Chef Gaspar’s Gastric Gastropod Grief
Anthony slouched into the kitchen, a yellow ticket waving in his hand. Another one. They never stopped coming in this place.
“What!” Gaspar snapped. “Don’t just stand there. Tell me what I have to make!”
Anthony looked taken aback. “It’s not my fault the staff are all sick. They undercooked the fish, not me.”
Gaspar grabbed hold of him. “And yet you got the easy job and I’m in here with all this!” He waved his hand at the chaos behind him. A chicken squawked. He pulled Anthony close and growled at him. “What do they want?”
“The seafood platter. Lobster and mussels.”
Gaspar let go of him. Lobster, muscles. Done. He ran through the kitchen searching for them. He loved the hotel, he really did, but he was a valet, not a cook. How were they to know the prime minister would be in today.
He pulled out steaks. Meat was muscle. He lay it out and looked over it. Lobster went with this? He shrugged and began marinating the meat.
The door opened and Anthony came back in. He paused. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing the muscles.”
“No! Mussels. Bivalves.”
“Lobsters, by valve?”
“Yes!”
Gaspar put the beef away. He reached into the lobster tank and pulled out two disappointed looking lobsters. He turned to the kitchen. Valves. Valves. How did he cook lobsters by valves?
Looking up, he saw a pipe running through the kitchen. There was a handle on it. That was a valve, the only one in the kitchen. He followed the pipe to the dishwasher. Well, it was the only valve.
The lobsters tossed in, he ran it and turned. Right that was sorted. He returned to the salad and took it off the stove. Seared-served salad, was it? Good.
There was a crunch from the dishwasher, steams billowed into the ceiling. Done already? This cooking thing was easy.
Anthony ran in, wild-eyed. “They want a baked Alaska!”
Gaspar felt faint. Alaska was halfway across the world. He couldn’t get any in time.
Michael Frutig 