Dr. Arcticus’s Kitchen is located in a quiet wooden cabin, three hours’ drive from the city. A dirt road snakes through the trees to the heavy metal front door, which buzzes open when you arrive. White light floods the room from long overhead lamps, gently lapping against the light blue walls and cream-colored tiles on the floor. The restaurant seats one customer, who sits at a counter and watches the food as it’s prepared. Dr. Arcticus requires that reservations be made eight weeks in advance.
“You’re not like most of my patrons,” says Dr. Arcticus. I don’t reply. It’s the fourth time I’ve been here, but only the first time that he’s flirted with the notion of small talk. After some final touches, he presents the first dish of many: ten poached toes, sans toenails, served with vinaigrette and thin slices of lemon.
“You’re not like most of my patrons,” he repeats louder, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. Dr. Arcticus wears a white chef’s jacket with buttons down the front. His bald head shines in the lamplight, but his eyes are dark, and I make sure to tread carefully around their hollow abysses.
I don’t know exactly what to say. Is Dr. Arcticus insulting my appearance? But my suit is ironed, my shoes are polished, my face is clean-shaven. “Thank you,” I reply as I take a bite of meat. He passes silent judgment as I eat my food.
Dr. Arcticus first entered my life through whispers. I heard his name while carrying platters of caviar-cilantro hor d’oeuvres as I weaved through gaggles of bankers and financiers. Dr. Arcticus, they’d confide in one another with hushed, excited voices. For a once-in-a-lifetime experience, a man once said. He was nothing special, one of hundreds of partygoers with the same gray hair and black-rimmed glasses and silver cufflinks. But there was a certain quality in his voice that I had not heard before, that could not fail to captivate his audience of eager gossips. He spoke of Dr. Arcticus’ Kitchen with arrogant knowledge. The small crowd listened to his descriptions of grotesque dishes and exotic flavors. I could see the reverent awe among the junior members, some of whom were barely older than myself. The gray-haired man spoke like he had completed some heroic task that we mortals were incapable of undertaking. He carried himself as though he were a demigod, cut from some superior cloth. Such hubris! When a woman in a black suit requested Dr. Arcticus’s phone number, he did not waver for even a second.
The first time I went to Dr. Arcticus was simply to spite this man. It was a moral victory; expensive, but a victory nonetheless. Nowadays, though, I return to Dr. Arcticus’s Kitchen for the intimacy. True, Dr. Arcticus speaks very little, but in his kitchen there is a sort of understanding that I have begun to appreciate: We are above the rest. For an hour and a half, I am extraordinary. And to share these moments with an equal, a mystery man, the untouchable Dr. Arcticus, and to know that our perverse meal will never be known to the world — well, could anything else possibly be more worthy of a month and a half’s worth of paychecks?
You’re not like most of my patrons. Certainly, I am nothing like the gray-haired man at the party — I am younger, but more importantly, I am discreet. I will not undermine myself by blabbing away my knowledge about Dr. Arcticus. Besides, people who talk like that are always weaker than they let on. I wonder if that man threw up at the mere sight of the first course, or if he managed to heroically choke down a forkful of meat before vomiting it back a second later. Surely, he did not return to Dr. Arcticus’ Kitchen. Perhaps my fourth visit is an all-time record, a testament to my nerves. I grow increasingly content with my decision to take Dr. Arcticus’ statement as a compliment.
When I am finished with my appetizer, Dr. Arcticus serves me a creamy Caesar salad that substitutes anchovies for bite-sized morsels of flesh. Back meat, he says.
Tonight’s dinner is courtesy of Benjamin Turnett, aged 43. Dr. Arcticus always does this right before the third course, recounting the long history of your meal. My salad plate has been cleared, but I must now wait like an obedient hound as Dr. Arcticus closes his eyes and speaks, slowly, about Benjamin. Born in the Midwest as an only child. Regional spelling bee champion at age twelve. Community college graduate, office job at a plastics company for eighteen years until the business folded. Just barely outlived his parents, until his death from carbon monoxide poisoning.
The eulogy today feels particularly long-winded, but I can tell Dr. Arcticus is wrapping up. “He was a good man,” Dr. Arcticus says, and I wonder how he could know. The sermon concludes with the usual final blessing of sorts: “Benjamin was an unlucky man, and his death was a tragedy.” Dr. Arcticus opens his eyes and looks at me. I stare at my hands on the table and I repeat these words with just the right absence of emotion.
Finally, finally, the entrée is served. Dr. Arcticus brings the dish out from behind the counter — Benjamin’s liver, served tartare with soy sauce — and I have to stop myself from seizing the plate straight from his hands. But tonight, for no particular reason, I am increasingly aware of Dr. Arcticus’ watching eyes, and it encourages me to adopt more restraint. When he places the food in front of me, I wait one, two, three seconds before taking up my fork and knife. I saw off a small piece of liver and place it gently on my tongue.
Something happens. The meat tastes the same as before — gamey, acidic — but there’s something different. A new component, a new depth to it all. What is it like to see a color you’ve never seen before? I am enthralled. I’ve made a discovery, something essential, that I had overlooked before.
