Concentrate. He put his face up to the eyeholes again. A firm, nearly cake-like substance, dark, rich and brown blossomed out of each of the seven dishes like bubbles of ambrosia.
He had never seen anything he wanted so badly in his whole life. It took all his energy to keep himself from bursting out of the hole and consuming all seven soufflés.
Felicity sat on the floor and held her knees, her face serene, a far off look in her eyes. Mom sat back on a stool, still facing the countertop, her hands quietly folded.
Palatus gripped the countertop ever harder, battling within himself, his eyes watering as he stared at the dish. His knuckles looked like they were about to snap. His ribs swelled in and out, like he was trying very hard to resist the soufflé even though the bandana masked the smell. “O, Delicious One,” he whispered quietly, on the verge of tears.
Guster wedged himself between the stone walls. Whatever desire he had to taste it, Palatus’ was worse. The soufflé was the master, the Arch-Gourmand its slave, willing to do its bidding, whatever it bade.
“I see that your Harbinger of Peace has not yet come to save you,” Palatus said, mustering every bit of self-control he had. “No matter. In three minutes, the soufflé will fall. If he does not come, so be it. I will taste it before then, and you will all suffer the consequences. Even the smell that seeps through my mask cannot lie.”
Was this what it meant to be an Evertaster? To be so obsessed with perfection you were enslaved by it? To be consumed by the Gastronomy of Peace —
That’s when the noises in the tunnels behind him did not matter anymore. Neither the Budless, Palatus, nor the hordes of Gastronimatii. Guster knew what he had to do.
He shoved his shoulder against the stone wall, swinging the secret door slowly open. He stepped into the kitchen.
Chapter 23 — The Gastronomy of Peace
Guster’s knees nearly buckled when his feet hit the kitchen floor. Despite the shirt pulled up over his nose, the smell of the One Recipe was so strong, it was like he was already tasting it.
Surprise washed across Palatus’ face. “Aha!” he cried, “So zee boy ‘as returned to face his ruin!” Palatus motioned to the large gray guards, “Seize him!”
The Budless charged; it was remarkable how immune to the smell they were. In that split second, Mom looked at Guster vacantly, like she had just finished a hot bath and was only mildly surprised to see him. She did not rush to help him; he’d almost expected that.
Guster held up his hands. “Stop!” he said.
For a moment the Budless faltered. “I said seize him!” cried Palatus. Only the counter in the middle of the kitchen and the seven dishes of soufflé stood between the two of them.
“You will not!” boomed Guster, trying his best to sound important. “I am the Harbinger of Peace. As decreed by the great chef Archedentus, I come to claim that first taste of the One Recipe which is rightfully mine!”
Palatus drew his knife and stabbed it into the wooden counter top. “Mmm!” he grunted. Everything was riding on Palatus’ loyalty to the recipe; for the moment, it seemed to be paying off.
The chef motioned to the Budless and they stood down. “Very well boy, go ahead, taste the One Recipe. Be the guinea pig in the experiment. Then, as soon as I see the effects, I will know that your simple mother has completed her task.”
There was movement — bodies on the other side of the kitchen window pressing up against it.
“That would be a delight, my dear son. You have a taste, and then we can all have some,” said Mom lazily.
“The rules say you have to go first,” Felicity said.
Guster was fighting to remain in control, to appear like he knew what he was doing. He had to keep his hands from reaching out, from grabbing the seven dishes.
“Casa, give the boy a spoon,” said Palatus.
“A spoon? Oh of course,” said Felicity. “I have just the one.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a shiny, silver spoon with a handle twice as long as any normal spoon. She held it up to Guster between her thumb and forefinger.
Didn’t she see the danger of the situation? The aroma of the kitchen was so pleasant he was rather glad he’d come, even with Palatus there, the threat of impending doom, and the Gastronimatii on the brink of triumph. Oh, it was such a happy kitchen to be in.
