“Waiter!”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a fly in my soup!”
“That’s true, sir.”
“Aren’t you gonna take it away and bring me another bowl?”
The waiter chuckled. “Perhaps you think this is the kind of fly that hangs around garbage cans and dog droppings. Perish the thought! Since its conception, this fly has been fed the finest, organic, Iowa corn and raised according to exacting, scientific standards in an ultra-sanitary laboratory. It’s been genetically engineered as a condiment for culinary use. This fly, sir, is an insectus deliciosis. That’s Latin for ‘delicious bug.’ It tastes sweeter than gourmet honey.”
“Really?”
Bite the head off and see for yourself,” the water said. “However, if you prefer, I’ll decapitate the head for you.”
“That’d be nice,” said Harold.
The waiter removed a tiny, silver, scimitar-shaped decapitator from his vest pocket. One quick stroke severed the fly’s head.
“What’s the proper way to eat this?” Harold asked.
“You may use your soup spoon, or sip it through the straw I placed next to your salad plate. Either way is acceptable.”
Harold noticed three women at the next table sticking straws into soup bowls. He did the same.
Munching the fly’s head, Harold said, “Mmm. This is delicious. Bring me another bowl. Make sure it’s loaded with flies.”
“Unfortunately, diners are allowed only one fly per day.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve never asked.”
“Well, perhaps you should.”
“If you’d like, I’ll take you to the kitchen, and you can ask the chef yourself.”
“Really? That’d be great.”
“We do have one very special request, sir.”
“What’s that?”
“To avoid potential contamination, guests must wear special, sanitary attire over their street clothes before entering our highly sanitized kitchen.”
“What kind of attire?” Harold asked.
“A laboratory smock. Fits right over your clothes. Also, when you speak to the chef, the first thing you must say is ‘Trick or treat.’”
“Sounds kinda weird, considering Christmas is a week away.”
“I agree,” said the waiter, “but rules are rules.”
Overcome with intense curiosity, Harold followed the waiter into a room filled with smocks.
“What size, sir?”
“Forty-four oughta do it,” Harold said.
The waiter slid the garment over Harold’s head.
Looking at himself in a mirror, Harold said, “This looks like a Halloween costume. It makes me look like an ear of corn.”
“A very stylish one,” said the waiter. “Don’t forget to say ‘Trick or treat’ when the chef speaks to you.”
Entering the kitchen, Harold couldn’t believe his eyes. The huge, immaculate room reminded him of scientific laboratories he’d seen in sci-fi movies. White-clad employees gazed at dozens of gauges, and pressed vast arrays of blinking, multi-colored, console switches.
“Good grief! What’s that?” Harold asked, pointing to a huge, greenish, undulating blob.
“Our head chef. She produces all the flies for our award-winning fly soup.”
The greenish mass, to which dozens of stainless steel tubes were attached, suddenly snorted. At that moment, the glutinous blob expelled a fly directly into a soup bowl.
Employees applauded.
Harold almost threw up. “I’m getting outta here,” he yelled, heading for the exit.
Several waiters grabbed him. They bound his wrists and ankles with sterilized tape, then placed him on a stainless steel table inches from the undulating blob.
“Hello,” it gurgled. “You’re the cutest hunk of corn I’ve seen all day. What’s your name?”
A waiter whispered into Harold’s ear, “Say ‘Trick or treat.’”
Quivering, Harold repeated the words.
“Now nice of you to offer,” the blob said. “A treat would suit me just fine.”
A monstrous tongue lashed out. Harold disappeared.
Minutes later the mass snorted and expelled another fly into a soup bowl. Everyone applauded.
Before adding broth, a technician with a magnifying glass and tweezers plucked miniscule fragments of a man’s suit from the fly’s body.
Ten minutes later, a diner asked, “What’s this floating in my soup?”
“An insectus deliciosis,” replied the waiter. “It’s wonderfully sweet. And extremely fresh.”
- Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula