Food Noir ~ Black Chanterelles

This is the first 3 chapters of a new culinary thriller I am writing...I hope you enjoy.

Literary agents interested in contacting me can do so at: l.luzzo@gourmetgirlmagazine.com


Chapter 1

  Has it really been three years already? Seems like yesterday when things became, well, surreal to say the least. I’m tired, mentally as well as physically. And I’m here, where it seems I’ve always been, sitting at the counter of this corner diner, staring at my empty coffee cup, waiting for the Willie to fill it up. He always gets around to me, and from here it’s all rote. He fills it halfway, but suddenly stops. I start to protest, and the front door opens. He looks up, and I turn to meet my next client.
  I can’t begin to tell you how much I won’t miss that. That brief exchange is the only warning I ever get. Unfortunately, it also means from that point on it is anybody's guess, all bets are off and who knows what comes next. Reminds me of days back in Shanghi, but I was a very different person then, in a very different situation. Looking back on the last three years though, I can’t remember a ‘job’ that didn’t require me falling back on some part of my former training, and I can see and understand why they chose my particular penance. And I guess that’s one of the humbling lessens I’ve learned along this adventure. And... though I hate to admit they were right, I am definitely a better person for it.
  In most cases, in what I call my ‘culinary encounters,’ I can usually count on eating ridiculously incredible food and I always get that full cup of coffee I crave. Here’s the rub; in order to eat high fine dining food that is my passion, my addiction, that art on a plate that I love, I must pay a heavy price. The bill usually involves being shot at, beaten up, threatened, tempted, chased, driving like a maniac, to name just a few things.
It happens the same way, every time. That must be the 100th time he's half filled that cup and not once have I ever taken a sip. Strange, huh? Don't get me started. Now, don’t get me wrong, be it Sumatran, Ethiopian, or some other gourmet brew, I always get my coffee....just not from Willie. I try to come in when Doris is on, because at least with her I get to actually drink that cup. With Willie, well......you know the door thing. Oh sorry. I see you’re confused. Let me explain.
  I used to be a 'foodie' back in the day. I was an online gourmet food magazine writer and publisher. I know right, what am I doing here in this diner, talking to you, looking like this? I will say on my behalf that as someone who has just spent spent 28 hours locked in a huge cargo container of Beluga caviar, I look pretty damn good...and the diner....let me tell you, for Americans, 'the diner' comes only one short step behind mom's house, and life itself would stop if we could not stop by the diner on a Saturday night at 2 AM before going home after a night out on the town. You'll get no jokes from me here. That's what got me into this 'situation', in the first place. (How did that sound? Did I try too hard? I have to be positive here, it’s in my contract, but I don’t want to over sell it.) I used to write about high end cuisine. That’s just a memory now, at least ever since my first visit to this diner here on the island, three years ago. And today is the day I gain my freedom. Back then, everybody, including me, knew someday my big mouth would get me into trouble. Three years ago, sitting on this very stool, someday arrived. The one thing I have come to love about the corner diner is, most are usually open 24/7. You want meat loaf at 8:am..no problem. You desire pancakes and eggs at 8 pm, nary an eyebrow is raised when you place the order.
  It was about 11:pm. I had arrived here for a few days, to write some features about the island. I’d had a few cocktails on the plane, was feeling pretty good, and after checking into my hotel, decided to take a walk to get the lay of the land. On my way back to the hotel, thinking a good strong cup of coffee would do me a bit of good, I stopped here, at The Island Oasis Diner on the corner, about a half block down from my hotel And, here I sat, big time food writer, talking trash about diner food.....IN a diner. I had just flown in from NYC, after a wonderful evening at Per Se, was feeling a bit full of myself and well, I became an arrogant ass. Most of my friends will tell you is this no surprise at all and it would not have been out of character for me. They'll also vouch for the fact that I don't usually care. That's me, take it or leave it. Most leave it.
