Monday, April 23, 2018

The Restaurant at the End of Print Media

SCENE: The People's Kitchen. It would be indistinguishable from any large, restaurant kitchen, except for the immense barbeque pit that dominates the room and the the large cages lining the walls, draped in shadow, all but entirely concealing the occupants within. Delicious smelling pieces of meat slowly turn on spits and racks above the glowing red coals. Above the double-doored entrance is a hand-painted sign, faintly yellowed with greasy soot, depicts a jolly chef carrying a platter with a roast pig wearing green eyeshades, a pencil behind one ear, and an apple in its mouth, followed by several waiters carrying assorted dishes, drinks, and garnishes. On a painted banner flying over the procession is a slogan written in playful, cursive script that reads, "If it bleeds, it leads!" Below the sign is an electronic counter reading "Now serving..." and the number '6529' in red LED lights.

A man in a bloodied chef's apron, carrying a massive cleaver, approaches one of the cages and speaks as he begins to fiddle with the lock. His voice is deep and gravelly:
"6529. I believe that's your number, Mr. Baquet."

"No it isn't! My number is 8981! See?!" The shape in the cage holds a tatty piece of paper against the bars. Written upon it are the digits '8981'.

"That says 6529. Now let's not make a scene, Mr. Baquet. The spit has been oiled the the coals are red hot."

"What? No! It says '8981', not '6529'! My ticket is 8981!"

"So you say. If we must, we will let The Readers decide."

The chef snatches the ticket from the caged man's hand and walks around the barbeque pit to a stainless steel-lined opening the wall; the pass-through window. He rings the service bell once and exchanges words with someone or something on the other side of the window.

Moments later, a waiter strides through the door, leading a couple and two small children. All four are wearing bibs depicting a generic newspaper front page. The bold, 60 pt headline reads LOREM IPSUM, and immediately below it is a greyscale photo of a locomotive that has erupted through the second storey wall of a building and is resting forlornly on its cow-catcher. To add insult to injury, a man in navy whites is trying to dip and kiss the distressed locomotive as confetti and ticker tape rains down. A smear of ketchup on the smallest child's bib gives the image a grisly overtone.

The chef joins the waiter and the family of diners and the six of them walk back to the cage. The two young children gleefully run to the cage, poke their fingers through the bars, and chatter to each other excitedly, while the chef addresses the adults.

"There seems to be some...controversy surrounding your entrée. I have called his number, but he protests that the number isn't his." The chef holds the ticket out for all of them, and points to the 'Now Serving...' counter. "As you can see, there are four numbers on the ticket, and the counter. Obviously, they are a match."

"But they aren't!" screams the man in the cage. And then, to the children prodding him, "I told you, I am not J. Jonah Jameson!"

The waiter scrutinizes both the ticket and the sign. "My apologies, but it appears that your entrée is correct. The numbers do not match. We are terribly sorry for the inconvenience. May I recommend a pundit instead? And of course, your pre-dinner drinks are compliments of the house."

"What do you think, Honey?" the man says to the woman. "The numbers don't match. I know you had your heart set on editor, but we've come all this way."

"Well, the numbers don't match, but let's not let that spoil our night out. I'm sure there's something else on the menu that will be just as good."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" The man in the cage is almost crying with relief.
Suddenly the children turn from the cage and stare at the adults, their faces almost feral with rage:

"BUT WE WANT TO EAT J JONAH JAMESON! WE PROMISED SPIDERMAN!"

"But children, the numbers don't match!" reassures the woman. The man looks slightly embarrassed.

"YES THEY DO! J JONAH JAMESON IS GOING TO BE OUR D DINNER DINNERSON!" the children scream.

The man and woman look to the waiter and chef with imploring eyes. "Now that I look more closely, it does seem that the numbers match after all," the woman says, while the man nods in agreement, his bib folding and unfolding, obscuring the photo, making it look as if the locomotive is extending and retracting a bell bottom moustache.

The waiter, beginning to worry that his other tables may need tending, crouches before the cage and addresses the man within. "It seems our guests have a robust Difference of Opinion."

"But they're wrong! They're wrong! It's not my number! Please, don't let them eat me!" pleads the caged man.

"The People have spoken. You are number 6529." He nods to the chef, and turns back to the couple.

"Again, I am so sorry for the inconvenience. I will take you back to your table, and leave the chef to prepare your meal. But while we have Chef's attention, did you want your entrées with baked potato or spring vegetables?"

"Oh, we'll have both sides, please."

No comments: