the second taco to the ground.

“I don’t need to taste it. I already can! You’re food cart is like a dumpster fire on wheels. My eyes are watering from that Red Rooster sauce you smother everything in.” Arthur removed a handkerchief to cover his nose. “Take you trash cart away from here before I call the police.”

The old man knew enough English to recognize the word “police.” He hadn’t escaped Guatemala, taken an arduous journey across several countries through jungle and desert to find refuge in America for his family only to feel the boot heel of injustice on his neck again. He got the message.

The old man’s smile left. His brow no longer parallel, creased in anger. The old man bent down holding two paper plates and using them as a dustpan and broom scraped up the two fallen tacos. He deposited the waste into a side receptacle on the cart and wiped down its surface with a towel. He closed his wares one-by-one never losing eye contact with Kilgore. All the while, grumbling in guttural Spanish. His tone steady and firm. The only emotion seemed to be in his good eye which was now locked on Arthur. The man leaned forward again, this time pointing to his eye patch. “Soy Brujo! El Mal de Ojo.” He lifted the jeweled patch revealing the blackness of an empty eye socket surrounded by scar tissue.

The visage startled Arthur, and for reasons unknown, he was compelled to stand and listen. Perhaps a morbid curiosity. Perhaps waiting for his diatribe to raise in decibels to a shout. It never did. The Latino finished, his final words slow and ominous. “Soy Brujo! El Mal de Ojo. Pruebalo.” Arthur recognized the last word spit out like bitter coffee, “Taste.” But his Spanish wasn’t good enough to translate words like “Warlock” and “Evil Eye” and the dozen other curses and epithets hurled his way. The old man lowered the patch then touched his tongue and pointed the moist finger at the stunned critic. “Pruebalo.” “Taste.”

Arthur watched in stunned confusion as streetlights flickered; The marquee and neon signs blinked while a whipping cold wind blew harder off the lake. He felt another blast of icy air snapping him from his almost hypnotic state. Arthur wiped his nose once more and returned his kerchief to his vest pocket. When he looked back, the man and cart were gone without a sound.

Arthur knew what he had to do when he returned to his apartment. He would spend the next day fasting, cleanse his pallet with multiple cups of green tea and perhaps a little purge of this evening’s meal if necessary. He would write and submit his revue of Evelyn’s. Then he would send off an email to his friend at city hall telling him of his run in with the Mexican street vendor.

Arthur took a deep breath through his nose, clearing his senses with the cool air, the deep feeling of righteousness now filling him. Back on mission, Arthur left to do the thing he came to do, his annual review of Evelyn’s. He turned his back to the lake and stepped through the revolving door into the stark art deco lobby of red and gold. Passing a bank of elevators on both sides, Arthur made for the blood red door of a lone elevator by the far backwall. The scarlet doors parted, and Arthur stepped inside. There was no button to press, the elevator had but one destination. The doors closed.

Twenty ounces of rare Waygu Tomahawk steak rested on a sizzling plate, still cooking in its own juices. The expensive Japanese beef, prized for its genetic history, unique flavor profile and tenderness was about to undergo a scrutiny that would make or break the fortunes of Evelyn’s, on Chicago’s North Side, 29 stories up with a city view on one side and Lake Michigan sprawling to the horizon on the other. The upscale restauranteur was celebrating its sophomore year by preparing the menu of a lifetime.

The owner, Chef Cristophe Arjou, artfully plated the premium cut of beef next to a mushroom and truffle pate, lightly dusted with black Kampot Pepper and drizzled with a merlot-infused glaze. It was his signature dish. This evening, it was all in for the neophyte chef. He was playing the highest card he had in his hand with this gourmet meal. After making a once in a lifetime gamble, he sank his life savings into the restaurant two years ago, he had no choice but to pull out all stops. Cristophe hoped to keep his Michelin three-star rating, cementing a place on the map alongside two world renown Chicago dining establishments and competitors, Alinea and Creole. Failure would not be an item on the evening’s menu. That’s why he invited the country’s most read, most popular and most feared food critic to be the guest of honor.

