Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror (30 page)

“What do you mean, Velma?”

“Make jokes about yourself before anybody gets them in?”

“Of course not. Didn’t you know that all fat guys have to be funny by federal statute? No, I’m a realist. I know what my relationship is with food and I’ve learned to live with it.”

“You’re a good-looking guy, John, you know that?”

“You can’t fool me, Velma. All fat people look the same. If fat people could run faster, they’d all be bank robbers, because nobody can tell them apart.”

“Well, John, if you want a job you can try the want ads in the local paper,
The Quoddy Whirlpool
.”

“The what?”

“The bay here is called the Passamaquoddy, and out by Eastport we’ve got the Old Sow Whirlpool, which is the biggest whirlpool in the Western hemisphere.”

“I see. Thanks for the warning.”

“You should take a drive around the Quoddy Loop … it’s beautiful. Fishing quays, lighthouses, lakes. Some good restaurants, too.”

“My car’s in the shop right now, Velma. Nothing too serious. Engine fell out.”

“You’re welcome to borrow mine, John. It’s only a Volkswagen but I don’t hardly ever use it.”

I looked up at her and narrowed my eyes. Down in Baton Rouge the folks slide around on a snail’s trail of courtesy and Southern charm, but I can’t imagine any one of them offering a total stranger the use of their car, especially a total stranger who was liable to ruin the suspension just by sitting in the driver’s seat.

“That’s very gracious of you, Velma.”

I bought
The Quoddy Whirlpool.
If you were going into hospital for a heart bypass they could give you that paper instead of a general anesthetic. Under “Help Wanted” somebody was advertising for a “talented” screen-door repair person and somebody else needed an experienced leaf-blower mechanic and somebody else was looking for a twice-weekly dog-walker for their Presa Canario. Since I happened to know that Presa Canarios stand two feet tall and weigh almost as much as I do, and that two of them notoriously ripped an innocent woman in San Francisco into bloody shreds I was not wholly motivated to apply for the last of those positions.

In the end I went to the Maine Job Service on Beech Street. A bald guy in a green zip-up hand-knitted cardigan sat behind a desk with photographs of his toothy wife on it (presumably the perpetrator of the green zip-up hand-knitted cardigan) while I had to hold my hand up all the time to stop the sun from shining in my eyes.

“So … what is your field of expertise, Mr. Dauphin?”

“Oh, please, call me John. I’m a restaurant hygienist. I have an FSIS qualification from Baton Rouge University and nine years’ experience working for the Louisiana Restaurant Association.”

“What brings you up to Calais, Maine, John?”

“I just felt it was time for a radical change of location.” I squinted at the nameplate on his desk. “Martin.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything available on quite your level of expertise, John. But I do have one or two catering opportunities.”

“What exactly kind of catering opportunities, Martin?”

“Vittles need a cleaner … that’s an excellent restaurant, Vittles, one of the premier eateries in town. It’s situated in the Calais Motor Inn.”

“Ah.” As a guest of the Calais Motor Inn, I couldn’t exactly see myself eating dinner in the restaurant and then carrying my own dishes into the kitchen and washing them up.

“Then Tony’s has an opportunity for a breakfast chef.”

“Tony’s?”

“Tony’s Gourmet Burgers on North Street.”

“I see. What do they pay?”

“They pay more than Burger King or McDonald’s. They have outlets all over Maine and New Brunswick, but they’re more of a family business. More of a
quality
restaurant, if you know what I mean. I always take my own family to eat there.”

“And is that all you have?”

“I have plenty of opportunities in fishing and associated trades. Do you have any expertise with drift nets?”

“Drift nets? Are you kidding? I spent my whole childhood trawling for pilchards off the coast of Greenland.”

Martin looked across his desk at me, sitting there with my hand raised like I needed to go to the bathroom. When he spoke his voice was very biscuity and dry. “Why don’t you call round at Tony’s, John? See if you like the look of it. I’ll give Mr. Le Renges a call, tell him you’re on your way.”

“Thanks, Martin.”

* * *

Tony’s Gourmet Burgers was one block away from Burger King and two blocks away from McDonald’s, on a straight tree-lined street where the 4x4s rolled past at 2 1/2 mph and everybody waved to each other and whacked each other on the back whenever they could get near enough and you felt like a hidden orchestra was going to strike up the theme to
Providence
.

