“Honestly, son,” said his father. “How could you not want to have your own nationally syndicated food column? Best job in the world, the way I see it! You eat the finest meals around, and then you write about them. And you never have to worry about too many adjectives! How about that? Is there any better way to make a living?”
Elliot was about to answer this obviously rhetorical question by saying, “Yes. Inventing stuff.” But he didn’t think this was a good idea.
“That’s why we’d like you to have a look at this.” Elliot’s mother waved the back of her hand over the advertisement. “It’s the Simmersville Annual—”
“I know all about it,” said Elliot.
His parents gasped. “You do?!”
Elliot pointed to the DINNER-THEATRE-STYLE COSTUME CABERET! line. “There’s a bunch of song-and-dance numbers at the end, right?”
His mother’s face brightened and she spluttered, “Y-yes! Th-th-that’s right!”
Elliot could hardly blame her for being so surprised. This was probably the first time he had shown interest in his parents’ jobs at the newspaper. He liked food as much as anyone, but beyond cooking it and eating it (both of which he considered worthy pursuits), writing about it just seemed silly.
“The Bugle is sending your mother and me on a special assignment to cover the festival, and we’d like you to join us.”
“Actually,” said Elliot, “that’s exactly what—”
His father held up one hand for Elliot to stop speaking. “Before you say no, before you tell us you’d rather sleep over at a friend’s house, or worse, spend the weekend with Uncle Archie, I want to remind you this isn’t a choice. You’re coming with us whether you like it or not.”
“Don’t worry,” said his mother. “Just wait until you see the Dinner-Theatre-Style Costume Cabaret! I just know you’re going to love it!”
***
On Friday evening, Elliot, Leslie, and their parents set off for Simmersville. Since they were all headed to the same place, Elliot opted to travel with Leslie and her mother. In the backseat of the Fangs’ rusty red Volkswagen, Elliot and Leslie whispered about how they would meet up with Uncle Archie and the others once they arrived.
Famous Freddy’s big white trailer was hitched behind the car, bumping and bounding along the highway. It was packed with ingredients and banners and all the cooking equipment Leslie’s mother would need to set up a stall in the Simmersville market square. In the front seat, Leslie’s mother mumbled to herself as she drove. From the moment they set off, she had been muttering nonstop.
“What’s she saying?” Elliot asked, whispering to Leslie.
“She’s reciting the recipes aloud. It helps her remember.”
“Has she forgotten them?”
Leslie shook her head. “It’s more that she’s only just learned them. Back at the restaurant, she has all of Grandpa Freddy’s old cookbooks, but at the festival she won’t have time to look anything up.” Leslie looked at the back of her mother’s head, at the dark hair falling past her shoulders. “I told her not to worry, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“I’d be worried if I were her!” said Elliot.
“I heard that, Elliot,” said Leslie’s mother. “You’re not helping.”
Elliot lowered his voice again. “She’ll have to cook for hundreds of people and she won’t even have your grandfather to help.”
“Mom said exactly the same thing, but I think she will have his help.” Leslie opened her bag and took out a crinkled old newspaper article. Elliot was surprised to see it was from the food section of a newspaper, but not from the Bickleburgh Bugle. This page had come from the Simmersville Tribune. The article featured a large photograph of Leslie’s grandfather and the headline read, Bickleburgh Chef Sets New Record.
Leslie pointed to the first lines of the article. “Grandpa Freddy has attended every single food fest since they first began!”
“So you think he’ll be there.”
“He has to be! If he doesn’t go, he could lose the record. And this is Grandpa Freddy we’re talking about—Famous Freddy. If I know him like I think I know him, he’ll be there.”
Leslie’s mother stopped murmuring again. “I thought I told you,” she said. “Stop worrying about your grandfather. Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s fine!”
“But what if he isn’t?” asked Leslie.
“He can take care of himself,” said her mother, and returned to another mumbled recipe.
