A Meal to Live For

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               On Thursday, Death walked into the bar.  He leaned his scythe against the wall, hung his voluminous, cloak upon the coatrack, and the crow perched on his shoulder nodded sagely to the maître d’ as he navigated through the booths and tables, past the arcade and the pool tables, and sat down in the last barstool.

               That’s not what everyone else in the bar saw.  They saw an exceptionally pale, exceedingly thin man wrapped in layers of black cloths with dyed white hair and a crow perched on his shoulder.  Even so, shadows and silence followed him as people eyed him with a wariness that did not befit his outward appearance – the best glamours could not fully conceal his nature.  The crow didn’t help matters.  As Death waited for the barkeep to attend him, the first mortal customer pushed away from the bar and headed for the door.

               Others soon followed, and the barkeep rapidly found his excuses for not serving his unassuming customer who made him tremble just to look at dwindling.  Within minutes of Death’s arrival, the bar was empty of paying patrons.  Vince the barkeep took a deep breath, and two shots of whiskey for courage, and walked over to the corner of the bar where Death sat, armed with the weapons of his profession: a glass and a polishing cloth.

               “What’ll it be, Sir?”  Vince was proud that his voice did not squeak; he could do nothing about the trembling.

               “I DESIRE A SUITABLE REPAST.”

               Vince bobbed his head and found it easier to make eye contact with Death than with the crow on his shoulder.  “Of course, Sir.  Ah, what would be suitable?”

               Death cocked his head to the side at an almost ninety-degree angle such as no mortal could accomplish and live.  “THAT IS FOR YOU TO DETERMINE.  I RECALL WHEN THE LORD OF THE LEVAIN SERVED ME A LOAF OF BREAD, AND THAT WAS ALTOGETHER SUITABLE.  I HAVE BEEN FEASTED BY EMPIRES AND DINED WITH ROYALTY NOW FORGOTTEN.  BUT I REMEMBER THE FOOD.  THAT IS SUITABLE.”

               “I’ll…I’ll let the kitchen know, Sir.”  Vince hesitated.  “But if it will all be forgotten, what is there, in the end?”

               “ME.”

               Vince supposed that he’d walked into that one.  He splashed more liquor on the bar than into the glass which he presented to Death, so badly were his hands trembling, but he mopped it up as best he could with his rag, wiped sweat from his brow, and hurried into the kitchen to find the chef.

               “A meal worthy of Death.  Not a meal worthy of death – I made one of those before – but worthy of Death.  That’s a big difference.  What would Death even like to eat?  For that matter, how does Death eat?”  Chef Abigail looked at her knives laid out on the cloth, gleaming in the harsh kitchen lights, and waited for them to answer.

               “Ghost peppers?” a cook suggested.

               “Some kind of ‘death by chocolate’ confection?”

               “Ooh, the Heart Attack Burger!”

               That they could laugh about it meant they had not looked out at the bar, where Death sat and sipped his drink and monologued to Vince as the barkeep resisted the urge to flee.  But Abigail had looked out at her customer, and she swore the crow’s beady eyes followed her even through the kitchen walls.  No, Death would not want a dish that was a mere joke, a play on words.  What had Vince said?  That Death had once been served a loaf of bread that was suitable?  There was something to that.

               The cooks were still brainstorming.  “Mushrooms!”

               “A mushroom burger with two beef patties, half a pound of bacon, a fried egg, pepperjack cheese, and ghost pepper barbecue sauce.”

               “Pizza.  Because it’s the eighth deadly sin, right?  Get it?”

               None of that felt right to Abigail.  She was not some practitioner of haute cuisine, nor was she a gourmet chef.  In truth, she wasn’t even a chef, in that she’d never been to culinary school, just worked in restaurants long enough to rise to the top of the kitchen…in a generic bar in a generic suburb.  That was fine – she wanted to make food people enjoyed, not food they had to think about – but she wondered why Death was here.  Surely, he could have walked into a Michelin Star restaurant in Paris and demanded immediate service.

               “Dry-aged beef.  You know, because it’s kind of deliberately rotten?”  The cooks’ suggestions were getting more creative, and worse.  Someone made a ‘to die for’ joke, and she finally shook her head.

               “No.  I’ve never thought food should be to-die-for.  A great meal, a fantastic meal?  It should be something you live for.”  As she said it, she felt the rightness of it.  Death wouldn’t come for over-the-top death-themed foods, or anything else that tried to play into his nature.  Food, properly, was a celebration.  For Abigail, it was a reason to live.  That, she thought, was what she should serve Death.  Something to make the incarnation of endings feel the joy of enduring.

               All of the cooks were watching her now, waiting to see what she decided, their brainstorming finished.  They listened intently as Abigail described the meal they would serve Death, and they all nodded as she described it.  It felt right, somehow.  Then, Abigail picked up her chef’s knife, and the kitchen got to work.

               It took a long time for the meal to be ready, and that had Vince sweating, but what was time to Death?  If Death blinked, which he did not, it would have seemed to him that the first course appeared before him in the blink of an eye.  The plate was accompanied by a notecard, edged by sauce-stained fingerprints, which Abigail handed to Vince to read when the first course was presented.

               “Ahem.”  Vince cleared his throat, and Death paused in picking up his knife.  “Ah, the chef asked that I read this note to go with the course.”

               “SO READ IT.”

