Rare
Hungry. Starving, even. Stomach growled, acid roiling with nothing to digest.
Radiator fan turned on, humming and making the steering wheel vibrate. Rolled down the window to get some air through the car, but the breeze was as hot as I was. Brought with it the ever-present summer-in-New-York smell of rotting trash. Rolled the window back up.
How long would this god damn light stay red. Began to tap out a rhythm with my fingers on the wheel to occupy my brain. Mouth watered, and all I could think about was a nice, juicy steak, or a sauce-smothered rack of ribs sidestepping my lips, caressing my teeth, and sliding down my eager, quavering throat and down into my vacant gut.
Light turned green and I stomped the gas. Wheel spun out atop a sewer lid, but I managed to get in front of the cabby to my right. Hurtled down the street and swung a left without indicating. Laughed at the oncoming honking asshole.
Where did I want to eat. Fridge stood empty at home. Wallet wasn’t very full. Somewhere cheap, somewhere fast. How about that new place near home. What do you call those. A bistro. Yeah, that new bistro.
Made another turn and stopped at another light. Eyes tracked an old man hobbling across the street, passed on both sides by shifty men and depressed women. Heat was making everyone unstable.
Tried the radio but turned it off after getting commercials on the first three stations. Can’t listen to that drivel. Light turned green.
Mind kept coming back to that new bistro. Wasn’t far now. Thought back to the first time I saw it, realized it wasn’t new at all. Been open almost a year. It’d be new to me.
Finally turned onto the right street. Scanned for parking. Luckily someone was pulling out on the next block, so I took it. Hopped out, locked up, walked off.
Place appeared closed, but wasn’t. Bell on the door rattled as I entered. Annoying.
Dim interior. A fly buzzed around the solitary lamp. Empty except for a young woman behind a counter, and past her a cook, lazily scraping at a grill.
Sat me down at a small table in a corner. Asked her if they had steaks, and she handed me a menu. Rude. Flipped through it, found the steaks, called her back before she took three steps. Told her what I’d be having, pointing to it. Told her, “Rare.”
She went back to the counter, tapped something in to the computer, and started wiping glasses. A door slammed in the back. I reclined, waiting. Eyes followed the fly, willing it to come over so I could squish its revolting little body against the table and watch its insides leak out. Instead, it started banging into the light bulb. Looked away.
Squeak, squeak. The girl behind the counter had picked up a new glass. She stared at nothing and wiped robotically. Dropped my gaze to the table. Something was scratched onto it, but it was hard to read with the sallow lighting. Shifted in my seat to let the light from the dirty windows reach it. Door slammed again in the back. Cook reappeared and resumed scraping at the grill.
The fly buzzed, the girl squeaked, and the cook scraped. Ran my finger along the graffiti on the table. Thought the first letter was an “F,” and that it was two words.
Stomach groaned again. Began to sweat. Found fans hanging motionless on the ceiling. Last two letters were definitely “ab.”
Squeak, squeak. Buzz, buzz. Scrape, scrape. “F…ab.” What in the hell did it say. Throat dry, swallowed. Car passed by, reflecting light. “Fuk Krab,” the table read.
Temple began to throb, fists clenched. Swallowed again. Glared up at the waitress girl. Cleared my throat, but she kept wiping and her eyes didn’t move. “Excuse me,” I said, and it came out as a growl.
She turned to me with surprise in her stupid eyes.
“Yes?”
“You got any water.”
Put down her rag, walked over, put the glass on my table. Walked back, took the pitcher, brought it over, poured. Ice cube fell out. She left.
“How ‘bout that steak,” I called.
“Comin’,” she said without turning around.
As if on cue, the cook dropped a slab of meat onto the grill. Could hear it sizzle. The smell wafted over to me. Mouth watered like mad, so I took a drink of water. The door in the back slammed. The fly’s buzzing and the girl’s wiping was now punctuated by the sizzles and hisses from the grill. My angry pulse slowed.
Slid the ice cube across the “Fuk,” then across the “Krab.” What kind of idiot would scratch that into a table. Sighed, sat back. Couldn’t help my eyes following the fly.
The meaningless words from the table reverberated through my skull. Temple resumed pulsing. Sweat dripped down my ribs. The sizzling was louder, but the cook was nowhere to be found. He was going to burn the meat.
Tapped out a beat on the table. Caught the girl looking at me, so I stared her down. Dropped her eyes and went off to the back.
Finally, the cook returned, pulled a cloud of cigarette smoke in with him. Flipped my steak, scratched his head, flipped it again, and took it off. He called to the girl, I didn’t hear her name, and then he shook his head and grabbed up my plate.
Dropped it on my table with a “here you are,” and walked off without an “anything else?” How had this place survived here so long with such useless staff.
No steak knife, but the smell of cooked meat shooting up my nose made me forget about it. Attacked the meat with the normal knife, got a chunk off it, shoved it into my impatient jaws, chewed… Chewed… And spat.
Cut deep into the center. Searched for even a speck of pink that would indicate that the fry cook was anything but inept. Nothing but wood-colored, dried out meat.
The fly, attracted by the same smell that seconds ago drove my desire to the brink of madness, drifted over and landed on my meat. Hands shook, gripped the cutlery so tight my palms hurt. Fly sensed danger and took off.
There he was, puttering behind the counter with something. Called him over. Took his time. When he’d made it to my table, acting torn from urgent business, I indicated the piece of leather on my plate.
Said, “What’s this.” He blinked.
“What?”
“Do you know that I ordered a rare steak.” He hesitated, gears grinding audibly even through his thick skull. They computed that he shouldn’t lie.
“Yes,” he pronounced, irritated.
Repeated, “Well then. What’s this,” not keeping the edge from my voice.
“A steak,” he supplied.
Raised my head and caught his eye, and he took a step back.
Growled, “Fix it,” knowing that you can’t uncook a steak. Shoved the plate across to him.
Directed “Rare, this time,” at his retreating back.
Back to waiting and brooding, stomach churning. Fry cook scraped the grill some more and slapped another piece of meat onto it. This time, he paid attention. Watched him closely.
A voice called out from the depths of the kitchen. Fry cook hesitated but then walked off. My brain began to boil over. Shirt was soaked through, seat of my pants clinging to my ass. Breathing turned ragged. He was going to do it again.
Transfixed by the idiocy, stared and listened to the meat hissing. Fry cook reappeared, grabbed the steak, and brought over a plate.
“There you are, sir,” he forced out between his teeth.
“Will you give me a steak knife this time.” He stepped away with hands balled into fists. Got me a proper knife. Began to leave, but I told him to stay.
Cut into the meat. Barely pink center. Face convulsed, neck twitched.
“What’s. This.” I whispered. Cook’s nostrils flared.
He shoved the words out of his gullet, “A rare steak.”
Something in my mind snapped into place. I’d waited long enough. I’d cook my own rare steak.
Slowly pushed my chair back and rose to my feet. Cook stood a few inches taller than me, balefully eyeing me up. Stuck the knife through his solar plexus and beneath his sternum. Realized I’d stopped sweating. His eyes bulged out hideously as he bent over, gasping, so I pushed the knife through one of them. When he’d fallen to the floor, wiped the knife on his jerking legs.
That girl had gone in the back somewhere. Circumvented the counter and stepped around a shelf. Metal freezer door stood open. She was bent over a box, unloading a delivery. Moved the broom propping open the door. Door came to with a slam, followed shortly by frantic hammering and a shrill voice. Returned to the cook. Crouched, and began to carve a thick juicy cut out of him.