Writing Prompt

It occurred to me about halfway through the day that I probably could have phrased the ad better. “WANTED: FOOD TASTER” gave the impression that I was some paranoid medieval queen looking for a servant to test my food for poison, which would explain why every applicant I’d interviewed so far seemed to have a death wish or a LARPing habit. Or both, in the case of the guy who came in with a sharpened longsword.

So I didn’t have high hopes for Applicant Number Eight, a dark-skinned girl about ten years younger than me, at least, with a cloud of curly hair around her head. But at least she wasn’t carrying a sword.

“So, why did you apply for this job?” I asked, pencil and notepad at the ready. She tapped her foot against the floor, thinking.

“Okay, so, it’s like - I’m just gonna say it. Have you seen Ratatouille?”

“The movie with the mouse?”

“He’s a rat. But yeah. The rat who wants to be a chef in Paris.”

“I’ve seen it.” An image of animated cheese appeared in my mind. They really did capture the way light diffuses through food in that movie. They must have consulted with expert chefs. I remembered sitting in the theatre marveling at how it seemed I could almost smell the food right there.

Of course, now any sense of smell was my imagination. That thought sent a jab of pain to my gut, which I forced myself to ignore. The whole point of today was to make sure this… setback did NOT ruin my decade-long career.

“Okay, you know the part where he bites the cheese and the world goes all musical and colorful, and then he bites the strawberry and there’s different music and different color, and then he tries them both together and it’s a whole new song and light show combined, like fireworks?”

I nod for her to continue.

“It’s like that. I love thinking about that. How different things taste together. It’s like art to me - like I don’t think I’m synesthetic, but it makes sense to me to think of it as colors and music and how things work together in, in harmony, you know?”

I did know. That’s what drew me to be a chef in the first place: the art of it, the discovery, the magical combinations of smell and taste.

“So then I read your ad,” she continued, “and I saw the bit at the bottom, that you were a chef? And I just thought - here’s my chance. I don’t have the funds to experiment with food like that at home. But to do it for work? That would be amazing.”

I set my notepad aside.

“About a month ago, I suddenly lost all sense of taste and smell,” I said. Her eyes widened. “I know. It’s been hell. That’s why I need your help. I think you’re the perfect person to help me.”

Yesterday I was a chef. Yesterday I gathered everything that would be needed for today. Yesterday I prepared everything well. Today I am ready to serve the new entreé.

Today I received another compliment. Today I did not receive any negative feedback.
Today, before closing, I prepared everything well for tomorrow. Today I did beyond excellent and did not lack.

Yesterday, with no warning I lost my sense of taste. Yesterday, with no warning I lost my sense of smell.
Yesterday my condition came out of nowhere. Yesterday I spent time with my family and it was still a good day, as far as I could tell.

Today I was featured in the state’s food & drink magazine. Today I continued to do what I do everyday.
Today my food received high praises again. Today I was asked the same question again on replay.

Yesterday and today the question to me was this, ‘You’ve never tasted your own food, so how do you create the perfect menu the way you do?’
My answer also remains the same, so I reply, ‘I’m just that good’, and my statement still holds true.

Yesterday the public did not know about my condition of losing my sense of taste & smell. Yesterday I was a chef.
Today the public does not know about my condition of losing my sense of taste and smell. Today I am a chef.

“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I can’t taste anything. My sense of smell is completely gone.”

“I do understand that, Mr. Colivington. What I’m telling you is that there is nothing I can see in either your symptoms or in any of the tests that we’ve run that explains it. You haven’t had an illness in the last six months, you haven’t traveled outside of the country, CBC and platelet count look good, no recent vaccines or changes to your meds rules out interactions with stabilizing agents or contraindications. You report no injuries, no head trauma, no loss of conciseness. Your allergy panel showed a mild reaction to cat dander, which you say you’ve had since childhood. I’m at a loss as to what this might be, provided that you’ve been truthful—“

“I have been one-hundred percent truthful.”

“Okay. Then all I can advise is that we wait, see what happens, what changes. Without something more to go on, I’m stumped. You don’t appear to be in any danger—“

“I’m a chef!”

