(Part 2 of Bent On Clement)

A consumer’s fate lies in the skill of the preparer. Be it hatred or puffer fish, much training is required. I’ve worked to master both. Such exquisite delicacies are well worth the investment.

“Timing is everything,” Luca would always say. “Mind the clock before you spout your judgments, most especially when they’re true.”

“They’re always true,” came my consistent response. “I am a light in an endless darkness. I’m Aristotle on an Earth that some deem flat.”

When I gave the famed restaurant, Au Gratin, two stars, it surprised even me. I published my review knowing it would be controversial, but I refused to dilute the truth. My words were as honest as they were pugnacious. I likened the restaurant’s owner to a dead man and his staff to reluctant grave diggers. “RIP Clement Donadieu” was the title to my review. The next morning monsieur Donadieu was pronounced dead. Apparently he was found face down in his own restaurant’s walk-in freezer. When the news broke, so too did the public’s peace.

“That man is dead because of you,” read one comment on my blog. “A good man’s blood is on your hands!”

“You must answer for your hatefulness,” wrote another.

“You gave a beloved public figure a pitiful two stars,” said Luca. “Your article pronounces him dead three times. Surely, you must know what that looks like. The people want you punished.”

I scoffed. “The people want entertainment, Luca, plain and simple. But what does that matter? It’s not like my words killed that man.” An annoying silence hung between us. I swatted it away. “Incroyant!” I said. “Not you too! I will not have you and your flimsy doubts fogging up my clear conscience! You’re a lawyer, no? Hear my story and then end this nightmare at once!”

“No need to stomp about like some irascible child,” Luca said. He pulled out a small recording device and laid it face up on the coffee table between us. He hovered a finger over a scarlet button. “Yes?” he asked, looking up at me.

I shrugged.

“For legal reasons I-”

“Yes, oui, whatever.” I said. “Do what you must to keep those pests off my front lawn.”

He pressed the button. I began.

“Listen,” I said. “When I go to review a restaurant, I want only a skeleton crew. And that’s what they gave me. The food was to be prepared by their head chef. The meal was to be served by the restaurant owner.”

“Do you have the names of all the individuals that were present that day?” Luca asked.

“Aside from Donadieu?” I said. “Non. What purpose would such knowledge serve? I paid attention to my job. I took note of the garish décor. Suppressed my frequent yawns. Monsieur Donadieu greeted me at the door and sat me at a cramped table uncomfortably illuminated by budget lighting.”

“What did he say to you? And you to him?”

“He handed me a menu and told me he’d be serving me that afternoon. I requested his best dish paired with a wine of his choosing.”

“And so he brought it to you.”

“Non.” I said. “I waited alone for what felt like ages before getting up and pacing the floor. Longer and longer I waited. Donadieu did not return. So I walked to the kitchen to investigate. I was incensed. The kitchen was empty. The freezer door was left ajar. I closed it and called out for the monsieur, sure I had been abandoned.”

“And then Donadieu found you?”

“Non.” I said, much louder this time. “I was accosted by some sous chef, no doubt returning from her smoke break. I demanded she bring me my meal. To my surprise, she did as told. When I asked to speak with Donadieu, she claimed she had no idea where he’d gone. After that, I left. I’m a busy man. I have important things to do.”

“And then you went home and wrote your review?”

“Oui.”

“And you just happened to write about ‘the death of Clement Donadieu.’”

“In metaphor you imbécile.”

“As your friend, I must warn you,” said Luca. “The police will eventually find out about your feud with Donadieu. You’ve never been able to hide your hatred.”

“Hide my hatred?” I laughed. “And rob the public of pure truth? I am a consummate critic. Don’t insult my upright morals.”

“I hope all this loathing doesn’t prove to be your poison, Armand. Darkness is not for the faint of heart.”

I allowed myself a wolfish grin and leaned forward in my seat. “Luca,” I said, “you can trust a professional.”