He pulled the shirt down from his nose. It was like dipping his face in water — only this water was the sweet smell of baked goodness. Was that Dark Milk Bricks he smelled, seeping into every crack in the walls, into every pore of his nostrils? He wanted to fall upon the source of that smell, get as close as possible to it, become one with it — to have it soak into his soft insides like cocoa washing over a cookie, filling all emptiness. It took him a moment before he realized that he’d stopped breathing.
Must control myself, he thought. He took the spoon from Felicity.
Palatus stared at him from across the counter, like he was about to leap, grinding his teeth together beneath the mask. “Well?” he said.
Guster held the spoon gently, resting it on his index finger like he was about to taste soup. He dipped it down into the dark soufflé. The silver tip pierced — no, slid gently through the mixture like it were freshly fallen snow. He turned the handle and brought a spoonful to his slightly open mouth.
Concentrate, he thought. Cannot let it overwhelm me —
He could taste it before it even touched his lips. A rolling chocolate cloud captured in a single moment in space. In an instant, the room vanished. He could not feel the floor beneath him, nor his fingertips, nor his legs. All things were as if they were nothing, except for the one thing — his mouth — the only remaining reality in the great void of the Universe; the only three inches that mattered. 28 teeth, a palette, the impressionable insides of his cheeks, and his tongue — his oh so vulnerable tongue.
And then it touched the first of his taste buds — they reached up to the coming tide of change — a porous mixture that was light, but real. A lingering touch that gripped them, embraced them in a warm, buttery sweetness that was so firm and layered, the bumps of his tongue welcomed it like delicious lava flowing across their backs.
And then there was nothing. No family in danger. No threat of Palatus. No kitchen. No castle. There was only the chocolate soufflé, and Guster’s mouth, which had the sole purpose of tasting it.
Then the first wave of flavor, as remarkable as it was, transformed. It was a sunshine-lit peak overlooking a far-off jungle-scape. There were armies approaching, their spears aimed skyward, their drums beating, and the crisp smell of a new continent and the fresh fruits that it bore. High above the coming war, on the edge of a cliff, bloomed a golden blossom of new life, ambivalent to the turmoil below. It was delicate, wrapped in a clear elixir of life, protected in a shell where it ripened until it burst into the mixture in Guster’s mouth.
And then there were gleaming clear bursts of light, popping through perfect harmony with the golden blossom, as sweet as can be, born in the depths of earth and ripened before the crust was ever torn by machines. Raised below human feet, forgotten for centuries, discovered again and crushed into powder, dissolved into a succulent mortar.
A hint, ever so slight, of a touch of something new — it wasn’t the chocolate, it wasn’t the sugar — it was sweet — and then it was gone.
Then there was a landscape where no pollutant could fester, purified by ice. A sudden soft warmth — slightly salty — all massaged and tender, a gift from a beast fed on pure greens watered straight from heaven. The soft warmth melted the others together, so that no one sensation sang alone, but all found their voices together.
Then there was the chocolate, made by the hand of a master. Just bitter enough to tell the truth of itself; but smooth as it did so, a soothing friend bearing up his soul.
And then all the tastes were one, something entirely new, no longer individual trees, but a forest. No longer single voices, but a chorus. No longer words, but a poem. And Guster forgo
t them all because something entirely new and as pure and complete as any element had come into his mind and taken hold of his heart: soufflé.
Rich. Dark. Soft as a summer’s morning.
How could he have lived without tasting this before?
He was flying — floating — looking down on the earth, a blue speck growing smaller in the distance. There he was, drifting in an empty universe with the taste of that soufflé being the only tangible thing that existed or ever needed to exist. Everything else grew meaningless. Nothing else mattered. Not the rest of the world. Not himself. Not danger. Not his family. He did not care if he lived or died. The world could destroy itself if it wanted. He only wanted to stay in this moment forever — when suddenly the scene changed.