               “Right, right.”  Vince almost dropped the notecard but recovered.  He swallowed noisily.  “‘Bread is amongst the simplest of foods, and the oldest.  In some ways, it is synonymous with food, the ‘bread of life.’  This bread…is not so pretentious.  It’s just a dinner roll, but it’s hot, and fresh, with a pat of freshly churned butter melting into its nooks and crannies.  Enjoy.'”

               Vince paced back and forth behind the bar while Death ate.  Then, he sat down in his chair in the opposite corner and sat with one leg jiggling, striving to look anywhere but at Death eating his dinner roll.  He didn’t want to know, or imagine, how Death ate, even though the glamour prevented him from seeing anything truly disturbing.

               When Death finished the dinner roll, it was swept away and replaced with the next course, and Vince was handed another notecard.  “‘Is there anything more comforting than a steaming bowl of soup fogging up the windows to block out a cold, dreary day?  Growing up, I would come inside from playing in the snow, and my dad would have tomato soup simmering on the stove, and grilled cheese sandwiches at the ready to bring life back to our cold fingers.  This is a fresh twist on that classic.  Enjoy.'”

               “AH.  YOUR CHEF IS CLEVER, BARKEEP.”  Death picked up the spoon and slurped up the first spoonful of creamy tomato soup, ignoring or impervious to the scalding temperature.  He picked up one of the pieces of toast, encrusted with caramelized cheese protecting fresh basil, and dipped it into the soup.  His expression never really changed, but Vince had the impression he was pleased.  That didn’t make the barkeep any less nervous.

               Only Abigail dared peek out from the kitchen to observe her customer’s reactions to the first two courses.  Her cooks clustered around her when she returned, and she gave them a double thumbs-up.  “I think it’s working,” she told them, and they cheered, but she did not allow them long to celebrate.  “Let’s get that entrée finished.  How’s dessert looking?”

               Josh checked the oven.  “It’s almost ready.  Alan should be back with the ice cream soon.”

               “Good, good.”  Abigail leaned over to taste from the entrée sauce, which did contain a tiny hint of ghost pepper – she hadn’t been able to resist that one – and pronounced it needed a touch more acidity and an extra pinch of salt.  As it was borne out of the kitchen to her customer, she sank down into a chair and sighed.  The entrée was out, the dessert would be ready on time and there was nothing more to do with it aside from plating.  Her job was finished.  All that remained was to learn if she had served Death a suitable meal.

               Outside the kitchen, Vince read the notecard Abigail scribbled about the entrée.  His voice was barely audible, and Abigail could have wished for a better presenter, but she also, faintly, heard Death’s dry chuckle, and then the sounds of cutlery on porcelain.  It was otherwise silent.  The cooks didn’t gossip, and there was no swell of conversation from the empty dining room and bar.  Death was comfortable with the silence, as he would be, and his crow peered around the room without cawing once.

               “It really should be a raven,” Josh muttered.  Abigail rolled her eyes at him.

               She took the dessert out of the oven.  It was baked in an individual ramekin, so she set it on a napkin-lined plate.  She topped its crusty, bubbling surface with a perfect scoop of vanilla bean ice cream that immediately began melting amongst the cobbler’s nooks and crannies.  A slight dusting of cocoa, and she sent it out to her customer with the shortest notecard of the night.

               Death finished the final bite of cobbler and pushed the dish away from him; Vince immediately snatched it, eager for the excuse to leave Death’s presence for the kitchen’s temporary relief.  When the barkeep returned, Death dug in a pocket of his wrappings and produced a handful of golden coins.  “I BELIEVE THIS SHOULD SETTLE MY BILL.”

               Vince stared at the gold.  “We…ah, we don’t take foreign currency.”  His eyes lingered on the coins.

               “OUTRAGEOUS.”  Death’s voice was monotone; he never had the slightest inflection.  “THIS WOULD BUY A SMALL VILLAGE TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.”

               Vince’s mouth flapped soundlessly a few times before he found his voice.  “I…on the other hand, I’m certain we could arrange for an exchange.”

               “GOOD.  I WOULD SPEAK WITH YOUR CHEF BEFORE I DEPART.”

               Death left Vince stuttering a response, walked around the bar, and strode into the kitchen.  Shadows followed him, stretching into the kitchen and overwhelming the bright, fluorescent lights.  The cooks took one look at his looming presence and fled through the back door to cower in the pantry, leaving Abigail alone.  She swallowed hard and resolved to do better than Vince.

               “YOU ARE THE CHEF WHO PREPARED THIS MEAL FOR ME?”

               “I am.”  Abigail sketched a slight bow.  “I hope it was to your liking, Sir?”

               “IT WAS SUITABLE,” Death agreed.  He turned, and he was gone.

               Abigail stared after him, shaking, and fought to control her breathing.  The cooks came out of their hiding spot in the pantry to slap her on the back, congratulating her.  Vince had fainted in relief behind the bar.  Despite what they expected from the darkness of Death’s presence, the sun was still up in the late summer evening, but no one expected any patrons to return that night.  Abigail cleaned her knife and wrapped it up with the rest of the set as the others prepared the bar for closing.

               Before she left, she paused by the specials board.  She erased what it said – something about deep-fried chicken wings and beer pitchers – and picked up the chalk.  She wrote a new menu: A Meal to Live For.  Then, marveling in being alive, she drove home.

Thank you for reading Lloyd Earickson’s short story, A Meal to Live For, an IGC Publishing original story. If you enjoyed the story, please consider leaving a comment or review in the discussion below the story. Be sure to follow IGCPublishing.com for updates, more information, and other freely available stories.

If you want to know more about the writing process for this story and how it came to be, please read the author’s note and release post.

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