After they’d driven two hours on the highway, a huge sign loomed up beside the road. The edges were painted with all kinds of food, everything from apples, avocados, and bagels down to yams, yogurt, and zucchini cupcakes. Smack in the middle of it all, it said, Welcome to Simmersville!
The town was smaller than Bickleburgh and much older. There were cobblestone streets, painted wooden fences, and crooked houses. Even though much of the place was old and faded and many of the buildings were beginning to crumble and sag, Elliot thought there was something charming about Simmersville. Maybe even beautiful.
“Sort of reminds me of the old mansion where Uncle Archie works,” he said.
“If that’s true,” said Leslie, “then this whole town must be full of hidden doors and secret passages.”
As they reached the crest of a hill, three very different buildings appeared. They rose abruptly, fifteen or twenty stories high. Unlike almost everything else in Simmersville, they were made of steel and glass. This part of the city reminded them of the rest of DENKi-3000: strange, modern, incongruous buildings, shooting up from the center of town. Much to Elliot’s surprise, however, these three buildings were even stranger than the ones back in Bickleburgh.
“Is that a fork?” asked Elliot, pointing to the middle tower.
“Yep, and on either side is a knife and a spoon,” said Leslie, referring to the other two towers.
Leslie’s mother glanced back at Elliot. “You’ve really never heard of the Heppleworth buildings?”
“Not really,” said Elliot, though he had to admit the buildings were impressive. He wondered if, living all his life in Bickleburgh and obsessing over his uncle’s work at DENKi-3000, there were bits of the world he had missed out on.
“Here we are.” Leslie’s mother took a sharp turn down a narrow street, and the Heppleworth towers vanished behind a row of houses.
They bumped toward the center of town until they came to their hotel, the Simmersville Inn. It was built on the edge of the famous market square. From the parking lot, they could see the square was filled with workers, erecting stalls and putting up banners in preparation for the festival.
The Simmersville Inn was made of rough white stone and had four floors. When they went inside, they were greeted by the clerk. Although greeted wasn’t quite the right word. For a hotel clerk, this woman seemed unusually shy. Although her face was plump and pleasant, with her blonde hair tied back with an emerald-green ribbon, her posture was all wrong. She was cowering in the corner behind the reception desk, hugging herself with her arms. When she said, “Welcome to the Simmersville Inn,” it came out as inaudibly as the mumbled recipes of Leslie’s mother.
“We’re here for the festival,” said Leslie, running up to the counter.
The clerk came forward with a couple of pages of paperwork. Her name tag said: My name is Emily. Oddly, the whole time Emily dealt with Leslie’s mother, the clerk kept her elbows stiffly pressed into her ribs. She looked very uncomfortable.
“What name is it under?” she asked.
“Fang,” said Leslie’s mother. “Jennifer Fang and—oh! I forgot my bag in the car.” She chuckled. “My head’s obviously too full of recipes for anything else!” She ran out to fetch her purse.
The girl behind the counter smiled weakly. “You guys’ve got nice rooms,” she told them. “Top floor. Great views of the square.” She sidled along the counter to a
cupboard on the wall. It was full of keys, hanging on hooks. When she reached up to retrieve the ones for Elliot and Leslie, the sleeve of the girl’s shirt slid up her arm—and there was something very strange about it: It was the wrong color. The skin under the girl’s sleeve was scaly, like a snake’s, and nearly as green as the ribbon in her hair!
Emily hastily tugged her sleeve back into place as Leslie and Elliot looked at each other with almost identical expressions of shock. Did you see that? Elliot mouthed. Leslie nodded—just as her mother came jogging back into the lobby with her purse.
Following close behind were Elliot’s parents, who had just arrived themselves. As soon as both families were checked in, everyone agreed that over the long drive they had all worked up an appetite.
“In that case, we’re all in for a special treat,” said Elliot’s father, smacking his lips.
“Oh, yes!” Elliot’s mother agreed. “The restaurant here at the Simmersville Inn is famous!”