“I mean immediate physical danger, Mr. Colivington—“

“I’m in danger of not being able to pay my rent, which puts me in danger of being homeless.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with that. I wish I could, but I can only treat what presents itself. Why don’t you go home, get a notebook, track your daily routine, what you eat, chemicals you use, changes in your symptoms, or anything, even if you think it’s not related. Give me as many data as you can and I’ll run it by some specialists I know at Stanton General that owe me a couple favors.”

Gardner did what he was told for three weeks straight, but nothing in his life could help the now team of doctors figure out what was wrong with him. He was out of vacation time, and had to make a choice. It wasn’t a difficult decision, even if it was a tough one: He quit.

“Come back as soon as you’re feeling better, G,” the restaurant owner assured him, “You always have a spot here.”

She was being nice. As soon as she found someone new it would be over for him. Not her fault, just the nature of the business: as competitive as a major league sport; as ruthless as war; as lucrative as managing a gas station.

Maybe this was a sign, a direction from God or The Universe or Oprah that he needed to do something else with his life. He suddenly felt open, new, ready for a challenge. What else could he do…? What did he want to do…? He liked riding his bike, playing Call of Duty with his friends, D&D, and going to small-venue punk concerts.

…nope. Nothing there screamed “new career!”

He’d thought about being a teacher for the semester-and-a-half he spent at community college before switching to Culinary Arts. Couldn’t be that bad, right? Teaching booger-eaters how to paint or count or sing memory songs. But he’d also have to do the lame crap that came along with it: Get up early, shave, stop cursing, wearing Dockers, tucking in his shirt, wearing shirts with buttons. And, worst of all, talking to parents!

Nah… I’m good, he thought.

It was his buddy Tater that finally brought him out of his depression-rut.

“Why don’t you just open your own restaurant, bro?”

“Dude? Have you not been paying attention? I completely lost my ability to smell or taste anything! How am I going to open a restaurant when I can’t taste the food, when I don’t know if something is off because I can’t smell it?”

Tater, without losing a beat, looked at his friend and said, “I dunno, Colivington, just make food for people who don’t care how it smells or tastes. Just give them lots of it. And make sure there’s bread. Like, tons of bread. I love bread at restaurants, when it’s all soft and warm ‘n stuff. Love that, man. Do that.”

Gardner’s first reaction was to smack his dumbass friend on the back of the head and tell him to hand him the “Help Wanted” section. Then it hit him: Why not…? What if I did make a restaurant for people who have no concern over the quality of the food? Who care neither for how it tastes nor how it smells, as long as it looks nice on the plate and they can have as much of it as they want for a low cost?

It took 18 months for him to get the funding, hire and prepare, decide on a them—Italian being the obvious choice, since “lots of bread” was apparently vital to his potential Tater-esq clientele—before finally opening.

He had Tater to thank for the inspiration, but like every stoner friend, Tater also came up short… a lot.

“I told you to get stencils for the sign! All I needed were the letters in my first and last name, Tater. How hard is that?”

“Dude, I got most of them.”

“Most of them! What am I going to do now?”

“I’ll figure something out. Gimme the letters you have.”

Gardner called up his friends and family and told them to bring their friends and family to join him for the opening of his own place. His own restaurant. He’d defied the odds and turned a disability into a life-changing opportunity. No longer would he report to anyone else, he’d be his own boss, play by his own rules. He gave Tater a check for a thousand dollars, a thank you for helping him realize that worrying about taste and smell was overrated, that the real magic was to be flounder in quantity and affordability.

“Well, if you’re here,” he said to the crowd, “you’re probably family.” The crowd laughed. “So, without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out to our grand opening.”

Gardner took an oversized pair of scissors from Tater and, to smattering of claps and cheers, cut a large red ribbon as Tater pulled a drape off the newly-stenciled sign.

“Let me be the first to welcome you to: Olive Garden!”

I woke up as usual and I felt weird, almost dizzy. I got to work at 7 PM for my shift, and my taste and smell kept going in and out. It was weird. Finally, they just stopped working, so I had to stop working because I made a mess of the ingredients. I put too much salt, too much pepper, and a lot of other ingredients. It clearly did not work for me to be a chef.

Something they never warn you when they tell you of the great magical abilities of wizards, is that they are conniving little runts who never make good on their promises.