All the same Tony’s was quite a handsome-looking restaurant with a brick front and brass carriage-lamps outside with flickering artificial flames. A chalkboard proudly proclaimed that this was “the home of wholesome, hearty food, lovingly prepared in our own kitchens by people who really care.” Inside it was fitted out with dark wood paneling and tables with green checkered cloths and gilt-framed engravings of whitetail deer, black bear and moose. It was crowded with cheery-looking families, and you certainly couldn’t fault it for ambiance. Smart, but homely, with none of that wipe-clean feeling you get at McDonald’s.

At the rear of the restaurant was a copper bar with an open grill, where a spotty young guy in a green apron and a tall green chef’s hat was sizzling hamburgers and steaks.

A redheaded girl in a short green pleated skirt sashayed up to me and gave me a 500-watt smile, complete with teeth-braces. “You prefer a booth or a table, sir?”

“Actually, neither. I have an appointment to see Mr. Le Renges.”

“He’s right in back … why don’t you follow me? What name shall I say?”

“John.”

Mr. Le Renges was sitting in a blood-red leather chair with a reproduction antique table beside him, on which there was a fax-machine, a silver carriage-clock, and a glass of seltzer. He was a bony man of 45 or so with dyed-black collar-length hair which he had combed with something approaching genius to conceal his dead-white scalp. His nose was sharp and multi-faceted, and his eyes glittered under his overgrown eyebrows like blowflies. He wore a very white open-neck shirt with long 1970s collar-points and a tailored black three-piece suit. I had the feeling that he thought he bore more than a passing resemblance to Al Pacino.

On the paneled wall behind him hung an array of certificates from the Calais Regional Chamber of Commerce and the Maine Restaurant Guide and even one from Les Chevaliers de la Haute Cuisine Canadienne.

“Come in, John,” said Mr. Le Renges, in a distinctly French-Canadian accent. “Sit down, please … the couch, perhaps? That chair’s a little—”

“A little
little
?”

“I was thinking only of your comfort, John. You see my policy is always to make the people who work for me feel happy and comfortable. I don’t have a desk, I never have. A desk is a statement which says that I am more important than you. I am
not
more important. Everybody who works here is of equal importance, and of equal value.”

“You’ve been reading the McDonald’s Bible. Always make your staff feel valued. Then you won’t have to pay them so much.”

I could tell that Mr. Le Renges didn’t quite know if he liked that remark. It was the way he twitched his head, like Data in
Star Trek
. But I could also tell that he was the kind of guy who was anxious that nobody should leave him without fully comprehending what a wonderful human being he was.

He sipped some seltzer and eyed me over the rim of the glass. “You are perhaps a little
mature
to be seeking work as a burger chef.”

“Mature? I’m positively overripe. But I’ve been working in the upper echelons of the restaurant trade for so long, I thought it was time that I went back to basics. Got my hands dirty, so to speak.”

“At Tony’s Gourmet Burgers, John, our hygiene is second to none.”

“Of course. When I say getting my hands dirty—that’s like a metaphor. Food hygiene, that’s my specialty. I know everything there is to know about proper cooking times and defrosting and never picking your nose while you’re making a Caesar salad.”

“What’s your cooking experience, John?”

“I was a cook in the Army. Three times winner of the Fort Polk prize for culinary excellence. It made me very good at home economics. I can make a pound-and-a-half of ground beef stretch between two platoons of infantry and a heavy armored assault force.”

“You’re a funny guy, John,” said Mr. Le Renges, without the slightest indication that he was amused.

“I’m fat, Tony. Funny goes with the territory.”

“I don’t want you to make me laugh, John. I want you to cook burgers. And it’s ‘Mr. Le Renges’ to you.”

He took me through to the kitchen, which was tiled in dark brown ceramic with stainless-steel counters. Two gawky young kids were using microwave ovens to thaw out frozen hamburger patties and frozen bacon and frozen fried chicken and frozen French fries. “This is Chip and this is Denzil.”

“How’s it going, Chip? Denzil?”

Chip and Denzil stared at me numbly and mumbled “’kay I guess.”

“And this is Letitia.” A frowning dark-haired girl was painstakingly tearing up iceberg lettuce as if it were as difficult as lacemaking.

