A Wafer-Thin Mint
“Good evening Monsieur. Welcome to ‘Le Restaurant A La Fin De La Vie’. If you will come this way, we have a table reserved for you in our executive suite.”
Gilbert Cuthbertson followed the Maître D. As he did so he took in the elegant surroundings, the glittering chandeliers, the plush curtains, snow white linens and shining cutlery, A Crêpe Chef worked his magic at a table where two diners, immaculately dressed, drooled as their food was prepared before their eyes. All around there was evidence that this restaurant knew how to treat guests with his knowledge and interest. All his life had been devoted to food and drink, always the best for Gilbert. He had studied it, written about it, worshipped it.
A string quartet filled the air with calming music, completely complimenting the clatter of plates, the clink of glasses and the rattle of cutlery. This was a place devoted to the worship of the culinary art. He had died and gone to heaven.
The Maître D led him into a small room with single, large circular table set with only one chair. But there must be some mistake. The chair was already occupied. A very large gentleman reclined on the chair, his immense stomach straining against the white cloth. He was dressed in evening dress which, though there were acres of it, was barely enough to contain his vast bulk. A whole marquee of white shirt and waistcoat ballooned in front of him and a bow tie was stretched taut around his bulging neck above which his crimson face, with pouting lips, glowed and glowered. His dark hair was greased, and I parted in the middle. Gilbert thought he must know the man; he seemed familiar. The man spoke, though the effort turned his face a deeper shade.
“Come on Garçon, don’t keep me waiting, let's have it all, the works. I'll start at the top of the menu then work my way down, just keep it coming.”
“Moment, Monsieur, we are nearly ready for you,” He turned to Gilbert and smiled, “and you Gilbert,” he pronounced it in the French way. “Are you ready?” He smiled and that smile made Gilbert very nervous. He studied the Maître D's face. He, too, was familiar. Where had he seen him before? The slicked hair, the pencil moustache; time seemed to stand still, the light danced, the music played. What was that music? He knew it was something American, unusual for a string quartet; there was usually brass. It was a march, it was ‘Liberty Bell’.
“At last, Monsieur, you have worked it out. The owner of this establishment uses only the very best ideas for his, shall we say, guests?” Gilbert looked at the Maître D. The likeness to John Cleese was amazing, except that he had only just noticed the set of horns sprouting through the sleek hair and even John Cleese had never managed such a demonic smile.
“Hell!” said Gilbert.
“Exactement,” said the Maître Demon, “I am afraid you’re earlier thought.” He clicked his fingers and Gilbert's voice could plainly be heard,
“I have died and gone to heaven.”
“I am afraid you were only partly right, Monsieur. Welcome again to ‘Le Restaurant A La Fin De La Vie, the Restaurant at the End of Life. It is our pleasure to welcome those who glorify the sin of gluttony. You should feel comfortable here. And now if you will take your place?” He pointed at the chair where the vast figure reclined, its mouth opening and closing like an immense fish.
“No,” cried Gilbert and turned, looking for a way of escape. He had taken only two steps before a wave of nausea passed over him and he lost consciousness for a moment. When his senses returned he was looking up into the face of the Maître Demon and could see an immense white clad stomach stretching away from him. His mouth was opening and closing. His mind screamed, I'm inside him, I am him.
“Voilà, we will begin with the soup. If I may say so, it is the Chef's best.” It was very good and Gilbert
might have enjoyed it had he been allowed to sup it quietly with time to savour its delicate favour but the vast bulk in which he was imprisoned had little arms that could only flap helplessly like flippers on a beached whale. The waiters simply spooned it into his mouth, most of it going in but much running down his chin, creeping warmly down his neck.
Next there came a foie gras to tempt the taste buds of all but the most devoted vegetarian. Now he knew how the geese felt being force fed as the pâté was scooped into his mouth with one waiter wielding a knife like a trowel spreading mortar.
Then there were prawns plump and pink in a rich sauce. Only on the starters and already he was gagging and spluttering. His body shook and then the prawns were expelled in an explosive fountain, staining his dress shirt and spattering the waiters who took not the slightest notice.
Each course that arrived was displayed in the best style of the Cordon Bleu culinary art, but for Gilbert it was now like, so much sand and cement heaped into the mixer of his mouth, the flavours so mangled that they became one mash forced down his throat. His stomach churned and there was a disturbing rumbling deep below. Could he actually see his gut expanding under the relentless stuffing?
Periodically, a waiter with a stainless-steel bucket leapt into action when Gilbert vomited fountains of partly chewed food. The stench was overpowering but the Maître Demon only smiled and waved for the next course. Salmon mousse, Coq Au Vin, Beef Wellington, Duck à l'Orange, all followed in steady progress.
It was when Crème brûlée was sliding down his face and clogging his left nostril that he realised that the end was near. They had arrived at the desserts. The buttons on his shirt and waistcoat groaned under the pressure of his ever-increasing girth and the rumblings from deep within were growing worse when suddenly everything stopped.
“C’est fini,” declared the Maître Demon, “the menu is complete, there is no more,” Gilbert sighed and belched. It was finally over. “except, of course, for coffee and a waffer theen meent.” He held in his hand a small flat square of chocolate and moved inexorably towards Gilbert, displaying the after-dinner mint to the assembled waiters who leered and chuckled, edging closer to watch the denouement. Inside his prison of flab, slimy and sticky, oozing gravy and rich sauces, Gilbert screamed a silent scream. Only a whispered, ‘No’, escaped as the Maître Demon posted the mint like a letter and clamped the jaw shut, standing back to wipe his fingers on a napkin.
The vast expanse of stomach wobbled; wheezes and rumblings and farts announced that something dramatic was about to happen. Gilbert felt the volcano of his body stir deep down. Buttons began to pop from his shirt and waistcoat to ricochet around the room. The waiters took shelter behind chairs and tables. The Maître Demon stood by the door ready to step behind it should the need arise. From the gap in the shirt a large pink mass began to emerge. It swelled until Gilbert could no longer see over it. On it went. The pain was beyond imagining, and Gilbert prayed for release. With a flash of exquisite agony, he exploded.
Gilbert shot bolt upright with a sharp intake of breath. Sweat poured down his face in rivulets.
“Oh, so you're back with us.” his wife spoke venomously, “It’s the same every Christmas with you. You spend all morning stuffing your face and all afternoon snoring. Then you wake up ready to start stuffing again.”
Gilbert stared around him, not daring to believe he was, in fact, alive. He looked at his rather podgy stomach and felt it; just to be sure it was still in one piece. There was no stickiness on his face, no vomit, no pink mousse, no Crème brûlée. It had been a dream, a nightmare, something he ate?
“Here, have one of these, your Aunt Rita sent them.”
He looked at the long green box that his wife held open before him with its row of regular brown shapes, neatly stacked.
He reached the bathroom just in time and knelt retching. As he stared into the white void he heard, faintly through the pipework, a ghostly echo.
“Just a waffer theen meent.”
