Untitled 4

    The king sat at the dining table, surrounded by various plates of sumptuous food.

    To his left were the poultry items:  a roast duck glistening in an orange sauce with citrus fruits; on a large, ornate silver platter were chicken quarters that had been cooked over an open flame.  The skins were charred but the meat was juicy and tender.  To his right were the delights that came from the sea:  a beautiful lobster served on a bed of greens with a ramekin of garlic-butter sauce for dipping; a sea bass that had been salted and dried and sprinkled with parsley; in another piece silver serving ware, a bowl that contained a rich and decadent clam chowder stew.  Of course, cast all about the table, side dishes abounded:  asparagus in cream sauce, roasted root vegetables, rice dishes of wild grains and mushrooms.

    It was quite literally a feast fit for a king, and to his mind, the chef had done very well so far.

    Having sampled a little bit of everything, and now, with his belly almost full, he gulped wine from a golden goblet and then said: “Next!”

    One of the servants appeared as if from nowhere. It was Gerta, head of the kitchen staff.  “Right away, my lord.  Chef has just finished putting the finishing touches on desert.”  She spoke with quiet deference, careful to keep her head bowed and not make eye contact.

    “Bring it on, then!”  His eyes gleamed in anticipation as he licked his fat lips of sauce.

    Gerta snapped her fingers and more servants appeared.  They began to immediately clear the platters to the kitchen. 

    “My dessert?” the king boomed. He had eating utensils in either hand and began to bang them on the table.

    “It is here.”  The remaining staff removed the remnants of the meal and then the chef himself came out to present the desert.  Thin and frail, with hair unkempt and a nervous tick one could find distracting, he nonetheless had a command of food that to date, made him the longest-serving chef in the king’s company.  Prior to him, the last chef had been on board for six weeks before his untimely death.

    “Your majesty,” he began.  “Given the heaviness of the meal, I present to you this light but exquisite offering of fresh fruit.  They have been macerated in a mixture of rum and sugar, with almonds and coconuts for crunch and texture.”

    “Yes!” came the king’s greedy response, and began to dig in to the desert with fervor.  He took one bite, closing his eyes and chewing slowly to savor the sweet fruit and their burst of juices.  With his second bite, he again chewed thoughtfully, but the slightest wrinkle appeared over his brow. With his third bite, the wrinkle deepened into a frown, his jaws working rapidly.  By the fourth spoonful, his initial enthusiasm transformed form to sheer annoyance. “Something is missing,” he growled.

    “I’m sorry, Your Majesty?” the Chef asked, confused. Pearls of sweat appeared on his brow.

    The king put down his spoon.  “Something is missing, Chef.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.  “Where are the bananas?”

    “The what, Your Highness?”

    The king pushed his plate away in disgust.  “The bananas, chef!  Where are the bananas?  Did you not expressly say that this was a salad made of the most exquisite fruit?  Are bananas not the most exquisite of these?”

    Confused, the chef could only think to fall on his knees and bow his head. “I’m sorry, sire, I did not think that bananas—“

    “You did not think? Is that what you said? You did not think?” The king leapt from the table, furious.  “A medley of this caliber can only be enhanced by bananas, you imbecile!!!”

    In his bowed position, the chef shook like a leaf.  “I apologize for displeasing you, sire. Please, if you’ll permit me—“

    “Too late, Chef!” the king cried. “Everyone knows that it’s the last bite, the final morsel, that determines the success of a meal! And you, Chef, have left a bitter taste in my mouth! A very bitter one, indeed!”

The chef’s face drained of all color.  “Please, Your Majesty, it was an oversight on my part! I only need a moment to—“

    “Gerta!”

    Instantly, Gerta was there.  “My lord?”

    The king pointed to the chef.  “You know what to do, Gerta.”

    “The guillotine, sire?”

    “The guillotine. Anyone who can prepare a salad of fruits without bananas is not fit to live.” The king sat back down, disgusted, as Gerta and two guards dragged the now screaming cook off to his death.

    “A pity,” the king murmured.  Then he expelled a large burp.  “Oh, and Gerta!” he called out.

    Like magic, she was there.  “Begin the interview process again.  We will be needing a new chef.” He burped again.  “And choose well, Gerta.  The last few chefs have been deplorable.  Any issue and you will follow them to the guillotine as well.”

    Gerta paled but shook her head. “Of course, sire. Will there be anything else?”

    “Yes,” he said. “Bring some sliced banana for me, please. I would like to add it to my fruit salad.”

    “Right away, Your Majesty.” She turned and went to fetch some fresh bananas for the king.