He was standing at the back of a chateau, much like the Chateau de Diner, but the trees and grounds and colors were different. There were wisps of dandelion floating on the summer air. The light shone thickly, coating the manicured trees and carved stonework and glinting off the lake at the back of the porch. He could not tell what century it was, nor could he tell if it was late in the afternoon or late in the morning; the air and sun both felt like they were moving on to somewhere new and leaving the old behind. The day was perfect.
He leaned himself up against the stone banister at the back of the porch. The soufflé rested atop it at chest level, the silver spoon protruding from it like a sword in stone.
“Why don’t you take another bite?” said a voice.
Guster turned his head. Standing there, like he’d been there from the beginning, was a chef clothed in white chef’s jacket, hat, and apron. His hair was black, and his skin olive. His face was smooth, as if a hair had never grown upon it. He had a pleasant quality about him, like a man who’d lived as he knew he should, and wanted to allow others the same privilege. In an instant, Guster knew who he was.
“I want to very badly,” Guster said.
“How badly?” asked the chef expectantly. Somehow, even his presence soothed Guster.
“More than I think I’ve ever wanted anything.”
The old Chef smiled. “I suppose I did alright then,” he said, chuckling to himself. “I’d always wondered how it would turn out.”
Alright? That was a funny word to use, considering that Guster’s body cried out to him, each particle of his being calling out like a massive crowd begging for one thing and one thing only, promising to crown him king and pledge their devotion if he would give them but one more taste.
Guster clenched his hands behind his back. It took all the willpower he had not to take hold of the spoon again. He must not — not yet. He needed to know something first. He struggled to concentrate on forming the words. Before he could, the chef spoke again.
“Are you at peace?”
Guster smiled. Yes, he was. Very much so. He couldn’t remember what he’d been so worried about before he’d taken that bite, before his world became perfect. He nodded. He could hear the beat of the hummingbirds’ wings.
“Then?” said the chef, lifting one eyebrow.
Then Guster knew what he wanted to ask. “It won’t kill me?”
Archedentus laughed. “Kill you? My friend, you can’t be serious! It is a dessert! It would give you things you cannot imagine.”
Guster’s last worry slid away. It was as he dreamed. He melted into the beautiful day.
“You feel a little like them, don’t you?” asked Archedentus. He pointed to the lawns below the porch. Dozens of men and women milled about dressed in fine suits and gowns, hair piled high in ringlets, layers of collars blossoming from their jackets. They lounged on benches or stood by the lake shores. Some were laughing, others strumming tiny guitars. One of the men wore a well-tailored baby blue coat. He flicked droplets of lake water at one of the pretty ladies standing nearby. She giggled and turned away. They looked like they had been picnicking for quite a long time.
They all had one thing in common: beside each of them was a small white ramekin filled with a rich, dark soufflé and a silver spoon protruding from it.
It seemed to Guster like they’d always been there, though he was certain that he hadn’t seen them before.
Two boys about Guster’s age ran from the woods and jumped onto a swing that swung them out high over the lake and back.
“They love it here. You could stay with them,” said Archedentus.
It was inviting. A place free of danger. A place where he could pass the hours skipping rocks on the lake, or lie on his back staring at the shapes in the clouds. A place where he was finally free to taste without pain. To feel the soothing sensations slide across his tongue. Was this what it was like for everyone else all the time? To eat without agony? It was how he’d always wished it could be.
A memory struggled to the surface. A far off place. The Farmhouse — that’s what they’d called it — a place where he had wished for such a taste. Where he had struggled to find it. There had been people there. Someone named Zeke. And Mom. Now it all seemed so far away.
“What about my family?” Guster asked.
Archedentus shrugged. “Guster, you’ve done that thing which I dared not do. You could go back, but is this not the soufflé for which you have searched across the world?”
Guster thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure how to answer. “It is,” he said, “and it is as wonderful as I hoped.”
“Yet I see that you have not yet finished it.”
