I won the lottery back in 1998. Eight million bucks to be precise. As a construction worker originating from an underprivileged household, this changed all of our lives.
You’ve probably heard of those millionaires who lost everything because of drugs or stupidity, but I wasn’t one of them. My only passion was reading books. I was an avid reader of everything, from novels to, you guessed it, financial literature. Those helped me make the right decisions to live off my winnings.
I got to keep about five million after taxes, of which I invested 90% and kept 10% to use as I pleased. Afterwards, my rule was to never touch a penny from my investments and only live off my yearly interest. It worked out perfectly. My total lack of interest in luxury helped a lot.
Being a 24-year-old bachelor, the only extravagancy I allowed myself was good food. Construction workers burn tons of calories, and when you don’t have the cash, it’s cheaper to prepare the same bland meals every day. That’s why I dreamed of savoring diverse meals if I ever became rich. And so, my wish had been fulfilled.
New day, new restaurant, new dishes. Moussaka, pizza, couscous, sushi, foie gras, cholent, paella, Egusi soupe. You name it! I tried everything for one year straight. That’s when I settled with French food for a while. Ah, fancy French cuisine. With time, plates became larger with smaller servings, yet prices kept rising. Not that I cared; I was a millionaire.
My favorite place by far was a Michelin-starred restaurant called, “L’œuf, le Veuf, et le Bœuf”. I was told it means, “The Egg, the Widow, and the Beef”. I’ll never understand the French.
Anyway. Since I went there every single day, I became acquainted with the chef, Michel. Surprisingly, he was only 36 years old, and far more skilled than many older chefs I’ve ever met. His signature dish was his “Pork Aux Champignons”. I’d eaten similar ones around town, but no one came close to Michel’s. Succulent, savory, ambrosial pork chops, with exquisite mushroom sauce cascading down the meat. It was to die for.
How many times have I begged for the recipe and the origin of that tender meat so I could get it prepared at home? Of course, he wouldn’t tell. Not even when I offered him twenty grand for it. Yes, that’s how much I was in love with that recipe of his.
The more he refused, the more I grew stubborn. I wanted to find out his supplier and his method to transform raw meat into a banquet for kings. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of a man delivering bags of food from his dark van. The strange thing was that he only came at night. After I saw the same man stop at other restaurants in the morning, I simply supposed it was Michel’s preference. Or perhaps the van diver’s schedule.
One night, as I walked to the toilet, I heard a commotion from within the kitchen. The waiters were busy, and the angle of the hallway kept me hidden from sight. Instead of doing my business, I slipped inside the kitchen. I had been there previously when asking Michel for specific advice on chef knives – even though I never cooked for myself.
I crouched out of sight behind one of the metallic counters. From there, I caught a glimpse of Michel’s chef’s toque and the top of another person’s head. They were in the middle of a heated argument.
“Ah, you exasperate me,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. Then he flung something at the wall, shattering it into a hundred pieces. “I’ve warned you before, I cannot accept food in such a state of decay. Do not ever dare to make my kitchen malodorous again. Understand?”
The other person silently nodded. Michel’s hat disappeared below the counter. I heard a rummaging noise and a soft whisper from the other person.
“No, I need this tonight,” said Michel hotly as his hat popped back up. “I have clients – important clients – who need my delicious pork chops. You find me another one by the hour or your head will fly.”
The man bowed and zipped up the bag, leaving through the back door. That was my cue to discreetly leave the kitchen and go to the toilet.
First, I thought that Michel was admirable to refuse pungent meat. Then I wondered what he meant by “in such a state of decay”. Did it mean that he’d accept partly decaying meat? His food never made me sick, so I assumed that he must have misspoken, since he had a noticeable French accent. I finished my meal but didn’t mention what I heard and returned home afterwards.
The following days, I decided to dine somewhere else. Michel’s heated argument with the supplier had been gnawing at my mind, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether I had been eating expired food all this time. I couldn’t ask Michel, of course, because I’d blow my cover and he’d either get angry or deny it. Maybe both.
Despite eating well in other restaurants, my yearning was insatiable. I was back at L’œuf, le Veuf, et le Bœuf within a week. Michel came out of the kitchen with a broad smile on his lips.
“Ah, my dear friend,” he said, opening his arms to embrace me. “What happened? I thought my cuisine had offended you.”