  I have this unwavering belief that two plus two must equal four. My thinking is linear. Facts are facts. That said, I am also simultaneously fascinated by the abstract and the surreal and am very in touch with that part of my brain. I write, I paint, I like good food, I cook, I play a few instruments, However I must admit that one’s belief, or faith that something might exist, or may be correct, has provided much fodder for my sarcasm and the use of facts has often been wielded by me, very much a weapon in the form of a caustic tongue.
  Why is that relevant here? Because the situation I now find myself explaining to you is anything but two plus two equals four. Were I not living it, I would scoff at such a bizarre story and launch into my tirade about common sense and reality. All of that changed the moment I stepped into this diner. Though I can be adamant in my arguments, especially when I have the facts to back me up, that night I became belligerent. I became the very epitome of a food snob. I morphed. I became the stereotypical, egotistical, food critic we grew up seeing in the movies. In that one shining moment, I also set my own destiny. I’ve no one else to blame for these last three years and hard as it has been, I wouldn’t change a thing. So back to the story....
  As I regaled my new found friends at the counter, I failed to notice the older, well dressed gentleman at the other end of the diner listening to my pomposity. As I droned on to those I was seated with, imparting wonderful little anecdotes about the wonders of Black Trumpet Dust, the gentleman rose from his seat, very quietly made his way over to the stool next to mine and sat down. My new found friends were just excusing themselves for the night, saying their good-byes, and once they’d departed, I was left alone with my cup of coffee and my new neighbor.
  I nodded politely and he smiled, leaning in with a soft French accent, "I could not help but to ovairere you talking weeze your friends. I ‘ope you do not mind zee intrusion. I know something of food myself. I agree, Black Trumpet, or Black Chanterelle, is one of my favorite fungi." He had a charming smile, but what drew my attention immediately were he had the aroma, of well, pastry, or fresh baked bread..And not in a bad way mind you but, just a hint. It reminded me of that movie “Joseph” with Travolta, where all the women thought he smelled like chocolate chip cookie dough. I chuckled to myself. I remember thinking that I must have just been hungry, airplane food never having been my favorite, even if I’m flying first class.
  And his hands. While not calloused, these were the hands of a man who had seen his share of labor in some form or another. I guessed possibly an artist, or even a sculptor perhaps. As I come to know this gentleman, I realized that that description, though technically incorrect, was not that far off. His fingernails glistened with the buffed sheen of a recent manicure and his custom tailored suit was impeccable, his white shirt pressed crisp.
  His eyes glinted with a hint of mischief and he carried himself with the air of some authority, although it seemed as if he were trying consciously to hold it in reserve, determined not to reveal himself. I tend to think myself a pretty good judge of character, except of course when it actually comes to judging myself, but that is a conversation best left for my therapist and I, having no business here. Anyway, he intrigued me and as he looked at me, his clear and crystalline eyes said far more than just his words alone.
  I smiled my well known, food writer ‘nice to meet you’ smile and said, "Obviously you are a fellow culinarian." He winked at me and patted my hand, replying quietly, "Some would call me ‘The Culinarian." I looked at him for a moment, registering his words, and thought, “Who calls themselves, The Culinarian?” Yet, he had said it without the slightest bit of haughtiness or arrogance. Almost sighed it in fact, as if the moniker were something that he had resigned himself to, more of a duty than an honor. Most who know me will tell you I love a good mystery, so I understate here when I say that he had peaked my curiosity. He stirred his coffee slowly, seemingly lost in the ethereal vapors of steam rising from his cup and appeared to be quite content to let the statement stand on it’s own without further explanation but, being the person I am, I had to ask the question.
  I should stop here and give you some insight before we move on with the rest of the story. Like it or not, I always have to ask THE question. Eight out of ten times it gets me in trouble, or at least causes me more stress than if I were to just keep my mouth shut. It’s not my fault. My only excuse is to explain that it’s simply the way I’m wired. It’s a compulsion. Everything slows down to super slow motion. You know, like you see in Peckinpah movies. S....U.....P....E....R....S.... L....O...W....... My mouth automatically starts to form the word, working in perfect conjunction with my voice box, as they are co-conspirators, while inside my head, I’m looking around back into my brain, waiving my little brain arms screaming “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”. Yet, out it comes.