Before today I have never felt much appreciation for food’s luxury ingredients. After all, what evidence was there to the contrary? Black truffle risotto and regular mushroom risotto taste only minutely different, especially when reheated in a stove pan. Once, after a dinner party, I took some bites of an unfinished Kobe beef steak, and it revealed itself to be beef, plain and simple. Mushroom is mushroom; meat is meat. At least, I thought as much.
Dr. Arcticus is still staring, hands crossed over his chest. I cut myself another forkful of liver, and the knife glides cleanly through. This time, I close my eyes before taking a bite. And then I understand.
Benjamin Turnett may indeed have worked in an office; he may have been a young spelling bee champion. I have no reason not to believe Dr. Arcticus when he tells me that Benjamin had died of carbon monoxide poisoning.
But in the sobriety of the darkness I can sense other flavors too, and they tell their own story as they mix and mingle on my tongue. The nuances within the sourness of the flesh reveal themselves, resembling dark chocolate more than citrus. Benjamin is angry — aren’t all men? — but his anger, rather than frothing and foaming and biting at the air, instead lurks beneath the surface, tapping softly from within. And there is lust, of course, in the weak and tangy juices that have marinated the flesh. The sandy texture is sadness, surely. But most exciting is the aftertaste, a faint umami of loneliness. It lingers between my gums, and I snake my tongue around my mouth in order to soak up the last drabs of flavor. I wish I could remember the aftertaste of that woman from two months ago — her name escapes me — for comparison.
I open my eyes, and Dr. Arcticus is still watching. No, not watching — he consumes me with those eyes of his. Of course: He has tasted the fruits of his labor, truly tasted, like me. How could he not have? So much time to cook, to reflect, to experiment. How the world must change once you have consumed man, truly savored his essence! How many people has Dr. Arcticus tasted? Dozens, certainly. Perhaps hundreds. Enough, for sure.
Now his staring begins to make sense. Every customer who walks in is their own unique gustatory experience. How frustrating it must be, to watch different flavors parade in and out! What he must be willing to give for just a teaspoon of each patron, to mix into a broth or puree in a blender! It is hunger in his eyes, unquestionably.
I look back at Dr. Arcticus, wondering what his flavor is like. Not a lot of meat; it’s mostly fat underneath that pristine white jacket of his. But the quality is there. He’s a tad saltier than Benjamin, I predict. But when he closes his mouth, clenching his lips together a little too tightly, I can sense that his flesh also contains that lonely, delicious umami.
There is no more small talk. More dishes are served — fingers with a side of tiny potatoes; kidney and bean soup; Benjamin’s heart, seared and served with artichoke — each surpassing the last. With each bite, the dead is reborn. I am intimate with Benjamin now, emotionally and biologically.
I cannot stop wondering about Dr. Arcticus. To taste the flesh of a man who has truly eaten another must be divine. His fingers are lean; I think they’d peel right off of the bone. I want to ask Dr. Arcticus if he thinks they would taste good deep-fried and served with sriracha mayonnaise. If I ask nicely, would he sacrifice a pinky for a loyal customer? No – one taste is too little. A few poached lemon-crusted toes as well would be sufficient. If he resists, perhaps he might be enticed by one of my ears. Would he barter with me: an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand, a pound for a pound? Surely, my flesh is worth the price. But I stay silent.
Dr. Arcticus has seen the change in me. I can tell he knows before dessert (candied eyeballs, served with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream). When I am finished, he thanks me for my patronage, and tells me that I have enjoyed my last meal at Dr. Arcticus’ Kitchen. It must be too hard for Dr. Arcticus, the poor man, to watch a customer indulge so intensely and with such euphoria, all while Dr. Arcticus cannot serve himself. There is jealousy in his eyes, and I see it clearly. Jealousy: half-desire, half-anger, a spicy-sweet flavor that seeps throughout the body. Perhaps Dr. Arcticus’ flesh is not quite as luxurious as I originally thought.
Oh Dr. Arcticus, I almost feel sorry for you! I did enjoy our time together, truly, but you have no more cards to play, and so our time comes to an end. For you are not so special anymore, are you? The gift of taste is not yours alone to keep, and it kills you to know that. Alas, we could have been special together. But instead of sharing salvation, you have chosen to shun me, your one true equal.
You sad, selfish man. I am sure, now, that if I fried up a chunk of your shoulder, you would taste hardly different from Benjamin Turnett. Hardly different, indeed. You are ordinary, Dr. Arcticus!
Afterward, at home, I pull out a package of pepperoni from the refrigerator as a snack. But after one bite, I end up throwing out the whole bag; the meat has spoiled, most likely. I drink a glass of water instead.
Before bed, I undress and study my naked body in the mirror. I examine the blue veins beneath my transparent skin, the muscles and skin and fat in my limbs. I am not like Dr. Arcticus after all. Better, I would guess. How much better? I know that the answer lies within. Oh that I might gain a glimpse at my fragile humanity, bound to flesh and bones!
In the end, though, there is only so much I can comprehend from the mirror. I wonder what my liver tastes like.
Henry Lin-David is a writer from Massachusetts who loves mustard. His work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, local newspapers, pen-and-ink letters, and amateur art galleries. He’s also written crossword puzzles for the LA Times and Universal Crossword.
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