Sitting with linen napkin in place, Arthur Wellington Kilgore’s raised brow indicated he was already evaluating the dish before him for its presentation. Like an art dealer inspecting a painting for authenticity, Arthur noted all aspects of the chef’s design: composition, color, and texture. He hovered above the plate, observing it from different angles, ending with a wafting hand sniff and a near imperceptible nod. Satisfied, he gripped the cutlery with the delicate touch of a surgeon and applied them to the expensive cut of meat. Little downward pressure from his fork was needed. Its tines melted into the meat, while the steak knife slid through the beef like it was room temperature butter. Arthur took the wedge of medium rare steak, skimmed it through the blood juices still roiling on the plate, and lifted it to his lips.

Taking his first bite, one side of his mouth couldn’t help but reveal a hint of a smile. Arthur loved his job. He loved the perks and prestige and the power a food critic of his caliber possessed, but more than that, he loved to eat. Arthur wasn’t a glutton; he wasn’t fat; he wasn’t even a picky eater when the fare was at this high a level. When it came to fine dining, Arthur was precise. He appreciated the culinary arts, and the heights of gastronomical wonder gourmet cooking could achieve. It was a career that brought him light years from the frozen meals, canned goods, and food stamp family fare he was raised on. He had come a long way to reach his station in life, and he planned to exploit it’s every aspect and show no mercy those he considered unworthy.

Taking his first bite, the warmth of the meat filled his mouth. The steak was juicy and tender, not dry or spongy. He savored its natural flavors, a light, almost imperceptible saltiness, the savory natural flavor that comes from blood and the hearty taste given to meat when grilled to perfection. Arthur closed his eyes as he chewed. The flavors washed over his tongue. He thought this had to be the most delicious piece of steak to grace his palate. For a moment, Arthur believed he was in gastronomical paradise. Everything was about to change forever the moment Arthur tried to swallow.

Attempting to ingest the steak, a lightning bolt went off in Arthur’s brain. He would swear he heard the word “Pruebalo” whispered in his ear. His eyes were still closed, but the flash of white inside his head was blinding. When Arthur opened his eyes, he was no longer in the restaurant. He found himself in a large yellow monochromatic cellar pulsating with blinking and buzzing florescent lights. The sounds of animals snorting, and bellowing bounced off the surrounding twenty-foot concrete walls. A procession of cows pressed forward with Arthur near the lead feeling the tsunami-like push forward. Steel dividing rails guided him ahead while hemming him in. The metallic copper smell of warm blood, mixed with cow shit and urine, floated on an undercurrent odor of bleach, filling his nostrils, watering his eyes. Nearby, the pendulum paced noise of hydraulic pressure escaping was punctuated by a loud bang. The explosive sound rattled the very air and Arthur felt it to the bone. Arthur Wellington Kilgore wondered where the fuck he was and where did all these cows come from and why did he feel like he was he crawling on all fours?

Added to the confusion, Arthur felt heavier, as if the gravitational pull of Earth itself increased in degree. He looked down, horrified to see two hooves stumble forward on the wet concrete floor where his hands should be. There wasn’t enough room for him to turn around, but he was quick to surmise his feet were no longer the pair he remembered as they clopped beneath him.

Arthur was certain he was in the middle of a nightmare. From behind, he felt himself shoved forward into a set of hind quarters before him. It was a tidal force pushing him to follow while steel guard rails funneled the rest of the livestock into single file. The space to move narrowed. There were indistinguishable human forms on walkways a foot off the ground on both sides of the cramped hallway. The line stopped. He heard the singing sound of sliding chains and the harsh sound of metal locking on metal within the din. The cow in front shuffled forward a few feet.

Arthur watched in horror as the animal vaulted into the air, screaming. The frightened cow hung several feet off the ground, swinging from its hind legs above a large metal grating. Arthur looked into its eyes now bulging out of its skull in fear. Arthur knew at that moment the beast was aware of what was going to happen next. Before its cry of anguish could finish, a nondescript human form leaned forward holding something, from the back of which a hose ran down and connected to a pressure tank. The form’s fingers tightened on a trigger and with a bang the braying animal went limp. A second human form on the other side of the narrow space held out a knife as long as a baby’s arm. Reaching around to the animal’s throat, it created a slit, opening the neck and releasing a torrent of blood into the grating below.

