The Head Waiter

It wasn't the easiest of places to find. Only by following the narrow passageways that twisted this way and then the other way can you eventually find “Leung Wahs”. This particular restaurant cannot be found amongst the Yellow page listings, telephone directory or any other register. To taste the delights at this establishment you have to really need what it has to offer and it is this particular need that will lead you there. And Milo Philo really needed it. He stood on the street opposite the tiny corner restaurant and silently congratulated himself on finding it again. The anticipation of the gourmand feast made his digestive juices roil.

To say that Milo was a omnivore would be rather understating the fact. If ever a creature had hopped, walked, swam, skipped or skittered across this earth then Milo had had it peeled, sliced, cubed, minced or diced. Then had he had it boiled, fried, grilled or prepared in any number of delicious ways before eventually pushing the tasty morsel passed his plump lips and into his grateful, capacious stomach. It was his life’s purpose to taste all the edible delights in all their culinary manifestations that the genius of chefs and cooks around the globe could muster. But tonight he anticipated something new, something that would titillate his palate to a higher order. He was ready to eat something unique - something that he had never eaten before.

The doorway to the restaurant was framed by neon lights which lent an ethereal glow to the surrounding air and seemed to beckon him in. As Milo approached, the door opened, seemingly of itself,

Once inside, a waiter led him to a table. The interior of the restaurant was dimly lit and had all the usual trappings of it's type; paper lanterns lit from within, walls adorned with images and Chinese characters, all of which meant nothing to Milo. No-one else was in the restaurant and Milo sat in anticipation of what would be offered.

He didn't have to wait long. Before he had time to stuff a corner of the serviette down the “v” of his shirtfront, the waiter had returned carrying a covered bowl. Following this mainpiece of the table smaller bowls filled with steaming rice, noodles, sweet and savoury sauces were placed down. When the table was set the waiter, with a flourish, lifted the cover of the main dish and there to Milo's fascination was his meal. A human head!

The head, despite being blanketed and glazed by a thick and sticky sauce, was still recognisable as being that of a middle aged man. At first, Milo did not know how he was to tackle this strange and grisly meal but eventually picked up a fork and prodded at the horror. The flesh yielded to his timorous exploration and Milo finally decided to try a sample. Deftly, he cut away a sliver of the brow and, after holding it aloft in the dim light, closed his eyes and lowered the morsel to his fat lips and into his mouth. Milo's taste buds were the most discriminatory of little flowerlets and they keened to this new gastronomic experience. A slow smile crept across his face. At the same time, the narrow eyes of the head waiter narrowed even more.

Milo was aware that the pictographs suddenly made perfect sense.

“What pleasures!”, thought Milo as he cogitated on the next head-part for his delectation, “What anticipation!”. Should it be the fleshy lobe of the pearly ear or the tip of the nose or a slice of a swollen cheek? Or should he scoop out the eyes and feast upon their aqueous orbs he thought. The nose then. And to Milos surprise, he found that the meat fell away easily from its gristley anchor. As he held it before him, it shimmered upon his fork. He then docked the forks contents into the harbour of his mouth and relished the chewing and savouring of this olfactory morsel. Milo gave a little orgasmic sneeze of pleasure as the masticated proboscis made its perestaltic journey to his gut.

Every inhalation dragged within him the essence of all that surrounded and filled his consciousness of their history; ancient and recent.

On to the aural twins; the ears. His tongue explored the complicated curves and soundways until his teeth and tongue meshed them into something of a less subtle design before consigning them to the yawning chasm of his digestive system.


Milo heard a young mother sob for her lost child on a distant continent.

The tongue came next, and Milo was pleased to find that he did not have to cut this once gymnastic muscle from its ivory caged home. The tongue-flesh had been previously chopped, spiced and delicately flavoured with herbs before being gently cooked in methods unknown. It had then been reshaped and artfully placed to rest, back in its mortal home. Was there ever a piece of meat so delicious, so perfectly textured, so taste-satisfying than this foreign tongue that was being sensed, tasted and rolled around Milos own? His taste buds wept with joy at the splendour of this treat.

It was at this point that he knew he could never possibly taste anything as good as this again.

And so it was. Milo had been saving for last that which he thought would be the best, namely, the fulsome and fleshy cheeks. So plump and meaty they looked that it reminded him of the breasts of the many creatures of the air that he had devoured – surely the breast is the best cut of such beasts! But, the bathos! The crashing disappointment! The cheeks had no flavour at all. They were as bland as bland could be, and the texture did not save them; all string and gristle. With disgust, Milo spat the meat out onto his plate.

“Did that not meet your satisfaction?”

Milo looked up to see an ancient Chinese gentleman stood in front of his table.

“Who the hell are you?” enquired Milo.

“Leung Wah, at your service”, said Leung Wah (for it was he) and as he spoke he made the smallest of deferential bows towards Milo. His expression, however, belied the respect.

“No it does not meet my satisfaction” spat Milo “The rest of the meal was delicious but it is ruined by these .. these.. scrag ends” and he pointed to the semi-masticated jowls on his plate.

“Apologies, sir” said Leung Wah,“ but as you must realise the head that you are eating is not the head of a single man”.

“What do you mean”?

“It is a composite”, leered Leung.

“A composite?”

“Yes”, said Leung, “The nose belonged to a great poet. That is why the aromas that now enter your olfactory chamber will manifest themselves in the greatest of literal works. The ears were that of a musician...did you not hear the music in the sobs and cries of that recently bereaved mother? And the brow was taken from one of the worlds greatest thinkers. But, alas for you, the tongue was no match for yours in its experience of tastes and pleasures”.

“What do you mean 'alas for me' ”? Queried Milo and his eyes were now as round and as open as his mouth. All three of which, set in the backdrop of his round and open face, made a Spirographic expression of surprise.

“I'm afraid your tastebuds no longer work”, said Leung “their efficacy has been .. ah .. negated by the inferior tongue you have eaten”.

“But that cannot be” wailed Milo “Eating is all I live for, if I can no longer taste my food then life is no longer worth living . What is the use of a head that can see beyond seeing, hear beyond hearing, think beyond thinking if it can no longer taste. That sort of head is of no use to me”.

“Well, it is to me, you ingrate” Said Leung. And with that, from beneath his frocks, he produced a sword and with one eye-dazzling flourish parted poor Milos body from his head.

The head waiter chased the head across the restaurant floor before plucking it up and presenting it proudly to his master.

“Extricate the tongue...” ordered Leung “...the rest can be boiled down for stock”.