‘Why.’
  It should be a simple word but trust me..it’s not. It’s the answer to everything. My curse? Once knowing that ‘why?’ was the question, I couldn’t stop asking it. How could ‘why?’ be so destructive a question, you ask? Ha!...Read on...

Chapter 2

  “So, I’m John, John Ambrose , the food writer,” I beamed, “And how do they address you, my good man?” He looked up and smiled ever so slightly, turned to me, head still tilted over his cup, savoring the aroma, and said, “Usually, ‘Yes Chef,’ and for now, you may address me a such.”
  It was at this point I looked around and thought, “Okay, now I felt like I was actually IN a Peckinpah movie.” I don’t know about you, but to say that to a guy like me is like putting a bull’s-eye on your forehead for me to start whacking on like that frog game at the arcade. “What the hell was that?” I thought to myself, “For now? What did that mean?” I’ve interviewed my share of prima donna chefs, and I immediately thought, “Okay, no thanks.” Yet....at the same time.....there was something about him. “For now.” That statement alone meant I had to ask the question.’ I know the guy like 10 minutes. You see where this is going, right? Who needs enemies when I have myself?...24/7?....Stop smirking.
  At the time, I recognized his statement for what it was: the exact kind of answer that would work on me. And it did. He knew it. I knew it. Looking back now, I give him all the credit he is due. He was good.. I was completely hooked and I knew I would regret it but, leopards spots and all, I asked, “So, why do they call you “The Culinarian,” then, not satisfied with the level to which I had unknowingly stuck my foot into my mouth, I further blurted, “And who, by the way, calls you that?,”making damn sure that I jumped in with both feet and no life preserver. 'Way to go John. Same ‘ol same ‘ol.' I realized as soon as I had asked it I was doomed. He had figured me out in about thirty seconds, circled, made his approach, set the line, felt me nibble and had just now set the hook. All that was needed at this point was for him to reel me in. And the funny thing was I knew it. In some detached way, I was having that out of body experience, watching myself from another angle. Here’s where the two plus two equals four went right out the window, along with my perception of what I thought was reality.
  He looked at me for a long time, sipping his coffee, content in the silence. He ordered “American apple pie.” That‘s how he said it. Not just, “I’ll take a piece of apple pie,” but “I’d be appreciative of a slice of some of that American apple pie. Yes, I’d like that.” For a second, he reminded me of young boy, much like my son as a child, when on a special occasions, I would allow him to order some usually forbidden treat.
  We sat in silence, he sipping his coffee and enjoying his apple pie, occasionally mumbling to himself, examining the crust, testing the firmness of the apples. Me, leg shaking, impatiently tapping my spoon. That is, until he reached over, knocked it from my hand to the floor and continued eating in silence. I was too shocked to get angry and too chagrined to do anything other than sit there and stare at him. I felt like I had just been scolded by my teacher. Little did I know how prophetic that thought would be.
  When he had finished the whole piece of pie and had asked for a refill of his coffee, he finally looked over at me and said, “You have no choice but to hear the answers to the questions you asked, just as you had no choice in asking them.” This is the point where me being me, my first thought when he said that was, “That was such a cool line, I wish I had said it. I’m gonna use it”. I know, right? How shallow. The second thought was, “This guy is a fruitloop.” He continued, “I am called what I am called because I earned it, and they that address me as such are those who sent me. As to why they call me by that name, you may have your chance to ask them yourself, but it will be your actions that set the course of events and determine the outcome.”
  He explained that he was fully aware of me, my writing, what I knew, what I didn’t know, and more importantly, what I thought I knew. They all were. “Tonight,” he said, “You have crossed a line.” They have big hopes for me but I had to be held accountable for my boorish behavior and bad taste. Especially with regard to how snobbish and selfish I had become.” I, of course, looked at him as if he had three heads, two of them green. What was he talking about? He sat back and continued. “I do not care if you think me a crazy old fool, nor am I concerned whether you believe me or not. It was of no consequence to me.” He said he was merely explaining that certain things had been set in motion, by me, and they would unfold with, or without, my voluntary participation. “And,' he said, “there would be a choice I would have to make.”
