23 December 2009

Suzanne Moratorium

The sleet falls like sugar in a tin pan, spilling on God's kitchen floor and sending the city's vermin scattering in to its darkest alleys. Red and blue lights splash through the window and jump off my desk as I send a shot of bourbon down to meet the other four. It's cheaper than heating and easier than counseling, and with my lack of clientele lately it's prudent to watch the books.

The sign on the door says "Moratorium Investigations," and I feel like the letterer missed an "on" in there somewhere. Not a damn soul is coming in here at this time of night. I think about getting a cab home, but with the state of this city I'd just as likely wake up in a short crate on a long boat to Shanghai.

A shadow darkens my door. I'm not too sloshed to grip the revolver on my desk and point in the vague direction of its head.

The door opens, letting in a walking puddle -- five foot eleven of beige overcoat and hypothermia draped over a man that looked like he could throw a bum through a railcar and still be home in time for dinner. He shakes the slush out of his messy brown hair, looks at me and says, "Walter Moratorium?"

I stare at him for a minute and send down another shot to join the party. "He's dead. I'm Suzie. Whatd'ya want?"

His face starts to go into full on "condolences" mode, so I cut him off right there. "Look, either tell me what you want or get out."

I'm startin' to understand I why I have so few clients.

He looks at me grimly. He says, "I'm sorry. I'm looking for a man named Augustus Briton."

Sobriety hits me like a prize fighter in a semi. My eyes tighten, my nostrils flare, my revolver finds itself loaded and holstered, and I'm standing.

"Go on."

03 December 2009

Concentrate, pt. 1

My mother says, "Close your eyes." She waits a moment, then adds, "Push it to the top of your mouth, and exhale slowly."

I do.

She says, "Let your mind relax."

I try. I drown out the clinking of glasses, taking of orders. The couple two tables to the right just got engaged. The guy at the bar buying a round just got promoted.

Drown them out.

Another moment, and she says, "Now tell me."

I concentrate, moving the lump of food to the left, to the right. Images zoom past, a memory zoetrope, herbal rolodex, and...

I tell her, "Salt, obviously. Black pepper. Cumin, oregano, and vinegar." She says, "And?"

I inhale slightly, a few more images popping up. "Onions and garlic? No, it's milder than that. Shallots. And scallion."

"Keep going."

"Um... Something lemony. Not sweet enough to be the juice, not flowery enough to be lemongrass. Lemon oil?"

"Close."

I move the food a millimeter backwards. My tastebuds pick up on the bitterness. "Lemon peel."

I hear her thinking; the sound of an inked nib slicing checkmarks into a sheet of parchment. She asks me, "How?"

I've exhausted this forkful, so I swallow it and procure another. "Concentrate, " she say, in that nagging authoritative tone. I move small pockets of air back and forth through my nostrils, trying to discern everything that happened to every ingredient, every thought of the chef. The way my mother talks about it, you'd think you could tell a person's life -- past, present, and future -- through taste alone. Something mystical.

It finally hits. The slight scent of smoke. "Faintest hint of carmelization. He cut the peel, flexed it to release the oil, and fried it with the shallots and scallions." A moment later, I add, "In sesame oil."

She says nothing for a while, so I open my eyes, and ask, "Can I enjoy my meal now?"

She smiles and says, "Not yet. But you're getting closer. Now dig in."