It took seconds for most of the blood to drain from the dying animal. Hoisted on the conveyor belt, it moved on along, following the scores of other carcasses in the distance. Arthur felt the simultaneous grip of cold steel on both his hind quarters as shackles closed around them. With dizzying speed, he lifted skyward. He felt his hip break and his knees pop from their sockets as blood rushed to his head. Pure fear overrode the signals of pain. He felt motion sickness watching the room swing back and forth while dangling from a conveyor chain. Arthur looked down through the grating as if there were an entity below it awaiting his life force or it was a direct portal to hell.

The human form raised a pressurized captive bolt stunner to Arthur’s face. He tried to scream for them to stop, thinking he was forming sentences; “This is a mistake.” “This can’t be happening.” He even yelled “I’m not a cow.” and “I want my mother.” and a dozen other pleading statements. But all that escaped from his mouth was a guttural bellow that crescendoed into a squeal. Arthur was still swinging on his chain when the human form went to touch the penetrative bolt to his skull. Arthur shook his head then heard the convergence of the air pressure and the loud bang as they triggered the pneumatic stunner. For the second time, Arthur saw a flash. This time, an intense ringing in the ears and a hatchet blow of a headache followed it.

Because he had been swinging, the stunner was off target. Instead of rendering him unconscious, the penetrating bolt had only glanced off Arthur’s cranium. He was still very conscious, and bleeding from the skull and he knew what was coming next. Arthur strained his eyes to look behind him for the second human form, who had steadied him for the death cut. It was here things went into slow motion for Arthur. He watched as a hand holding the long knife blade crossed his field of vision inches below. Arthur saw his reflection for an instant in its stainless-steel blade. The face of mortal fear in the form of a frightened cow looked back at him. Staring into its eyes, Arthur recognized himself. Despite the broken hip and dislocated legs, he tried to twist and turn to avoid the coming blade but felt the ice-cold steel slice across his neck. He felt the flush of blood empty from his head and body. A waterfall of blood splashing below him was the last thing Arthur saw before he lost consciousness.

Arthur next felt a violent thrust against his abdomen. There was no flash of light this time. He came out of the darkness starving for air. He was suffocating. Instead of the slaughterhouse, he was back now watching the restaurant interior tilt up and down, his vision clouded around the edges like a window etched with frost. The expensive Waygu steak lay on the floor amongst a broken plate, shattered glass, and splattered pate. His chair was on its side, as if unconscious.

Arthur was aware of being at the mercy of a python like grip, lifting him up and down like a rag doll. His abdomen felt a second hard thrust. He felt pressure inside his esophagus as his feet touched the floor once more. Another gut-punch lift caused a piece of Waygu steak to fly from his mouth, landing on the table before him. Arthur greedily drew in air like a deep diver surfacing. His ribs ached. His throat ached. He felt dizzy, for the oxygen hadn’t fully returned to his head. Someone righted his chair for him to sit. He surrendered to it and loosened his bow tie, whipping it off and unbuttoning his shirt by the collar.

“Oh, mon Dieu, Mr. Kilgore. Are you alright?” Chef Cristophe knelt, assessing the shaken critic. He had just administered the Heimlich to Kilgore. “We’re calling 911.”.

Arthur spoke almost breathless. “That won’t be necessary. Just some water.” Arthur added, “Not sparkling, and room temperature.” That wasn’t Arthur’s humor coming through. He had none of that. That was his precision in always knowing what he wanted. A server nearby went to fetch a carafe.

Arthur lifted a tremoring hand to his temple. A headache unlike he had ever experienced pulsated and throbbed. “Make it wine.”

“Of course, right away.” Christophe snapped his fingers at another porter. “Wine.”

Before the porter could dart off, Arthur followed up. “Bodega Numanthia, 2013.” Again, Arthur knew precisely that was a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.

Arthur looked at Cristophe. “What happened?”

Cristophe hesitated, then spoke. “Well, sir, you… you were choking, sir. You passed out.” Christophe tried to gage Arthur’s reaction.

Arthur put a finger to his pulse, then lay a hand to his chest. “I don’t believe it. My…my heart is still beating fast.”