“Letitia’s one of our
challenged
crew members,” said Mr. Le Renges, resting one of his hairy tarantula hands on her shoulder. “The state of Maine gives us special tax relief to employ the challenged, but even if they didn’t I’d still want to have her here. That’s the kind of guy I am, John. I’ve been called to do more than feed people. I’ve been called to enrich their lives.”

Letitia looked up at me with unfocused aquamarine eyes. She was pretty but she had the expression of a smalltown beauty queen who has just been hit on the head by half a brick. Some instinct told me that Tony Le Renges wasn’t only using her as an iceberg lettuce tearer.

“We take pride in the supreme quality of our food,” he said. Without any apparent sense of irony he opened a huge freezer at the back of the kitchen and showed me the frozen steaks and the frost-covered envelopes of pre-cooked chili, ready for boiling in the bag. He showed me the freeze-dried vegetables and the frozen corn bread and the dehydrated lobster chowder (just add hot water). And this was in Maine, where you can practically find fresh lobsters waltzing down the street.

None of this made me weak with shock. Even the best restaurants use a considerable proportion of pre-cooked and pre-packaged food, and fast food outlets like McDonald’s and Burger King use nothing else. Even their scrambled eggs come dried and pre-scrambled in a packet.

What impressed me was how Mr. Le Renges could sell this ordinary, industrialized stuff as “wholesome, hearty food, lovingly cooked in our own kitchens by people who really care” when most of it was grudgingly thrown together in giant factories by minimum-wage shift-workers who didn’t give a rat’s ass.

Mr. Le Renges must have had an inkling about the way my mind was working.

“You know what our secret is?” he asked me.

“If I’m going to come and cook here, Mr. Le Renges, I think it might be a good idea if you told me.”

“We have the best-tasting burgers anywhere, that’s our secret. McDonald’s and Burger King don’t even come
close
. Once you’ve tasted one of our burgers, you won’t want anything else. Here—Kevin—pass me a burger so that John here try it.”

“That’s okay,” I told him. “I’ll take your word for it. I had a sandwich already.”

“No, John, if you’re going to work here, I insist.”

“Listen, Mr. Le Renges, I’m a professional food hygienist. I know what goes into burgers and that’s why I never eat them. Never.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. It’s just that I know for a fact that a proportion of undesirable material makes its way into ground beef and I don’t particularly want to eat it.”

“Undesirable material? What do you mean?”

“Well,
waste products,
if you want me to be blunt about it. Cattle are slaughtered and disemboweled so fast that it makes it inevitable that a certain amount of excrement contaminates the meat.”

“Listen, John, how do you think I compete with McDonald’s and Burger King? I make my customers feel as if they’re a cut above people who eat at the big fast-food chains. I make them feel as if they’re discerning diners.”

“But you’re serving up pretty much the same type of food.”

“Of course we are. That’s what our customers are used to, that’s what they like. But we make it just a little more expensive, and we serve it up like it’s something really special. We give them a proper restaurant experience, that’s why they come here for birthdays and special occasions.”

“But that must whack up your overheads.”

“What we lose on overheads we gain by sourcing our own foodstuffs.”

“You mean you can buy this stuff cheaper than McDonald’s? How do you do that? You don’t have a millionth of their buying power.”

“We use farmers’ and stockbreeders’ co-operatives. Little guys, that the big fast-food chains don’t want to do business with. That’s why our burgers taste better, and that’s why they don’t contain anything that you wouldn’t want to eat.”

Kevin came over from the grill with a well-charred burger patty on a plate. His spots were glowing angrily from the heat. Mr. Le Renges handed me a fork and said, “There … try it.”

I cut a small piece off and peered at it suspiciously. “No shit?” I asked him.

“Nothing but one thousand percent protein, I promise you.”

I dry-swallowed, and then I put the morsel in my mouth. I chewed it slowly, trying not to think about the manure-splattered ramps of the slaughterhouses that I had visited around Baton Rouge. Mr. Le Renges watched me with those glittering blowfly eyes of his and that didn’t make it any more appetizing, either.

But, surprisingly, the burger actually tasted pretty good. It was tender, with just the right amount of crunchiness on the outside, and it was well-seasoned with onion and salt and pepper and the tiniest touch of chili, and there was another flavor, too, that really lifted it.