You want to be the most beautiful human to roam the earth? Fine, but you also have a horrible odour that keeps everyone away.

You wish to live forever? Well alright then, but you will remain trapped in a cave for the rest of eternity with no company and no companions.

Those were the types of wishes The Great Erlington Salvatore granted, half wishes that were never really what you asked for.

When I had sought his help, taking the trek all the way to his sprawling estate in Dallas, I imagined someone…different that who I had met. There was no long grey beard, no star printed cloak, and certainly no magic wand. No, The Great Erlington Salvatore was a balding middle aged man who hid his threads of hair beneath a giant blue cowboy hat. Though he was thin and tall, he wore layers of colourful clothing and strings of beads around his lean neck. To say I was surprised to meet this…this character, was an understatement.

Though I was certainly caught off guard, I knew that I still needed his help. I had come for one thing and one thing only: to be the greatest chef of all time and have the best restaurant in all of Manhattan.

Of course, Sir Erlington Salvatore was more that happy to help me out, stating that ‘of course he could make me the best chef in all of Manhattan- the best in the entire world in fact’.

So, brimming with joy and eager to get back in the kitchen, I agreed to his promise:

He would make me the best chef in all the world, free of charge.

It wasn’t until I was back in my kitchen stirring up some beef ragu, that it hit me, sudden and striking.

One moment the air was filled with fragrant flavour, red wine, tomatoes and garlic and then the next, it all vanished..

It was as though my nose had been pulled from my face and buried far, far away, hidden from the scent of my beautiful delicacies.

I frantically ran about the kitchen, grabbing jars of whatever spices I could find and shoving my nose into them, in search of something- anything- to indicate that the worse of my fears hadn’t come true.

It was around this time that I found that even my tongue failed to grasp the flavours of my dishes. No amount of horseradish, peppers, garlic bulbs or fermented wines could rouse my tastebuds even the slightest bit. It was as though my most prized senses, my taste and my scent, had simply ceased to work as they should.

This went on for sometime, this inability to smell or taste any kind of food. It was a tortuous and painful experience to watch all my dishes grow increasingly popular while I remained unable to even smell what it was I served. My restaurant soon became one of the only 5 star restaurants in the city, and in 2 years I had various establishments blooming all over the country.

Despite this newfound fame and the title of ‘the Best Up and Coming Chef of the United States’, something was still amiss each time I entered the kitchen. Without the aroma of my creations wrapping around me and enveloping me a cocoon of intense flavour, I no longer loved the experience of cooking as I had before.

What was a chef, really, without his sense of taste and smell? No matter how good the response was to my dishes I still felt like a fraud, a fake.

Years later when I went back to that same Dallas estate in search of a certain little lying wizard, I found that he had picked up and left. The Great Erlington Salvatore had apparently grown bored with the whims of dreamseekers in America, and had chosen to immigrate to some city in Italy for some fun.

While I’ve become well recognized in my field and am known to many as a talented chef, I had to admit that perhaps I had been cheated by Sir Ellington Salvatore. Never again would I ever be bested by a wizard who promised me favours for nothing in return. With that being said though, I heard their was a witch in Brooklyn who was willing to toss a few wishes to desperate folk for the right price. I would say I was opposed to seeking out magical beings after my last experience, but in recent years a terrible tragedy had befallen me. My thick lucious locks had thinned out to the point that one might call me ‘bald’. Desperate times call for desperate measures so maybe it was necessary that I sought a little magic once more (making sure to read the fine print this time, of course) .