The children were ushered toward the restaurant before they could ask about the clerk’s strange green-skinned arm. What could it possibly mean? Before they rounded the corner, Elliot looked back one last time, but the girl was gone. The only thing he saw was the door behind the desk, shutting with a quiet click.
CHAPTER 8
In which Elliot orders “the Special,” Leslie orders a cheese sandwich, and their parents register a formal complaint
The restaurant at the Simmersville Inn was called The Smiling Mudsucker. It was quite fancy. Filigreed light fixtures threw dim light over the plush furniture and pristine white tablecloths.
“What’s a mudsucker?” asked Leslie, as they were shown to their table.
“A kind of fish,” Elliot’s mother answered. “They’re famous for their seafood here. See what I mean?” She pointed to a monstrous aquarium dominating the rear of the restaurant. It filled the full width of the room and was so deep you couldn’t see the other side. The water behind the glass simply faded into darkness. Inside, the aquarium teemed with life, not just with fish but other things too, strange sea life like nothing they had ever seen.
“Looks like an aquatic Creature Department in there,” Leslie whispered.
Tentacles, teeth, spiny fins, and shimmering scales glowed and bubbled behind the glass. Some of the creatures were quite large. They could make out huge shapes, undulating in the shadows, lost behind colorful curtains of fish. One of those huge shapes swam forward.
It looked like a cross between a turtle, a lobster, and a starfish. It had the head, wrinkly neck, and hard shell of a turtle, while its legs (five of them) resembled the pebbled orange limbs of a starfish. Then there were its hands, which couldn’t really be called hands since they were large, crab-like pincers.
The creature undulated its many legs, propelling itself in an elegant loop on the other side of the glass. Countless schools of fish skittered away to give the creature space before it swooped back and vanished into the shadows.
“I hope that’s not on the menu,” said Leslie’s mother.
“Don’t worry,” said Elliot’s father. “The aquarium is only for atmosphere.” He looked at Elliot. “Take note, son. Atmosphere is the most important part of any good restaurant.”
“Atmosphere?” asked Elliot. “What about the food?”
His mother tousled his hair. “Oh, Elliot! We have so much to teach you!”
Whoever said I wanted to learn? Elliot thought.
The waiter approached their table. He was a thin man in a tuxedo so sharply pressed it looked as if his lapels might lop off the tips of your fingers. He stood haughtily straight and held his head high, his shiny nose poking up in the air.
“Are you ready to order?”
Elliot’s father nodded eagerly. “I’ll have the huitlacoche and sturgeon ravioli, please.”
“What’s that supposed to be?” asked Elliot, making a face.
His mother kicked him under the table.
“Ow!”
“I’ll have the cuttlefish and quail-egg quiche,” she said.
If the waiter was impressed with these choices, he didn’t show it. He responded merely by sniffing the air with his upturned nose.
Elliot felt his parents turn their faces expectantly toward him. But Elliot couldn’t think about food. He was too preoccupied with the real reason he had come to Simmersville: to find out what the ghorks were up to, and to rescue Jean-Remy’s sister!
“Ahem!” said the waiter, cutting into Elliot’s thoughts. “Would you prefer if I recommended something?”
Elliot felt a surge of relief. “Oh, yes, please!”
The waiter rolled his eyes in disappointment (perhaps even with a modicum of disgust).
“The Special!” he announced. His finger came down with a thud, nailing Elliot’s menu to the table. It had landed on a square of frilly white paper that had been glued hastily to the bottom of the menu’s final page. Typed on this slip of paper was:
THE SPECIAL
A top-secret recipe created by our new head chef.
Elliot wasn’t sure this was what he wanted for dinner. “How come there’s no description?” he asked.
The waiter moved his finger to tap the words top secret—THUD, THUD. “I’m sure it’s excellent,” he said. “I’m told the new chef is a genius.”
“Hear that, son?” Elliot’s father slapped him on the back. “A genius!”
“Yes,” said the waiter, turning only slightly to face Elliot’s father, “and it must be true, because you know how they are. Eccentric! This one refuses to remove his costume for the big cabaret tomorrow, so he must be a genius.”