Cristophe reassured him. “Please let us call for a doctor.”

Arthur looked at the partially chewed dollop of meat laying on the table then back to Christophe. “You… you almost killed me.”

“No, sir. You just had an accident. Surely, we are not to blame.”

Ricardo, the maître D, returned with the wine bottle, popping the cork as he arrived. He reached for a wine glass. Arthur intervened. He wrestled the bottle from the Ricardo and guzzled a large swig. He repeated three more huge swallows before setting the bottle on the table by the piece of meat now staining the white cloth with juices diluted by Arthur’s own saliva. Arthur’s senses were returning.

“Could someone please do something about that?” nodding to the morsel of meat.

Ricardo was quick to act. Taking a table crumber, he guided the meat into an awaiting napkin, cinched it like a sack and carried it off.

Christophe snapped his fingers. The porters moved in synchronicity, changing the linen, and setting a new placement. “Mr. Kilgore, sir. Is there anything we can do?”

There was no way Arthur was going to eat another steak. “Exactly what kind of mushrooms did you cook with that steak?” As far as Arthur was concerned, psychedelic mushrooms were the only explanation for his nightmare of horror.

Christophe objected. “Monsieur, I can assure you, I used no strange mushrooms in my recipe and all our food is top of the line, fresh and organic.”

Arthur considered maybe it was his near-death experience that triggered his trip to a Friday-the-Thirteenth-like movie. The chef did, in fact, save his life. He reached for the fresh wine goblet and, with bottle still in hand, poured himself another glass. Arthur raised his favored brow. “Indeed. Well, I am still hungry. Perhaps Chef could prepare a special salad for Mr. Kilgore?” When Arthur spoke in third person, it was to emphasize his comparative importance over common folk.

Cristophe felt a surge of hope. “I have a salad recipe delivered from the gods themselves. Give me ten minutes and…” Cristophe pursed his lips, pinched his fingers and, with a chef’s kiss, tossed them away from his mouth. “… heavenly perfection.” Cristophe made the salad in seven minutes.

Arthur was just finishing the bottle of the Bodega Numanthia when Chef Cristophe returned and set the salad before him. “Goûter.” He smiled and gestured to the salad. “Apprécier.” A small crowd of employees stood round, waiting to see Arthur eat. The eyebrow and a clearing of the throat chased all but Cristophe and the maître D’ away.

The famous salad had been christened “Summer in Provence.” It was another Cristophe specialty. He had once prepared the organic vegan dish for Macron and his wife in Paris. It won three awards in one year. The plating was an artistic tribute to Monet. Arthur would handle the fork like a brush mixing colors on a palette. Hesitant, he bought the fork to his mouth.

Arthur closed his eyes, and a fiesta of flavors danced on his tongue. It was as if the diced beets, chopped cilantro, fresh corn, cracked pepper and green onions, splashed with an apple cider dressing, then sprinkled with freshly cracked pepper, were celebrating Mardi Gras in his mouth. Dopamine signals burst in his brain until once again he heard the whispering word, “Pruebalo.” A flash blinded him. In an involuntary reflex, he dropped his fork and gripped the table sides. Arthur panicked. A thought screamed inside his head. “This can’t be happening again!”

But when Arthur opened his eyes, they were met by a sky of perfect blue stretching out before him. Pillow white clouds drifted westerly, their movement almost imperceptible, and interspersed with flocks of blackbirds. The sun tilting slightly away from its noon perigee was a bright yellow, white, warming his face as a moderate summer wind caressed his cheeks. The air, country clean, washed over him, causing him to sway in a cradle like rhythm. Bird song sounded from a group of trees off to his right sifting the light breeze through their leaves. A lone butterfly danced at eye level above the carpet of greenery blanketing to the horizon. Arthur had never known such peace. He couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the child like grin he had from the edible balloon.This was a smile of pure contentment, a comfortable sense of well-being, a calm happiness. For Arthur, this was heaven, he began to hum a tune.

