Two short stories on the excesses of society.

No One’s Stew, 1949.

Hardily chopping lettuce, grating tomatoes, and peeling onions, I poured the lot into a steaming pot. I took a broad ladle, tenderly raised a portion of red lamb, and slid it into the broth. It gave a soft sizzle. I swiped paprika, cumin, and mustard powder jars from a shelf, and delicately tapped each spice through their little pouring-holes into the stew. Rubbing my hands on my apron and adjusting my hat, I grabbed a bottle of white wine and sparingly poured some into the pot; some more I poured into my mouth. The pale liquid ribbon disappeared into the broil, and a savory aroma—one of roasted meat, terrifically absorbing the flavor of seasoned vegetables—graced my nose. I licked my lips and kissed my fingers, as one does when having created a dish worthy of eminence. Setting the bottle down, I called for a waiter to whisk it off to hungry diners. But no one was in the kitchen. I peered through the swinging doors. There were no diners either.

The restaurant was as still as a chapel. 

I furrowed my brows and shifted my gaze to the glass walls at the entrance. 

They were all bunched up outside like a horde of flies, rubbing and sliding against each other as they tried to form a line in front of a portable desk near the sidewalk’s edge. A greasy-looking man wearing a two-cent smile sat behind it, gesturing to piles of paper bags filled with salted wafers. 

“A buck a bag,” he sang. “A buck more for some barbecue sauce!”

He took a bucket from underneath him and showed the horde its contents: rubbery pouches of brown sauce. The smell set the crowd off. They whipped out their wallets and spilled greenbacks into their fingers. They tapped their feet and gnawed their teeth as they waited for their turn. Sly ones cut past the unassuming. Tongues panted in the cool evening air. 

Like the rhythm of the impatient — at a carnival.

Once the front-liners received their prizes, they retreated back into the restaurant and sat down, munching on their tasty conveniences. The culinary hymn in my head vanished. 

My stew bubbled behind me, proud and useless. I watched the diners devour their wafers with a hippo’s frenzy. I poured myself the rest of the wine—a consolation, perhaps, for my labor in a world that no longer waits. 

It was sharp, a little bitter. My tongue winced, my throat wrinkled. 

The wine lost its taste.

Warm Stupor, 1942.

 Food. It was food I was eating. My tongue was finishing off pork and lettuce from a disbelieving waiter’s plate. Mid-chew, I caught the diners’ stares. My eyes swiveled in their sockets. My mind cleared. I straightened myself and dusted some stray crumbs off my coat. I pushed my hair back and looked down at the table the waiter was serving. I swallowed.

“Forgive me,” I muttered with a slight slur. 

From my coat pocket, I drew two crumpled bills and tucked them under a white napkin on the waiter’s plate. Extending a finger, I gently corrected a tilted fork. Then, I peered around at the restaurant’s interior. The red matte wall, brushed with blue stripes, was furnished with old French architecture. The paintings struck a chord. Surely not, I thought. I turned to the waiter. 

“Is this Le Pavillon?” I whispered. 

The waiter gave a curt nod. His curled mustache bristled.

“Mon Dieu,” I whistled softly. 

I had never visited Le Pavillon, but I knew its reputation. Located on Fifth Avenue in New York City, the restaurant had rocked residents with its menus and maître d’s. Famously headed by Henri Soulé—president of the Syndicate of French Restaurants—Le Pavillon brought French etiquette to American cuisine. Soulé charmed patrons with culinary maxims, speaking of savoring delicacies instead of scarfing them down. Savoring indeed: such delicacies were known not only for their recherché tastes, but their hefty prices. They were not idly ordered unless one was willing to write away a small fortune. Above all, however, was Le Pavillon’s relentless air of grace. A recent fine-dining review summed it up exquisitely: 

Its food is indispensable to the human experience. To enter Le Pavillon, you must ask yourself: Are you a distinguished gentleman or a belle? If so, feel free to enter. Polite society welcomes the initiated—always reminding you to be mindful of your manners and mindless with your money.

I cleared my throat.

“My apologies,” I murmured. 

I began turning away, then halted and looked at the half-eaten food on the waiter’s tray. I swooped down to the child at the table, who had been eyeing me peevishly—as one would expect. I had just eaten his meal!  

“Chopped pork and lettuce don’t go well together,” I whispered gently, picking at the aliments lodged in between my teeth. “You would be better off with an Entrecôte. It tickles the palate quite well.”

I rose and gestured to the waiter. He reluctantly approached me, frowning. 

“It’s alright, my good man.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be on my way.”

I passed a bill between my fingers to him. 

“A crème brûlée for the child, no?”

The waiter blinked and regained his composure.

“Oui, monsieur.”

As I headed out, I slipped an empty glass bottle from my pocket and tossed it into the garbage can. On the street, I picked up my tattered briefcase and cane, looking around as I recollected myself. The street lamps were dim and frosty. Some tipsy vagabonds staggered under them, palms raised. They had green wreaths wrapped around their necks. Each leaf shivered with its skin. It was a sorry sight; no snow could salvage it. The air was cold and biting. As I pushed my coat lapels into my rosy cheeks, a bill slipped from my pocket. It left quickly in the wind, without protest, like some of its fellows had earlier. I peeked into my pockets and confirmed that I was all cleaned out. Behind me, Le Pavillon reveled in warm lights and candles, its cutlery clinking, wines pouring, and patrons laughing in sounds that never quite spilled past the street. 

It’s funny how drink blurs things. The patrons spent out of habit, and for a time, I had joined their mindless ranks. The pavement and the parquet, the suggestions and the slurs—we could all utter the same meaningless culinary wisdoms in different ways. Civility wasn’t sobering at all. A little warmer, maybe.

But just another stupor. They were all drunkards.