“No, no, of course not,” I forced myself to laugh, giving a slight tap on each other’s back. “I just wanted to try something else. Vietnamese cuisine for instance.”
“Oh, you cheated on me with Lihn! I cannot believe this,” he jested dramatically as he did. We exchanged a few more pleasantries and he escorted me to my table.
“The usual pork chops with a glass of Chateau Lac Banine?”
“Er, I think I’ll take the lobster bisque today.”
Michel raised a brow, but quickly dropped it back. “Are you certain, Monsieur? Today’s pork chop is one of the best I’ve ever made.”
I automatically eyed the menu, and after a brief moment of hesitation, I said, “Fine, I’ll get the pork chop then.” They were so good I really couldn’t resist. After all, what if they were a little expired? Weren’t they the best pork chops in the world? Besides, they’ve never made me sick, have they?
Dinner was served, and one bite was enough to dispel any doubts; nothing could rival Michel’s culinary talents. I was more determined than ever to track his supplier.
The following night was a Friday, which means supplier day. I rented a black car and waited at a distance from the restaurant. When the van left, I followed from afar. He drove from restaurant to restaurant until he finished his round at four in the morning.
I tailed him through the highway, always in different lanes and ensuring at least two cars were between us. He exited onto a countryside road where I had to increase the gap between us because cars were few and far between, until he entered an industrial complex.
The van stopped in front of a large garage door. I took out my binoculars – I came prepared! – and raised them to my eyes. A dozen men were charging bags into different vans, forklifts carried palettes with boxes, trucks loaded containers; it was a large enterprise. A car suddenly left the site, so I drove off, eager to return the following day.
I was nestled under the cover of a tree row along a small road. My car was parked further away than the night before, but at a better vantage point. Nothing could escape my binoculars from here.
The workers were as busy as before, carrying stuff from here to there, just like at a normal factory. A dark grey van had arrived. Same model as the supplier’s, except it had different number plates. Out of the cargo compartment emerged two men and a woman, blindfolded. They were walked to the entrance, when one of them tried to run away. He was quickly apprehended and pushed inside. I began to fear what this was all about.
Intrigued, I waited for nightfall so I could be concealed by the dark. Since no one came through the countryside road, I left my car parked where it was, and walked straight to the factory through shrubs and bushes.
I must admit that I was scared to death, but my urge to receive answers was much stronger than my fear. The last bit of land was an uneven field, which helped me crawl unseen. I hid inside a bush wall separating the field and the factory road. My dark clothes likely helped to keep concealed, as I was a mere forty feet from the garage door.
I waited until my wristwatch indicated midnight, which is when another van arrived. Two more blindfolded men were sent through the garage side door. There was a narrow window on top of the door, so I took my chances. With nobody left or right, I dashed behind a large container left of the hangar and rapidly shifted to the side door. I am quite tall, yet I was barely able to peep through the window.
Most of the hangar was filled with totaled cars and crates. The two blindfolded men laid flat on a table. Their hands and feet were bound, heads sticking out. Below their head was a big tray. Three workers held the blindfolded man down, while another one approached with a knife. I averted my eyes the moment I saw it near the man’s throat.
I jerked my head back, heart pounding. No one around. I hurried to the end of the container with long silent strides, scanned my surroundings, and, when the coast was clear, I dashed back to the shrubs. From there I sneaked carefully to my car and left for my hotel.
There was no way this could be true. It was too horrible. Then again, I hadn’t seen the action itself. They couldn’t have killed that man, could they? This whole ordeal was too surreal, and my brain was still in full denial. But I had to know the truth, so I stalked Michel’s restaurant once again and waited for the van.
When the delivery man carried a bag inside the restaurant and shut the back doors close, I left my car and ran towards the van’s trunk. As usual, it had been left unlocked. Within, elongated brown bags, similar to the one he had brought inside, were surrounded by ice boxes. I took a deep breath and carefully unzipped the top of one of them.
I uttered a cry when I saw a white face. I dared to touch the body’s cheek. Ice cold. I immediately zipped the bag, closed the door, and retreated to my car just in time for the restaurant’s back door to open. The delivery man dragged another bag inside.
I felt sick. Sick that I had eaten people. Sick that such evil existed in this world. But that wasn’t the end of it. Oh, no. My youthful indignation urged me to confront Michel. I waited in my rental car for the last customers to leave. Next, I knocked on the back door. One of the broad-shouldered cooks with a black mustache opened and said, “What?”
“Er, is Michel there?” I asked sheepishly.
He scowled and slammed the door. It was so abrupt I didn’t know whether to knock again or leave immediately, so I stayed there, perplexed. Twenty seconds later, Michel’s familiar face promptly welcomed me in and locked the door. Mustache man was near the other door, arms crossed, looking cross.
Michel let me sit on a stool facing him and away from mustache man.
“It is rather unusual for you to come after service,” said Michel, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Is there a problem?”
“I, er, have a question.”
“Yes?”
“It’s about– I saw the van, and the delivery person. There was a bag, and, and,” I couldn’t find the right words.
“You have looked inside?” Michel asked me casually.
I averted my eyes. Michel abruptly jumped up.
“Basil, non!” he yelled at the man behind me. I snapped my head back and saw Basil swiftly hiding something behind his back.
“Sors,” Michel asked him to leave. “Now that we are alone,” Michel began, placing his index on his lips as he snuck to the front door. He did not end his phrase, instead, he flung the metallic door open and Basil nearly fell out.
Michel shouted in quick French at Basil before slamming the door shut.
“Always eavesdropping, this asshole,” he said, returning in front of me. “Now, I’m not going to turn around the casserole, as we say in France. I will be straightforward with you, okay?”
“Okay,” I gulped.
“The only reason you are still here is because I see you as more than a customer. Not a friend, but not a customer either. You’ve also spent a lot of money on my establishment, which plays in your favor.” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “It’s a shame you found out about my operation, but it is what it is. This whole business is managed by shady people, people you don’t want to cross–”
“I’ve seen that,” I blurted out, immediately slapping my hands against my mouth.
“Oh, non…” Michel closed his eyes again, then grabbed one of his kitchen knives. “Don’t tell me you have followed the van man?”
“S- sorry.”
The creases on his face deepened.
“You have the option to either leave the state and never come back or end up on tomorrow’s special menu. What will you do?”
He leaned with his elbows on the kitchen table, knife in hand. Michel’s furious look made him almost unrecognizable.
“D– do I have to leave the state?”
“Up to you to listen to sound advice or not,” he scowled. “Speaking of which, don’t you dare speak of this to anyone, because I will know, and the world isn’t big enough to hide from me.”
“I– I– Understood.” A trickle of sweat dropped from my temple.
Michel stood up and placed the knife on the table. “Very well, my friend. Now please, hug me and let me bid you farewell.”
His wide-open arms were as inviting as a lion’s mouth. I hesitated, but ended up embracing him, feeling I had no choice. In our embrace, my eyelids were firmly pursed together, anticipating a backstab at any second.
Ten long seconds later he let go of me and grabbed my shoulders. “I am very sorry you found out. I never had a customer as charming as you, and I doubt I’ll ever have another one like you.”
Maybe it was my imagination, but his eyes seemed watery, so I said, “So am I. I will miss–” I wanted to say, “your cuisine,” but then I remembered that it had never been pork. “–you too.”
He gave me a bittersweet smile and opened the back door.
“Don’t trail,” he warned. “If possible, leave tonight and get your stuff another day.”
Needless to say, I did as exactly as told and rode with my rental car near the state’s border where I stayed at a hotel. Next morning, I drove two states away and lived in hotels until I found a new place and got my sister to send all my stuff from the old apartment.
The only real inconvenience was that my family had to visit me instead of the other way around. I had convinced them that a bad breakup was the reason for my sudden change of heart, and that everything about my city and my state reminded me of her. They called me pathetic, which was a lot better than being cooked by a French chef.
I’ve recently looked up the restaurant and it seems to have closed long ago. Strangely, I don’t harbor any ill feelings about my encounter at all. It did freak me out and turned me off pork chops for life. In a weird way, though, I still wish I could enjoy Michel’s dish one last time.
I write this now as my memories have been faltering rapidly for the past few months. The inevitable is coming, and next month I will get tested for Alzheimer’s disease. Deep inside, I know I don’t have long. I suppose every good thing has a price, and the indulgences of youth do catch up with time.