Jake , was busy cooking at the flying burrito when he noticed that he could not smell. Oh my what is going on I can’t smell anything. So Jake decided to taste the food but he could not taste anything. What am I going to do ? Why can’t I smell nor taste anything? Jake, was starting to worry the customers were complaining about the food that it didn’t taste good. He had at least five plates returned. The boss came to the kitchen Jake, what is going on? You have never had any plates returned. I don’t know boss I can’t smell or taste today I don’t understand. It just came on all of a sudden. Are you serious Jake, yes sir! I don’t understand it. Jake , you can’t work like this you will have to go home. I’ll take over for you, for today. Ok boss, don’t come back until the problem is solved. Jake felt really bad for he knew he needed his job. What am I going to do. A few days went by and Jake still could not smell nor taste. The next morning Jake decided to go to the doctor. Jake sat in the waiting room thinking I wonder what the doctor will say, finally he was called to the back. Hello Jake, what seems to be the issue today. Well you see a few days ago while at work I noticed my smell was gone than my taste it has not come back. I can’t work for I am a cook if I can’t smell nor taste. Well let me take your blood pressure and your temperature. Aww everything seems pretty normal open your mouth and the nurse could see that Jake had a lot of infection in his mouth. Does your throat feel sore? No not really just scratchy ok. I’ll have the doctor come in just wait here. After about 10 minutes the doctor walks in. Hello Jake, I’m doctor Salter, open your mouth Awww you have a serious infection in your throat. Will I be able to smell and taste again. It may take sometime but I think you will. Doctor my job depend on me. I understand im going to give you some steroids and antibiotics you should be better soon. Ok doc thank you. Jake, went home and than went to the pharmacy to get the prescription filled. Jake started the meds right away. That evening he called his boss,and explained his situation. The had his back and told Jake to get well fast. After the forth day Jake decided to cook something but he was very disappointed his smell had not returned. Jake was getting depressed because he wanted to return to work. What am I to do he looked at the medicine bottle and thought, there’s still enough in here for 25 more days. Jake continued taking his medication. It was Sunday morning seven days had gone by and Jake was awoken to smell of fresh brewed coffee and bacon cooking. His neighbor was cooking outside on there patio and Jake had his window open. Jake quickly jumped up. I can smell! I can smell! Jake was so excited. He quickly called his boss, hello Jake, guess what mr. Green? I don’t know Jake. I can smell, that’s great, can I come back to work? Of course you can, before the boss could ask when, Jake said I’m on my way. As soon as Jake got there he took over. The customers were making good comments, they knew Jake was back because the food was tasting great. Mr. Green, told Jake I’m glad your back the customers love you. I enjoyed helping you but I’m not a great cook like you. Thanks mr. Green, for helping me out. I see now how great you really are as head cook and the only cook I’m giving you a raise you will get paid vacations and holidays and as a bonus I’m going to pay you the days you were off. Wow! Mr. Green, I don’t know what to say. Thank you very much! I should lose my taste and smell more often, don’t even think about it and they all laughed.

                                  Written By:
                                   Ghostrider 
                                   11-10-2021

"Excuse me," the woman waived the waitress over with an elegant hand. "But I'm afraid this soup is terribly salty." "Oh, I am so sorry, ma'am, let me take it back and check with the chef. Would you like something else instead?" The young waitress gently lifted the large white bowl from in front of her. "No, I'll simply wait for my entree." She settled back into conversation with the older gentleman across from her, sipping her wine.
"Miss?" Another hand waived to her before she entered the kitchen. "Yes, how may I help you?" "The sauce on this pasta is terribly plain, it's nothing like the chef typically makes." The gentleman lifted his plate and stacked it on top of the soup bowl. Two more steps and she heard, "Excuse me, but this lobster bisque is much too salty." Standing by the table, a woman placed it on the tower of dishes the waitress now held. She marched to the kitchen, laying the uneaten food on the counter.
"What is this?" Yelled the sou chef, Randy, raising his arms in the air. "The customers are all complaining about the food tonight. I just don't understand!" The young girl shrugged her shoulders. "I'm afraid to go back out there." She sighed, half sitting on a stool. They both looked at Michael, the restaurants chef. He stood silently with his back to them, his head was bowed. "My apologies," he mumbled. " I was hoping to create by memory, but I can not. I am finished." He covered his face with shaking hands. "What? What are you talking about?" The truth had to be told, the secret could not be kept. "I woke this morning, to no taste or smell. My senses, they are gone." He cried. "Then what the hell are you doing here!!!" Randy screamed. "Go home, get out of this kitchen before you get us all sick. We need to throw everything he touched out. Close the restaurant for tonight. Say there was a fire in the kitchen." Randy grabbed Michael's coat and threw it at him. "Go!" He cried. Michael backed up, fear in his eyes, and turned to the door. Randy looked at the waitress. "There is a new disease that is spreading across the world. They say it began in China. People are dying and they don't know how to stop it. But symptoms are you loose your taste and smell. We will all need to be checked on by a medical facility immediately. People are dying. They are calling it COVID-19."

