Chapter 5
Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem:
YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT
YOU EAT WHAT YOU ARE
When I entered the dining room with the main course, the plates cloaked in stainless steel cloches to maintain the temperature and concentrate the aroma, all conversation stopped and everyone’s attention locked onto the tray.
They could feel they were on the verge of a big moment—all you could hear was the clinking of cutlery, the rustling of cloth napkins, and the anticipation in their breathing.
I went around the table, serving one guest after another.
Once all the plates were served, I started with the women: I lifted Albertina Terranova’s cloche and immediately watched her eyes gleam from the scent alone.
Discreetly, the other diners craned their necks to get a look at the rare meat.
Albertina closed her eyes and brought the fork with a substantial chunk of meat to her mouth.
As I lifted the other cloches, I watched every subtle movement on her face.
She blew on it briefly, then her teeth grabbed hold of the meat and sank into it, her mouth soaked with saliva, her rosy cheeks inflated and deflated as she chewed.
Her tongue, kneading and turning the bite over in her mouth, ran across her thin red lips to ensure no juices escaped.
Finally, as she swallowed, Albertina brought her hands to her face, inebriated, making a delighted smirk.
Noticing all the rings on her fingers, I couldn’t help but find a certain similarity between female embellishment and the seasonings in the dinner.
They were just different ways of preparing meat.
Like a starving schoolboy, Ataíde Augustín gnawed on an entire slice and offered his praise before the meat could even reach his stomach. “Wow,” he said, piercing the next bite with his fork.
That one, simple interjection was a hint of the enthusiasm that foreshadowed the dinner’s success.
Albertina’s face hovered over her plate, her giraffe-like neck tilted slightly, mouth open wide to receive forkfuls of meat.
Passion animated her muscles. As she chewed, an expression of ecstasy washed over her face, and her gaze had an intensity akin to a surgeon at the operating table.
Kiki, on the other hand, approached eating more like a soldier: sitting perfectly straight against the back of her chair, she chewed slowly, shooting me approving looks.
“Look, I’m going to confess something to you all…” said Umberto a few minutes later. “I’ve had this experience before. In Russia, in 2018. I found an underground restaurant and ate grilled human flesh.”
“And how was it?” Cecília wanted to know, her mouth still full.
“It had a very distinct taste, just like this. But the seasoning was just awful. This is wonderful. And it’s perfectly cooked, too. Nice and bloody, just the way I like it.”
On each person’s face, you could see the joy of having reached unparalleled pleasure. Umberto wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, adjusted his bow tie, and asked me to call the chef so he could give him his compliments. I didn’t take him seriously at first, but the others joined in.
“They want to see you,” I said to Hugo in the kitchen. “They loved the food.”
“I knew it,” he replied, his eyes gleaming.
Hugo puffed out his chest and spun his hat around on his head, bringing his name to the front.
He swiftly pulled off his apron and went into the dining room, where he was greeted with applause.
He bowed his head, pretending to be shy.
I knew him well and understood how proud he was.
This was his big moment. Watching from a distance, I saw that Kássio and Gustavo were not applauding, and they hadn’t touched their food, either.
After a few seconds, Umberto noticed, too.
Putting his praise for the chef on hold, he turned to the two young men:
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
The couple exchanged glances. Kássio squeezed his boyfriend’s thigh under the table to reassure him. Gustavo looked nervous; he was white as a sheet, biting his lower lip.
“I … I can’t,” he said.
Umberto cleared his throat without taking his eyes off him. “But this is spectacular!”
Gustavo whispered to Kássio, “I told you we shouldn’t have come!”
Their food was getting cold. Cecília, Ataíde, and Kiki continued to devour their meal, uninterested in the discussion.
Soninha even glanced at their plates as if she was about to ask, Can I have what they don’t eat?
Kássio stood up, tugging on Gustavo’s arm.
He turned to Umberto as if he were the host.
“We apologize for the inconvenience. We liked the idea for the dinner when we saw it online, but now … I feel a little … disgusted. Anyway, we’d better go.”
Umberto placed his knife and fork on the table and interlaced his fingers, staring down the two men.
“You can’t leave.”
“What?”