  This was the point where, like you see in cartoons, on my left shoulder appeared ‘the little arrogant ass.’ On my right, ‘the little not so arrogant ass.’ Left shoulder was clearly in favor of “Pat the nice man on the head, pay and leave.”or, “Ask him if he took his meds today?” while right shoulder simply said, “Thank him for his kind thoughts, wish him well and leave” I have very seldom listened to their advice or counsel. I argued with them. I always do. “I think he’s serious, I want him to explain” Rarely do I, the arrogant ass in the middle, not get my way. This time proved to be no different. I asked for another cup of coffee and some cream. I looked over at him, trying to decide if he were crazy, or me. Slowly, I added the cream to my cup and stirring my coffee, looked up and said, “Go on, but first, tell me who you are.” Both left and right shoulder groaned, slapped their foreheads with their hands and disappeared.
  He replied, “You do not need to know who I am, only what I represent. My name is of no consequence to you. Just my words. You can listen to them or not, the choice is yours. Your choice of what to do with this information will determine which path you will walk from this point on. One you will not like, the other, will allow you to continue pursuing the desires of your heart. Speaking of which, you have hardened your heart and you, yourself, have determined the task presented to you now. Of course, you will not be forced to do anything you do not want to do. But, I must warn you that should you choose to remain passive and do nothing, you will never know anything of the life you once had, with its “fine food, fine wine and fine living....’ He was making a very sarcastic reference to the tag line from that online magazine I published. “That which you hold dearest, the life you love, the travel, the food, will only be available to you through your service to others. That is your penance. Here are the rules.”
  “If you choose to do nothing, all you will ever eat is the 'diner food' that you have so denigrated..” I tried at that moment but couldn’t remember any diner menus recently featuring Foie Gras Ganache. Wait, was I actually buying this crap..? He continued, “No matter where you wish to eat, be it high end or low, fine food or casual, unless you are in the act of helping someone, on a case, as it were, every restaurant door you enter will find you right back in this diner, no matter where in the world you choose to go. Every restaurant, every chef’s door, all will lead you right back through this one. Your time of penance, three years, will not start until you willingly accept your fate. Until then you are free to wander about this ‘waiting area’ as it were, however, I must unfortunately point out the down side of this contract began immediately and the upside only begins upon your acceptance of the terms. It’s all very legal.. But that is not my area of expertise. I am simply your Executive Chef. You are now my sous.. Fin."
  "If you choose to accept this task and help those who come to you, all the delicacies and cuisines you have come to love will be yours to enjoy. There is no negotiation. It is simple mon ami, “No service, no foie gras.” So now he was reading my mind.. Creepy guy, even if his suit cost more than a month of my income. And me, I make a very good wage.
  It was then that I decided that this was just somebody’s lost Grandpa who’d forgotten to take his med’s and wandered off the rest-home grounds down the street.” Serves me right. I had to ask him,”Why.” I looked at my watch, mumbled something about having to meet someone adding, “Oh where had the time gone?” I rose to leave, dropped a $20 on the counter and nodded to the old man, “It was very nice talking to you. Take care.” He smiled sadly shaking his head, and said, “Do what you must, I will be here.”
  I hurried out the door and returned to my hotel, walking the short, half block distance to the brightly lit entrance and entered the lobby. I was still a bit confused and perplexed by the old man and I couldn’t shake the feeling of someone watching me or that he had followed me and as I looked around, I fully expected to find a pair of eyes fixed upon me. But, I seemed to be alone except for the night clerk at the front desk. I stopped to check for messages, there were none and as I turned toward the elevator the desk clerk smiled at me and said, “Oh excuse me Mr. Ambrose, you should know that, unfortunately, there is no room service available tonight. There seems to have been some sort of problem in the hotel’s kitchen and they had to shut it down. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
  Having just left the diner and Chef 'Bizzaro,' combined with the late hour, I barely registered his comment. I let myself into my room, flipped on the Weather Channel and jumped into a nice hot shower. I had three days here and was suppose to get at least two feature stories and a restaurant profile on this trip. I was hoping for good weather as two of my dining picks included well re-known, waterfront eateries and since it’s a tropical island piece, the requisite beach, bird, fish, flora, fauna and water shots would be needed. Nobody wants pictures of tropical islands in the rain. If it rains, then we have to use stock shots and my per article price goes down. Either way we had to have tropical shots. Readers eat that up. Show ‘em a palm tree, an umbrella in the drink and some slop on a plate with a pretty flower on top and they go nuts. If it’s tropical, it sells.....mon.