Michael walked home to his flat. The cough was getting worse as well as the chest pains. By the time he put the key in the lock, he couldn't catch his breath. Clothes hit the floor as he stumbled and fell onto his bed.

The next morning the news would begin it's story about this strange disease that was spreading like fire across the country, leaving so many dead in its wake. Michael Dante, a famous chef in Manhattans upper east side would be among the numbers.

I’m a chef, I can’t just not taste things. I need my taste and my smell, or how could I complete my job? Maybe I can make it, maybe I can’t. I don’t know but I can try. So I’ll have someone else taste what I make and tell me if it’s good, but will they know the way I like it? Or the way the customers like it? Ahhhh what can I do?

I made sure my apron was tight, but not too tight. I reached up and pinched the edges of my tall, crisp hat down so it sat firmly on my head. Brushing back a strand of loose hair, I rocked forward on my tiptoes so my face rested high above the pot of brewing potato soup. I waited until I felt the steam waft up and kiss my chin then inhaled through my nose, deeply and slowly. My eyes flew open, and I leaned back, startled. No way, I thought. I leaned in again and repeated my process, until the smell hit my nose. Impossible. There was no smell. I looked at my soup critically, checking to make sure the burner was on and that I had put an onion in my soup. I had. I snatched up my favorite testing spoon with my name engraved beautifully on the front, Chef Pendleton, and gouged it into the soup. It came out with a steaming potato right in the center of and, after waiting a little for it to cool, thrust it into my mouth, my eyes searching as my brain tried to make out each flavor. But there was no flavor! Frustrated, slapped the spoon back on the counter with a loud CLANK, trying to process what had just happened, and why my body wasn’t reacting to its normal duties. I tried to ignore the inevitable, but after more thinking things through, and coming to the crushing reality of what could happen to the Pendleton Diner if people found this out, only one thing was left, creeping in the shadows of my mind. COVID.

Covid, of course. Loss of taste and smell one of the major symptoms of this terrible virus. Not just the fact that millions of people have died from this but the horror stories I have overheard while I’m cooking in a 5 star restaurant all those millionaires losing money. What am I going to do? I’m in debt up to my eyeballs because of these stupid student loans that put me through culinary school. I’m cooking for people that can afford to lose a million and still live a life that’s fit for the queen. I live in a dusty apartment in central London, by dusty I mean it’s not lived in because I’m working all of these awful hours just to afford the god damn thing. Who knew that when I made my dream of becoming one of the top chefs in London that I wouldn’t feel any different than when I did as a depressed teenager. All I have now is a little bit more money, which helps but it doesn’t heal. “Shit, I got to get back to work.” I’m always one to be stuck in my head and I can talk to myself all day long. I’ve been like that since I was young, I mean I didn’t have many friends growing up so I learned to talk back and forth in my head as a way to cope. I would often ask things to myself as if a friend were talking to me. It was always a blessing in disguise, even though I sound crazy - it always put me one step ahead in work. I mean look at the amount of hours I had to pull in order to get this successful. Who would be able to do that if they shared their time with other people I mean c’mon? Times like this though, where I have to lose out on work.. it gets lonely. These last five hours are going to drag I tell you. I’m cooking but all of a sudden I am nervous to be giving my food out to these people, not only because I could possibly be spreading a virus but because I can’t taste a god damn thing!? How do I know if I’m making it perfectly? “1 medium rare steak with a side of salad and potatoe purée” said the waiter, anxiously. This can’t be hard, steak can’t really taste any other way than steak and as for the medium rare I can always tell by looking whether I’ve cooked it perfectly. This will be great. I haven’t cooked a steak in about a month, usually the one person that comes in and orders a steak is.. “oh shit.” I said as I had a realisation. No way it can’t be. Please, god don’t let it be. “Hi there David, compliments to the chef.” I stand there in awe. Fuck. It is. A big sigh escapes from my mouth. My ex. As if this day couldn’t get any worse.