“If only I could have both,” said Guster.
“And if you can’t?”
Guster was quiet. “I don’t know.” He touched the silver spoon lightly, holding his fingertips on the edge of its handle for a long time. He remembered the pain. “Does this mean that, if I go back, that… that I won’t be cured?”
Archedentus’ face lost all expression.
It was frustrating: the soufflé on one hand, Guster’s family and the world he knew on the other. Why should it be a choice? If only they could taste it. First Mom, then Zeke, Mariah, Henry Junior, the Lieutenant, and Felicity. And then his own town, his country — everyone. If only everyone could feel the joy he did. He could give it to Palatus and the Gastronimatii. Just like that, their war would be over. Guster spoke, “You never made it.”
The chef looked far away, as if he were staring at something beyond the horizon. “I would have, if only they had been ready for it.”
The lake, the grounds, the people and the chateau disappeared as the scene changed before Guster’s eyes once again.
There was an orchard far larger than the one on Machu Picchu, or any Guster had ever seen, white eggs gleaming like pearls as far as the eye could see. There was an army of men dressed in red aprons, tending to the trees like masters over slaves, harvesting the fruit, sending it away by the bushelful.
Then in a blink, Guster was underground, surrounded by glistening pillars of diamond sugar. The Budless were there, huge and draped in gray rags, driving their pick axes into the rock, mining nuggets of precious sugar-ore and piling them into mine carts, then pushing them away on tracks that crisscrossed the caverns.
Another blink, and Guster was on a familiar island, hundreds of the Budless arriving on its shores. They surrounded the herds of cows that grazed there, and drove them with whips toward the sea where they beat them until they gave up their butter. Two giant men with beards and horned helmets struggled against the chains that bound them while Palatus looked on.
Again the scene changed, this time Palatus was bowing before a king, presenting him with a gift. It was like a dream. Guster could not hear what was said, but he did not need to; he could feel their intentions. They ate. They were pleased, and they granted Palatus his wish.
Then there was a parliament chamber filled with statesmen contending against each other, malice in their words as they debated the fate of the nations. Palatus entered, his face masked, an army of red chefs spilling through the doors, serving gifts of chocolate soufflé to the legislators. One by one they ate, and one by one their anger toward
each other melted away; they shook hands in reconciliation.
Then there were people filling the streets of the great metropolises, waiting for just one sniff, if not a taste of the soufflé. Palatus gave it to them. The horns stopped honking. Angry voices turned to whispers. Children ceased to bully. Fathers praised their neglected sons. Corporate men embraced the humble homeless, and the homeless cleaned the streets on which they’d slept.
There was happiness, there was laughter, there was serenity. There were soldiers discarding their weapons, engineers dismantling the tanks and the bombers, Admirals turning their battleships for home, and Generals signing treaties with one another.
The world unfolded below him, people everywhere eating the soufflé, enraptured in the same joy and ecstasy he felt. There were billions embracing each other, filled with love, bowing down to the dessert that had changed their lives. They wanted nothing more. They would live only for that. They were at peace.
The battle was finally over. He would never fight again! He could taste!
And then there was Palatus giving a mighty minister of a nation a buttery Hollandaise sauce that plugged his arteries in one night, and he was dead.
Then Palatus seized the food of the nations by force, grocer by grocer, farm by farm, factory by factory.
There was no one to oppose him — the people were so busy with their soufflés. They would not — they could not — stop tasting their peace. Like a black plague, starvation spread.
The bombs fell from the sky again, seasoning the land with destruction. Palatus stood on the head of a gray mountain, a pile of discarded ramekins at his feet, bleached white like skulls, as he overlooked the plains and his armies advanced and the fields burned and the people starved to death. But none would oppose him, for they had their peace.
“No!” shouted Guster. He was back at the porch of the chateau again. He was exhausted — he’d somehow managed to realize his nightmare wasn’t real while he was having it — but he was still in a dream.
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