THE GREATEST DISH EVER
“You are the worst cook I’ve ever seen!” the burly chef growled, poking his fat finger dead-center into Squeaky’s sternum. The other chefs sniggered in agreement.
Squeaky dropped his head and rubbed the sore spot on his chest. It was true, he wasn’t a good cook. After several years of working in the South London restaurant, the only dish he could prepare without somehow screwing it up was the gazpacho, and lucky for him, it was always on the menu. Whenever he tried to expand his culinary horizons to another dish (as with, this time, the bananas flambé) something went wrong (as in an entire table and a patron’s hairpiece going up in smoke).
“Someday, I’ll make something great,” he murmured to himself. “And everyone will love it. They’ll love me, too.” He resumed the mundane ritual of chopping vegetables for the soup. That’s where his masterpiece would have to start, he thought. With the soup. The head chef wouldn’t let him near anything else, especially after this latest mishap.
“I’ll change it up,” he decided. “Make it better. But I’ll need a special ingredient. Something to give it some zing. Some pizzazz. A kick. But what?”
He thought and he mulled, but nothing came to mind. It wasn’t until he was on his way home, riding the Tube, that he overheard a passenger marveling over the rare and exotic plants at Kew Gardens.
“Of course!” Squeaky cried. “That’s where I need to go!”
And there he went. Sneaking around like some fifth-column operative among the greenhouses, he stumbled upon the most beautiful shrub he’d ever seen. Not even in his salad days, working as a delivery boy for the village florist, had he noticed anything quite like it. Taking heed that no one would notice, he hastily plucked the plant bare, stuffing his pockets full with its tingly, orange leaves. He then absconded to his run-down flat, where he worked tirelessly for days, trying to perfect the “new, improved” soup. He stopped for nothing. Not even sleep. Soon, with a fug of herbs and spices filling the room, he had a dish that he found both unique and wonderful.
“It will be my masterpiece,” he avowed, his bristly face and untamed hair making him look simian. Beating his chest, like so, he threw his arms into the air and squealed, “It will be my magnum opus!”
Two days later, the restaurant where Squeaky worked was chosen to be the primary caterer for a royal banquet. All of the London elite would be there, even the Queen herself. Squeaky knew this would be his chance to make it big.
The night came, and Squeaky showed up with his bag of leaves. At his apartment, however, he had only made one bowl of the soup. Now, he had to brew a kettle that would serve over three hundred! With mathematics not being his strongest suit, he guessed on how much of the new ingredient to add – figuring more was better – and ended up using it all. But before he had a chance to taste his creation, it was delved out and served to the royal guests.
From the wings, Squeaky watched agog. His body tingled with horripilation as the Queen delicately brought a spoonful of the soup up to her mouth and sipped it in. She patted her lips together repeatedly, carefully studying the flavor. Then, her eyes grew large. Her jaw dropped. And a moment later, she was up on the table screeching at the top of her lungs, howling like a monkey and flailing her arms around like she was King of the Jungle instead of the Queen of England. For all intents and purposes, she might as well had been, for everyone else in the room was doing the same – jumping up and down, picking through each others’ hair, and throwing food. Even the prime minister, and older fellow who usually required the assistance of a cane, was seen swinging from a crystal chandelier! The entire room had went from elegant to primeval in a matter of seconds – all after eating the “new” soup.
Later – when things were back to normal – the Queen claimed the soup was “the greatest dish ever!” That it had made her feel “twenty years younger!” She wanted to award the chef who made it with the high honor of knighthood. Unfortunately, Sir Squeaky had fled in shame. His face would never be seen again. The secret to his soup – lost forever.
THE END
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