  Cynical you say? Ok, so maybe I’ve lost my thrill for the business. Most of the folks I deal with are self centered assholes anyway, so why should I care if they don’t. Most of these food news, food content driven institutions and ‘networks’ don’t give a rats ass about standards. They’ll dumb it down as much as you, John Q. Public will allow them to. All for the sake of ratings, or promoting the next ‘hot topic’ cookbook, boosting circulation or having you believe what you think you see. And some of these so called “chefs!” They walk around with entourages, like they are movie stars. I used to voice my disdain, but to no avail. So, now I laugh inside and say my now infamous line, “But you just cook..” silently to myself.
  Why is it infamous? Well, I stopped saying it out loud when some pretty boy chef took a swing at me during an interview at a wine festival in Napa.. I guess I deserved it, but it really got my goat that he was denigrating  the very people who made his ‘so called’ career what it was. I got sick of hearing him complain about what a hassle it was and how unfair it was that since “they” (meaning the public who viewed his show and ultimately gave him a rock star lifestyle) “just could not control themselves, forcing him to endure paying extra to charter his own private plane, so as not to have to deal with them annoyingly asking for autographs.” I kinda went off on him, berating him for, “not even being a real chef in the first place and exposing that all the dishes on his show were made and prepped ahead of time by the network’s prep chefs and he was “really nothing more than a ventriloquist dummy with the station’s hand up his ass.”
  I further said the now infamous line, “Pal, you just pretend to cook food on TV and you do it badly. You’re not curing cancer here, you just cook, like every other mom, or person that needs to eat. Get a grip you moron.” to which he replied with a right hook to my head, sending me sprawling.
  While we edited that out of our finished feature, some bystander caught the whole thing on their cell phone, uploaded it to YouTube, and by the next morning, Pretend Chef had three less sponsors, his ‘fans’ were clogging his website with comments about what a phony he was, I had black eye and my secretary phoned to let me know that Pretend Chef’s Executive Producer had called and left me a message stating, “You are hearby barred from the network’s studios from this point forward, as well as any of the personalities and on air talent. Furthermore, they were seriously considering suing me.” That’s rich...I put up with 10 years of their crappy shows like “Polly Purebred’s Making Recipes From The Back Of A Soup Can” and they are suing me? If anything, it should be me suing them for ‘cruel and unusual punishment,’ or ‘bad culinary integrity!’
  I digress. I had three days left, and was looking forward to my breakfast in the morning at the islands world renown Austrian Café. I was told the drinking chocolate was to die for. I would profile it as part of the feature, do some pastry shots, and add a little hype and sizzle. You know, do a close up of the foam on the top of the cup...steam rising.. Give it that ‘oooo’ factor, etc.. After my shower, I made my way to the wet-bar in the little kitchenette to get a drink and noticed it was missing. Weird. A note had been taped to the wall where it had stood just this afternoon and there were soggy towels covering the floor. The note explained “They were sorry for the inconvenience. The wet-bar had stopped running and had leaked. The maid discovered it when she came to clean the room. They would replace it the morning.” I shrugged, settled into bed, shut the light and was asleep within seconds.

