Playing with my food: Crème brûlée
I cradled the spoon in my hand, staring at the caramelized top of my dessert. It was artfully crafted and sat in a simple white ramekin, with six succulent blueberries arranged in a circle in its center. I grazed my spoon on top of the crisp burnt sugar, trying to decide where to break it. I could start at the left side and eat it left to right, dividing up the blueberries so I could have one for each bite. Or maybe I could eat all the berries beforehand, leaving crème in its purest form.
These were hard choices and I had to think about them carefully. Four minutes after deciding that I should not start on the left side because I am right handed, so if I should start it would need to be on the right side or in the center, unless I switch the spoon to my left hand, but I am not even left handed and that presents an even bigger conundrum, unless...
"Psst, ey!" A thick Brooklyn accent yelled. I look around. There was an old couple hunched over plates of pasta and red sauce. It probably wasn't them. A table of 4 women who looked like rejects from Sex and the City were sipping cosmos and martinis at the bar. A hispanic busboy in a starched white shirt quietly set dirty plates in his old and worn dish bin. Other than a few waitresses and a hostess, the restaurant was empty.
"Down here, ya mook." I looked down and realized that my crème brûlée was talking to me. "Ah crap, I took way too much Benadryl this morning. I knew I should have taken the recommended dosage, but I was sneezing yesterday even though I took what I was suppos..." "Shut up and listen to me. If you stick that spoon in me, bad things will happen to you and your loved ones. If you know what's good for you, then you'll walk away from this table," it spoke in a hushed and punctuated manner. "Wait why are you talking? Also, why do you speak in a such bad movie dialogue? Also, what's with that New York accent? Aren't you french? I have another question, the menu didn't specify if you are a lemon or orange flavor, so is it safe to assume you're just regular crème brûlée? The crème brûlée sighed. "Seriously, guy? Enough with the questions. I got a wife and kid back home, I'd like to spend a couple more hours in the fridge. Just until my daughter sets. She hasn't even been caramelized yet. " "Oh. I see. By back home, do you mean the fridge in the kitchen?" "Hey buddy, Its all I can afford on my pension. Maybe you can drive your Rolls back to your gigantic ocean side mansion, but for us working guys, we gotta make do with what we're given.
I whispered to crème brûlée , "Oh, I live with my parents. I also drive a 95 Civic. Believe me, I know all about the working man." Laughter erupted from the crème brûlée. "Seriously? Kid, you are pretty pathetic." "Thank you." "If you stick that spoon near me again, I will beat your pathetic ass until you're creamier than me." "Wait how do you even have a wife and daughter? If you all came from the same batch, you would be brothers and sisters. I'm pretty sure your marriage wouldn't even be considered legal because you don't even have the proper paperwork filled out and notarized."
Crème brûlée said nothing for a few moments. His accent disappeared. "Alright, I'm not married," he conceded. "But no one wants to get eaten. Imagine if someone liked to pierce you with a large metal object and eat your insides." "I'm pretty sure that's a fetish. I don't really like to think about things like that because I'm at the top of the food chain anyways." The crème brûlée said in a plaintive tone, "Yeah I suppose, but as a delicious desert that originates from France, things like that run through my mind constantly." "I read on the internet that you might have originated in Spain or England." "What's an internet?" crème brûlée asked, and probably would have raised an eyebrow if he some. "The internet is a place where you can look up pictures of things getting pierced by large metal objects whilst getting their insides eaten." "That sounds like a horrible place, keep me away from there," shuddered crème brûlée. "I promise you will never be on the internet," I lied.
After conversing with my food, I had decided I had better leave before another inanimate object starts talking to me. I left my uneaten crème brûlée and stood by register, unsure if I should bring my chatty dessert friend. The bus boy walked over to the table and stared at crème brûlée. He grab a spoon and dug in. The scream that came out of that ramekin reverberated through the restaurant. Chills ran up my spine. I paid with my debit card and left.
"Psst, ey!" A thick Brooklyn accent yelled. I look around. There was an old couple hunched over plates of pasta and red sauce. It probably wasn't them. A table of 4 women who looked like rejects from Sex and the City were sipping cosmos and martinis at the bar. A hispanic busboy in a starched white shirt quietly set dirty plates in his old and worn dish bin. Other than a few waitresses and a hostess, the restaurant was empty.
"Down here, ya mook." I looked down and realized that my crème brûlée was talking to me. "Ah crap, I took way too much Benadryl this morning. I knew I should have taken the recommended dosage, but I was sneezing yesterday even though I took what I was suppos..." "Shut up and listen to me. If you stick that spoon in me, bad things will happen to you and your loved ones. If you know what's good for you, then you'll walk away from this table," it spoke in a hushed and punctuated manner. "Wait why are you talking? Also, why do you speak in a such bad movie dialogue? Also, what's with that New York accent? Aren't you french? I have another question, the menu didn't specify if you are a lemon or orange flavor, so is it safe to assume you're just regular crème brûlée? The crème brûlée sighed. "Seriously, guy? Enough with the questions. I got a wife and kid back home, I'd like to spend a couple more hours in the fridge. Just until my daughter sets. She hasn't even been caramelized yet. " "Oh. I see. By back home, do you mean the fridge in the kitchen?" "Hey buddy, Its all I can afford on my pension. Maybe you can drive your Rolls back to your gigantic ocean side mansion, but for us working guys, we gotta make do with what we're given.
I whispered to crème brûlée , "Oh, I live with my parents. I also drive a 95 Civic. Believe me, I know all about the working man." Laughter erupted from the crème brûlée. "Seriously? Kid, you are pretty pathetic." "Thank you." "If you stick that spoon near me again, I will beat your pathetic ass until you're creamier than me." "Wait how do you even have a wife and daughter? If you all came from the same batch, you would be brothers and sisters. I'm pretty sure your marriage wouldn't even be considered legal because you don't even have the proper paperwork filled out and notarized."
Crème brûlée said nothing for a few moments. His accent disappeared. "Alright, I'm not married," he conceded. "But no one wants to get eaten. Imagine if someone liked to pierce you with a large metal object and eat your insides." "I'm pretty sure that's a fetish. I don't really like to think about things like that because I'm at the top of the food chain anyways." The crème brûlée said in a plaintive tone, "Yeah I suppose, but as a delicious desert that originates from France, things like that run through my mind constantly." "I read on the internet that you might have originated in Spain or England." "What's an internet?" crème brûlée asked, and probably would have raised an eyebrow if he some. "The internet is a place where you can look up pictures of things getting pierced by large metal objects whilst getting their insides eaten." "That sounds like a horrible place, keep me away from there," shuddered crème brûlée. "I promise you will never be on the internet," I lied.
After conversing with my food, I had decided I had better leave before another inanimate object starts talking to me. I left my uneaten crème brûlée and stood by register, unsure if I should bring my chatty dessert friend. The bus boy walked over to the table and stared at crème brûlée. He grab a spoon and dug in. The scream that came out of that ramekin reverberated through the restaurant. Chills ran up my spine. I paid with my debit card and left.