🗒 Reservation
It is my belief that food is a solid indicator of a culture and people. Their food describes their families, jobs, lives, and feelings. The ship arrived at dawn and as customary I started the day by researching the nearby eateries and making my dinner plans early so there would be plenty of time to work up an appetite by roaming the local scenery, exploring the surroundings, and maybe talking to the natives.
At the dock, the DataMach scrolls through a wall of text. "Romulary". That is a familiar one; cutting-edge stuff, and with a perfect 7-star score, the choice is clear. "Reservation Complete." the screen flashes. The coastal breeze hits and I spark up a cigarette between yawns and stretching my legs from a long trip. Other ships are starting to come in with their daily haul. The walk to my hotel takes me through the market and sweet smells of fresh fleeberbuubs and jackerschties guide me through the maze. Vendors smile as they set up for the day. Cleavers slam and saws whir as ambient sounds. The cluckeries of kanakips draw my attention as it's not every day you see live ones. Like a kid in a zoo, I stop at each exhibit and admire the art of slaughter.
The only way to travel is light, no luggage, just a minimalistic traveler's backpack with the essentials. My hotel is modest but has basic amenities and a comfortable supple naanmery bed awaits me in the room. As my head hits the pillow, it's lights-out. A call awakens me, maybe five or fifty minutes later. It is the front desk. A package has been delivered.
"Bring it up, please".
The porterhop arrives at the door quickly with a wooden box.
"Thank you. Here's a tip".
Addressed from Romulary to me, the box contains three bound sprigs of different herbs and a note.
"Thank you for dining with us. Please choose from these locally sourced organic herbs for your pre-dinner ablution".
Exquisite. Fresh. Aromatic. Ruasage, Crissalis, or Cococamar. Tough choice. I place the box on the bed and get the mollifier primed and warmed up, checking the water as it fills. Once ready, and bubbly, the ruasage goes in the infuser bin and the contraption whirls on as I get in.
My alarm goes off as the cycle finishes. Although hazy, the dream lingers in my mind. Atop the Juurg Tower on the luxury laden roof, overseeing the islands, I sit with a pipe, smoking, eating and drinking, watching the once-in-a-lifetime sunsets. If all goes well tonight, the dream will come true in the next decade.
Dinner time approaches. Time to dry and dress now, imbued with ruasage, which is known for its cloveric properties, I am feeling good about tonight. Walk or ride?
"Are there any bajaj available?", I question the porterhop.
"I'll ring one up for you. Enjoy your dinner", he replies in a low raspy tone, wincing.. The heat of the ruasage clings to my body on the walk outside.
On the carriage, the hustle and bustle on main street has started on the dark side of the moon. We ride past stores and rua-side food stands. A multitude of dancers evoke local folk music.. The city comes to life as a daily occurrence every 8-hour cycle. Although I prefer to keep to myself, I'm not one to turn down any conversation. Not all the natives can or are willing to speak as it is painful to them, so they learn to communicate in other expressive forms. Unfortunately, the bajaj was a non-speaking native so he just tapped his prommonotes in tempo with the music. The downtown atmosphere engulfs us as we approach our destination. I pay him as a hostess appears to be waiting for me at the entrance.
"Welcome to the Romulary, this way please", she smiles and leads the way.
Levitating lights follow us passing other customers' rooms, just bright enough to see the way, but respecting others’ privacy.
"This is you", she signals, "The ruasage was a great choice. The Chef will be with you in just a moment".
I nod and award her a simple smile. We hum a low pitched tone in harmony as we bow to each other and then she takes her leave. In the private room, the green pool swirls next to the Chef's table and I begin to undress and place my clothing neatly on the bench. The pool is warm and soothing.
"Codelan insimish, Axexe", the Chef greets.
"Aexexe to you my friend", I respond with horrible pronunciation.
The Chef unfurls his utensils across the table, examining each one and placing them in disciplined order. From under the table boxes of ingredients are organized and he begins to prepare them.
"Abamlow rojube shismiwe tranlease".
"Thank you that will be fine", and I float face up.
Slowly, small creatures swim in from the lower channels of the pool. Curious, they circle me and can't decide what to do. Finally, one decisively latches onto my leg. The rinima secretes an enzyme in the bloodstream that triggers the release of acetylcholine immediately. One more attaches for a double dose. I swim back to the Chef.
"Stihigowy?".
"Ack".
I raise my leg to him and with a swift motion he grabs a tool, pierces the rinima in the correct spot and it detaches, leaving the other as bait. This is the appetizer. Mesmerized and laser focused, I bear witness to his meticulous slaughter performance. Without wasted motions he slices, carves around the bones and nerves, and removes the entrails. In a rolling motion, the meat separates from the milky silky skin, oxidizes and it cooks itself at room temperature. The Chef serves it with fragrant herbs and a bit of bile. In my mouth, the pieces simply melt with a bitter-sweet aftertaste. Verily exquisite.
"Glawba granta stanlist", he declares.
Main course. Other channels open up in the pool. The mix of my ruasage-infused body and the rinima attached to my leg bring out two options for tonight. The fat lagocephalus and the quadrupedal thyostega. Both bred in captivity for the intergalactic fine dining industry. Both are deadly as prey or predator, only prepared by the most prestigious slaughter artists, disabling the brain before it releases a toxin into their bloodstream, becoming inedible. One starts nibbling at my bait, leaving some floating chunks. The other prefers to eat the discarded pieces, maintaining its distance. Allured by its programmed hunger, it takes the bait, ripping it off my leg, blood tainting the green pool. Pain and pleasure are closely related; It is only a matter of the programming of which receptors are active at the time. It takes a big bite from my injury, latching on.
"Stihigowy?".
"Ack".
I take it to the Chef. Legocephalus is known for its fatty meat. It cannot be digested properly by a human. One must ingest a special concoction of active bacteria, or in this case, a special sauce with the proper enzymes to help with its digestion. The gaping hole in my leg now starts the healing process as the preparation of the poolside dinner continues. With a special blowtorch, the fat is rendered into a mouthwatering golden crisp cube. One must eat this within five minutes of peak temperature or it will decompose.
"Googinhaggen twetwee simonene?"
"Yes, once."
"how caipteto whirwhel intofus?".
"Indeed, it was once in a lifetime". Astonished, but continues to serve, and I continue to eat.
"Blarabalar googinhasten placseson ibiity obit".
"One day, brother. One day. It's a long road being accepted into Juurg Tower".
He laughs and a hopeful smirk escapes.
I lied.
His dream will never come true.
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