Elliot sighed. He had never ordered something without knowing what it was, but his parents looked so hopeful and expectant, and besides, The and Special were just about the only words on the menu he could read.
“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll have it. The Special.”
The whole time the waiter spoke, Leslie had been staring at the kitchen doors. “This new head chef?” she asked the waiter. “Does he happen to be an old man? Skinny, Asian, completely bald? With a smiling face and sort of bad posture?”
The waiter thrust out his lower lip. “How would I know? He never takes off his costume.”
“Costume,” Leslie whispered. “I wonder . . .”
Her mother reached over and stroked Leslie’s arm. “Please, Leslie, stop worrying. Grandpa Freddy’s going to be fine. Why don’t you go ahead and order.”
Leslie squinted up at the waiter. “Do you do grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“Grilled?! Cheese?!” He was obviously appalled.
“Actually,” said Leslie’s mother, “that sounds good. I haven’t had grilled cheese in ages! Especially not gourmet grilled cheese.”
“That’s because there’s no such thing,” said the waiter.
Leslie’s mother clapped the menu shut. “Two grilled cheese sandwiches, please!”
The waiter sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Elliot looked at his parents. “Um . . . can I have grilled cheese, too?”
They responded in unison. “NO!”
The waiter left in a huff. Before long he returned with five plates of food. The dishes Elliot’s parents had ordered looked colorful and inviting. On the other hand, the two grilled cheese sandwiches seemed to be deliberately wilted and pathetic: four triangles of white bread, oozing orange sludge onto an otherwise bare plate.
Elliot, meanwhile, was presented with an elegant platter covered by a silver dome. The waiter lifted it off the plate with the flourish.
“The Special!” he announced.
Everyone at the table screamed.
“AAIIIEEEEEEGH!”
That was because it looked like Elliot’s dinner was about to eat him.
“W-w-what is this?” Elliot spluttered.
&n
bsp; “It’s an homage to our hallowed name,” the waiter explained. “The Smiling Mudsucker!”
Elliot’s dinner was arranged on the plate to resemble an enormous mouth. Vegetable lips were drawn back in a malicious smirk. They revealed soft pink gums carved from rare roast beef. Triangles of bread and cheese were meticulously arranged like rows of jagged fangs. Finally, a tongue of bright red salmon flopped across the plate, glistening with buttery saliva.
“Bon appétit!” said the waiter, before returning to the kitchen.
Elliot stared at what had to be the ghastliest dish ever served. And it wasn’t just ghastly, it was oddly lifelike.
“If that thing moves,” Elliot whispered, “I’m not eating it.”
But the dish sat perfectly still, and (eventually) everyone at the table relaxed enough to begin the meal. It was quickly apparent, however, that although the food looked impressive (in its own unusual way), it tasted awful. Or rather, it didn’t taste of anything.
“I’m beginning to wish I’d gone with a cheese sandwich!” said Elliot’s father.
“You’re not missing anything,” said Leslie’s mother, screwing up her face. “If this is gourmet grilled cheese, then I’m the vice president of Ecuador!”
“Ugh! This is unacceptable!” Elliot’s mother threw down her napkin and pushed out her chair. The other two adults did the same, and a moment later, all three were marching into the kitchen to register their complaints with the chef.
Alone at the table with Leslie, Elliot looked down at his plate. He had eaten only a few bites of his so-called Special. Much of the disturbing mouth remained, grinning ferociously up at him. “Does this remind you of something?” he asked Leslie, pointing to the plate.
“A great white shark?”
“I was thinking of something more specific. Actually, someone more specific. Don’t you think it looks a lot like—”
CRASH!
The clang and rattle of pots, pans, and smashing plates erupted from the kitchen.
“WHAT?!” boomed a voice from inside. “How dare you?! You think I ain’t got good taste?! TASTE?! There ain’t nobody in the whole world who knows more about TASTE than me!”
Gobbled by Ghorks Page 5