In a nightmare world, Heaven can turn into Hell on a dime. The growing hundred decibel sound of hammering pistons and churning hydraulics pounding over the sound of a droning engine were Arthur’s first clue something was wrong. The sound was coming from behind him, but try as he might, he couldn’t turn to see. He heard another sound closing in. It was the sound of cutting or slicing which Arthur could almost feel getting closer. A frenzy of whipping noises seemed to create a wind, increasing his swaying motion. It was here Arthur could glance behind him and up.

A blood red John Deere combine harvester driven by a nondescript human form was bearing down on Arthur. Heavy blades spun as the teeth of a cutter bar scraped the ground ahead of the machine, tearing up both soil and plant. It’s the first time it occurred to Arthur that he was one of those plants. There was nowhere or no way to run. He tried to scream but couldn’t. Even if he could, the cacophony of chopping sounds married with a motor’s roar would have drowned him out. Arthur felt the cutter dig him out of the soil, root and all. He felt the spin from the rotating blades hurl him onto a conveyor belt. The cockpit of the giant harvester blotted out the blue sky above. Arthur lay helpless as the conveyor carried him up, snaked in a U-turn and deposited him into the grain tank beside mutilated and decapitated bodies of the other plants. Arthur was a just another dying chard. The last glimpse of a patch of blue sky was covered as hundreds upon hundreds of beets joined Arthur in the bin until darkness overtook him. The last thought he had was how he was going to destroy Evelyn’s with a review from hell.

On the twenty-ninth floor of the North Shore high rise, a steady wind coming off Lake Michigan blew into Christophe’s restaurant. Tablecloths clung tight to the table flapping in the breeze. At a window Cristophe stood back several feet, talking to a suited man and a uniformed cop taking notes. A six-foot high by three wide hole in the window had a firefighter leaning forward and looking down. Nearby, the table Arthur Kilgore was earlier dining at, was empty and surrounded by broken dishes and scattered vegetables. The chair once again on its side. Cristophe was explaining the series of the recent event to a detective and police officer.

“I can’t explain it. I set down his salad plate. I said…I said… Goûter…”

The cop was writing as fast as he could. He interrupted. “Gootay?

Cristophe gestured broadly, trying to explain. “Goûter. It means, Taste. It’s French. As I was saying, Mr. Kilgore then took a bite of his salad… by the way, that salad has won me awards!” Cristophe’s agitation grew. “He took one bite, and he closed his eyes and leaned back with the most serene smile I’ve ever seen.” Cristophe took a swig from a bottle of wine. “He… he… he began to sway back and forth. And hum! He was humming a tune. Isn’t that right, Ricardo?”

Ricardo, the maître D’ nodded fiercely. “Si. Si. It was the Carpenters, “Close to You.” He hummed it and then suddenly…”

Cristophe took over. “… Suddenly he shot up from his chair, eyes wide open, and stumbled backwards at full speed. He spun one time and then… and then…”

Cristophe and Ricardo chimed in together, overlapping each other. “He crashed through the window!”

Cristophe continued, “He launched himself without saying a word!”

Ricardo interjected. “No, first he said, ‘Pruebalo’.” He explained. “It too means, taste it.”

Both the detective and the cop stared at Ricardo quizzically. Cristophe shooed him off. “Go see to the kitchen.” Ricardo nodded and scurried off.

Cristophe anguished. “Mon Dieu! I’m ruined! I needed that review!”

The detective took another look at the 29-story drop, his tie waving in the breeze, he stared at the crowd below. He shook his head. “Are you kidding me? Your business will triple. People have a morbid fascination with celebrity deaths. They will line up to see where the most famous food critic in the world took his own life.” He turned to leave. “And if the ghouls ask, just tell them Arthur Wellington Kilgore thought the food was to die for.”

Twenty-nine stories below, the emergency medical team bagged and removed Arthur’s shattered body from the sidewalk. Among the cordoned off crowd witnessing the gruesome “accident” was an old, weathered, one-eyed, Mexican man dutifully tending to his food cart. The smell of the Cochinita filled the air and a line had formed from the morbid onlookers. Evelyn's restaurant’s marquee in front of the building was the last thing Arthur Wellington struck before hitting the pavement now simply read “Evel.” By the curb near the NO VENDING sign, the old man held up a Mayan Taco to the waiting customer. With a smile, and in English, he said softly, “Taste.”