The red sunset sky bleeds red into the clouds, reflected in patches of oily water that dot the empty parking lot outside of the restaurant, which will remain unnamed. The mild warmth of the early evening is leached away by a wave of frigid air conditioning when the door opens, chilling four friends who are seeking merely a pleasant dinner.
One, however, has a secret agenda, a critic here to take this restaurant unawares. Little does he know that his mettle will be sorely tested by this meal, his very soul squeezed by the experience like a pastry bag almost emptied of its contents.
He wrinkles his eyes in confusion once they adjust to the darkness inside; the restaurant and nightclub is massive but near empty, hundreds of banquet chairs bearing witness to a horrific display on stage. Flickering light plays across the chiseled face of a singer, images of projected music videos from some unidentified second-world MTV equivalent. A one-man lounge act, playing his glittering instrument between bouts of deeply accented intimate conversation with the almost nonexistent audience.
Jokes? A plea for release? A warning? The diners can't make out the words, but there is desperation in the air. Why won't they turn off the projector and just let the man play? Do the silent music videos bathing the performer hide something too shocking for dinnertime consumption?
There is one other table occupied, a family of three generations, older members mutely gazing at the stage, teenagers rhythmically tapping electronic devices — immune to the mesmerizing show.
The spell is broken by the promise of normalcy — beer and food and conversation, a meal like any other, the critic's guests dragging their eyes away from the stage as if waking from a dream of falling. They nervously laugh about the spectacle and wrench the experience back to the familiar.
Until the food comes.
The smoked fish platter is filled with hunks of flesh that defy identification, a miasma of old wood and bitter smoke mixed with the smell of a stagnant sea. Only the critic will brave a taste — his professional pride demands it. The flavor assaults his tongue, invades his nostrils and challenges him to either swallow or retch, shattering his self-proclaimed iron stomach and cosmopolitan sensibilities. He chokes it down, and with a fascinated grimace proceeds to work his way slowly across the plate, unable to admit that he might not be able to master something that claims to be food.
His resolve is almost shattered by the next dish, a melange of mayonnaise and shredded cheese masquerading as a salad. As he brings the fork to his mouth, he makes the mistake of inhaling the rich, sweet stench of the oily mass. He takes the merest taste of the salad, shoulders slumping in defeat.
He knows he must try every absurd dish, sample each and every noxious concoction masquerading as food, every bite depleting his love for his trade, each swallow deadening his spirit. Greasy noodles mixed with beef surrounded by unrendered fat; soup of sour cream and vegetables that tastes like a fetid barnyard; fish graced with sauce of cream and butter, both ingredients broken into grains of gooey fat and runny water; and more, so much more, all to the maniacal accompaniment of the flickering jester on stage. The critic's companions fall silent and turn their heads toward the corners of the room as he slowly, mechanically shifts plates around the table so he can dip his fork into each.
But then, a look of surprise graces his sallow face. The restaurant has made a mistake. They have served him something edible. Chicken, overcooked and dry, too salty by far, but identifiable. Edible. He tears into it and thinks of the chicken of his youth, every bite bringing him slowly back to himself until he has regained his balance.
His companions turn back to the table and say a few words, testing the conversational waters. Stilted, sure, but suddenly they can see the path out of this meal, can start the process of putting the experience behind them. No one orders dessert.
The place takes one final shot at the critic, the credit card receipt printed with the name of a trucking operation instead of the name of the restaurant. It easily conjures images of frightening Eastern European mobsters and shattered kneecaps, but the critic and his friends manage to spin it toward humor and amazement. The closer the end, the less surreal the scene feels. One even signs up for the restaurant's singles newsletter, a decision that will come to haunt him for years to come.
And then, the check paid and the meal behind them, the chill air banished by the warmth of the evening, relief washes over the four diners. The critic, however, is subdued. Despite his victory, he knows how much this meal cost him, in spiritual coin that will not be reimbursed by Creative Loafing.
And despite the jokes, he's still a little concerned about his kneecaps.
This article appears in Oct 20-26, 2011.