Chapter 3

The next morning, I rose early, showered, shaved, put on a pair of Ralph Lauren cargo shorts, a plum Tommy Bahama shirt, and a pair of brown leather sandals. Then, grabbing my camera, recorder and notebook, headed off to my breakfast at the Café. I crossed the lobby, waving to the night clerk who was just leaving himself, his shift over. I continued through the automatic doors and emerged into a brightly sunlit and beautiful day. The bellman hailed a taxi, and I got in, giving the driver the name of the café and the address. He explained that he needed no address as the Café was the most popular place for breakfast on the whole of the island, having been written up on many, many occasions. He assured me I would love it and the food. Ahh back in my element. On my way to eat and experience fabulous cuisine, on the magazine’s dime. Even though that dime was actually mine, years ago I had set it up so that I was an employee of the company just like everybody else, though I owned all the shares. Safer that way.
  It took about twenty minutes for us to make our way across the island to its highest point, Brinley’s Hill. At the top, one could tour the Ft. Brinley, built in 1736, and visit the Austrian Café, with its spectacular views of Richmond Bay and its world famous drinking chocolate.
  I paid the cabby, then taking out the camera, took some ‘B roll’ shots of the view, the sign, front exposure of the Café, Nice light, my timing was perfect. The sun just burning through the morning mist, the backdrop of the cliffs with the cerulean blue sea below, gave the shot an ethereal quality. Sharpen that up, crop it and enhance the colors a bit, there’s your lead shot. Things were going smoothly and I readied myself for a truly wonderful meal. As I got to the front entrance, a group of four, two couples, came out and blocking the view through to the darkened entryway, exclaimed that I was in for a treat. I smiled and let them pass, stepping into the Café entrance as I watched them exit, my back to the restaurant. I suddenly got this very strange feeling and whirled around to find myself in ‘The Island Oasis Diner,’ facing the old man, exactly as I had left him the night before.
  I froze, not quite believing what I was seeing. I turned quickly opening the front door of the eatery, and sure enough, there were the two couples who had just left. In the parking lot. Of the Austrian Café! I rushed outside and blinked a few times, took out a cigarette, my hand shaking slightly. I immediately crumpled it and dropped into the garbage receptacle beside the entrance. I walked a bit to clear my head. I was tired. Maybe I did need to change things up a bit, get a bit healthier. My mind, which I value over all things that I possess, was playing tricks on me. That was not good. I’d have to make an appointment with my doctor when I got back to Florida.
  As I stood there, an older couple walked past me toward the front entrance. Deciding to play it safe (actually being completely chicken-shit to open that door again), I watched them approach the entrance and sidled over to my left, in order to get a clear view of the interior of the Café as they opened the door and entered. The man reached the door first and my heart skipped a bit as he pulled at the door and swung it open. There, thank God, were the floor to ceiling windows that were pictured on the restaurants website. Phew! Okay... maybe the doctor and a vacation. A real vacation. Preferably one where I would not have to talk to anybody. At all. Not a sole. Now that would be a vacation. Reading thrillers, diving, eating cracked crab, conch and lobster, knocking back some tropical something or other. No work. No people. No pictures of food...no tasting or interviews. Just me, a beach and relaxing. I’d leave right after this assignment. 'Get a grip John. The old man is just played with your head. You just zoned for second.' I breathed a sigh of relief and happily strode to the entrance.
  I reached for the door, opened it and was looking at the interior of the diner. And now behind me where there had been a parking lot and people, was the street that held the diner and my hotel. I stood there, my mind reeling and trying to make sense of what I was looking at. My heart was thumping in my chest and my mouth got instantly dry. The old man rose from his seat and walked slowly over to me. He looked directly into my eyes and smiled. “Come,” he said, “If you don’t mind, we should sit. Finish our conversation. I have much to do and must depart soon.” I’m not proud of what happened next and I’m sure  I will take my share of ribbing once this story gets out, but I must report that I at this point, fainted. Dropped like a stone. Do not pass go.... do not cushion your fall! Bang!
  As I opened my eyes, I realized I was in one of the booths of the diner, a waitress I had not met the night before dabbing a damp cloth on my forehead. I asked her how long I’d been out she said “Only a minute or two hon, I’m Doris.” She told me Willie had moved me from the door. Blocking the flow of customers or some such. Yea right. Since the night before I had seen no other customers other than those that had been sitting here when I arrived. And strangely, they again, along with the old man, were the only ones here. Except for me of course. And now Doris. And I was dressed in the clothes I had come into the diner with the night before, when I had taken my walk. What the hell was going on?
  The old man patted the stool next to him and said, kindly, “It seems you are starting to get into the habit of making me wait, Mr. Ambrose. We’ll have to work on that. I am a busy man and must attend to my affairs. Please sit down so that we may continue. Doris, please get Mr. Ambrose a cup of tea.” Then to me, “Something to eat son? The pie is quite good” Very funny.
  “No thanks,” I said. “I’m a bit queasy. Doris, could you make that a coffee? “Okay. Since this is not me losing my mind, how is this possible?” I sat on the stool next to him and Doris put a cup of hot coffee in front of me. I eagerly grabbed it and asked Doris for a refill, putting the steaming cup to my lips and downing it in one gulp. I shakily set it down on the counter in front of me, took a deep breath and looked at him.
  “The how of this, I cannot say,” he began, “I only know that it is and that in the simplest of terms, in here..The Oasis Diner, time moves in mysterious ways.” Until you accept your fate, each time you return here, it will be exactly the moment you left it. I of course will not be here, as there is much I am responsible for. Once you do accept this situation you are in, the world and it’s time will move again at it’s regular pace.
  ''Do keep in mind John, that you may not tell anyone of this. Those that seek you out for help will be sent to you by sources you do not need to know. Operatives in each of the cities or countries that you find yourself sent to will make themselves known to you on a need to know basis. In some cases they may be the street vendor you pass by without a glance, or the baker, or a waiter. They will always be around you, and will make themselves available as they see fit. In some cases they may be in the same situation you find yourself in, in some cases they may be one of our 'line cooks.’ Either way, you may not question them, and you would do you well to avail yourself of their assistance.”
  In a few days, my ‘Chef de Cuisine’ Jean Claude, will contact you. He will supply you with the materials you will need, any logistics and the Mis en Place for each case that comes to you. You may ask questions of him, directions of him and his advice. He will be your source for transportation, make you reservations, contact those that need to assist you, in whatever locations you find yourself. You may consider him your personal Concierge. At no time however, may you question him about me or the organization for whom we all work. Is that clear?”
  I shook my head yes, and started to ask him, But, I....” He cut me off with a waive of his hand and said, “Direct any queries to Jean Claude. I must depart.”
  “Oh and John, one last thing. It is very important that you never speak of me, this organization and what it is we do, for two reasons; A) knowledge of us would undermine our ability to help those that need our assistance. And B) to insure your loyalty and vow of secrecy and silence about us, should you divulge this to anyone, even accidentally, your ‘contract’ will automatically revert back to its first day and your three years will start over again. Do you understand?”
  I nodded, not quite knowing what else to do. He rose and looked at me, kindness in his eyes, understanding the turmoil in my mind. He said, “Now has come the time for you to make your decision, so I ask you, “John Ambrose, do you accept this fate with which you have determined for yourself and will you do all you can to help those that come to you, for a period of three years?’ I swallowed hard, hands shaking. On one hand I was scared, but if I said no, I don’t think I could deal with being so close to the cuisine and lifestyle I love and never being able to partake in it. On the other hand, I was actually, in some crazy way, looking forward to the unknowing adventures this might bring. I would, at some later dates, recall this day and question the soundness and sanity of my saying yes, but, “What the hell? I looked him square in the eye and said, “Yes Chef. I accept”. He smiled at me and winked, “I knew you would John, I just knew you would” He nodded to all of us walked to the door and opened it, looking back at me he said, “Au’voir mon ami. Good Luck.”
  As the door closed I realized I had no idea how to contact him or how he would contact me and I rushed to the door to catch him on the street. I stood there on the sidewalk in front of the diner, looking up and down the street, now completely empty as it had been when I’d entered the night before, which I assumed was what time it was again. No taxi moving away from me, the Chef sitting in the backseat, no echo of footfalls from his shoes on the pavement. Not a soul. I walked back into the diner, sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. Willie started to fill it, reached only half way and stopped. I started to protest, and that's when the door opened. He looked up, and I turned to meet my first client....