“You can’t leave without eating,” he said, running his tongue over his canines to fish out a shred of meat. “You know the address, you saw our faces … The only way we can be sure you won’t go to the nearest police station and report what’s going on here is if you eat.”
“I won’t go to the cops. You can trust me,” begged Gustavo.
Disappointed that he had lost their attention, Hugo returned to the kitchen. I knew I had to take action, but I just stood there, waiting for the couple to say something. Kássio walked to the front door, ready to dash.
“I said, you can’t leave,” Umberto repeated. This time, he reached into his waistband and pulled out a revolver. He left the gun on the table, next to his wineglass. “I’m not kidding, girls.”
Everyone stopped eating. Kiki cowered in her chair, staring pale-faced at the gun, and began to recite the Hail Mary in French.
“Why are you praying in French?”
“It’s my first language.”
Equally nervous, Albertina decided to join her in prayer.
“Umberto, there’s no need to overreact,” said Nilo.
“Yes, there is,” said Gabriel. “He’s right: Everyone has to eat.”
Gustavo was trembling and soon burst into heaving sobs. Kássio placed his body in front of his boyfriend, protecting him.
“You’re ruining my meal. I paid a lot of money for this,” said Umberto, dissatisfied. “I’ve got nothing against you people … I just need you to try it. And I can’t eat in peace with that little pansy making a scene!”
I needed to act. And soon.
“You can put the gun away,” I said. “I’ll handle this.”
I approached Kássio, calling him to one corner of the room, with my back to the table so they couldn’t read my lips.
“Look, I get it. But the guy’s got a gun, there’s nothing I can do,” I muttered.
“There’s a regular steak in the fridge, left over from lunch.
I can reheat it and just pour the sauce on top.
Now, I want you guys to go back to the table and drop your plates in some sort of scuffle.
I’ll serve you new plates with beef, and pretend it’s the same dish.
You’ll eat it with a disgusted look on your face and then get out of here as soon as it’s finished. ”
With no other alternative, they agreed immediately. They sat at the table under everyone’s stares and Gustavo started to cry again. I couldn’t tell if his tears were real or if he was just a great actor.
“For God’s sake, this is all very unpleasant. Let them both go!” said Kiki, dropping her knife and fork on the table.
“I don’t want to, I don’t want to,” Gustavo repeated, like a mantra.
He flailed his arms around, knocking both plates to the floor.
Umberto got up from his chair, holding the gun.
He pointed it at Gustavo, who was shaking all over—his face was red and creased at the horror coursing through his veins.
Umberto cocked the revolver, keeping his index finger on the trigger, ready to shoot.
“Hey, hey, come on now, stop.” I stood between Umberto and Gustavo, who was staring emptily at the broken shards and food on the floor. “I’ll get more and they’ll eat it … Won’t they?”
Gustavo and Kássio hesitated for just the right amount of time to make it seem believable before nodding their heads in agreement.
“Great!” I said and went back into the kitchen.
I came out five minutes later, carrying two new plates of food, served on the crappy set of dishes we ate off at home every day.
In the center of each plate were three medium-sized slices of meat covered in the citrus sauce.
An unpleasant vibe hung over the table. Umberto sat up straight, not taking his eyes off the couple, like a mother superior at a convent.
I set the plates in front of them and couldn’t help but give Gustavo a wink as I walked away from the table. I wanted them to eat and leave immediately. Maybe then the dinner would go back to normal, though normal wasn’t exactly the right word to describe anything that night.
They both took the smallest piece. Gustavo stared at the floor as he chewed and even stopped crying, as if the intense flavors had swept away his sadness.
Kássio looked at me and I tried hard to make my gaze convey confidence and serenity.
He cleaned his plate and even scraped up the sauce with the dessert spoon, just to taunt Umberto.
“Now you can go,” said Umberto, satisfied.
Kássio helped Gustavo up and they got to their feet. I walked them both to the door and called the elevator.
“Thank you for everything. Thank you and … sorry,” said Gustavo, relieved. “Thank you, thank you.”
Kássio held the elevator door for Gustavo, and once his boyfriend was out of earshot, he looked deep into my eyes.
“That second dish … was it really beef?”
I hesitated but put on my best smile.
“Yes.”