Upon walking into the bustling New Orleans bistro, ones eyes could swing around the open floor plan, from the high plank ceiling to the floor tiles below. You took in the vintage area as a whole; the young crowd, the French-quarter décor a hearty mix of wrought iron and yesteryears Marti Gras beads, the hurried servers speaking in a mix of French and English, and the air that hung resplendent with creole seasoning, fresh baked beignets, and something else you couldn't quite put a finger on.
The air hung hot and heavy with humidity around your shoulder like a drunk lover vying for attention, you couldn't ignore it or shrug it off, just like everything else this magical place had to offer.
Either way, the smells hung heavier like lāvǒur curtains coming to rest in pools of Frothy chiffon, like those hung in each tall open window. It persuaded you like curling fingers, begging you to sample absolutely everything the menu tempted and promised, because its promise was sinful to the senses and promised culinary redemption in the form of fresh homemade beignets, dusted generously with powdered sugar.
However… there was something about the shabby chic riverside haunt that brought a faint prickle to the back of the neck.
Tonight’s special touted a homemade Andouille Sausage Jambalaya, fresh ingredients and from scratch sausage which is a feat to make, especially for a Friday night crowd such as this one.
Servers seemed to dance as table after table ordered the Special, and after each order, a chant went up from the servers until it was something mysterious that no one else was privy too, but infectious just the same. The crowd grew to expect it, and in that time, they started joining in until it became a game, a want, a need, to respond back.
As more tables ordered the special, they chanted along until it was the only menu item being brought out and passed around in such joyous manners.
As the chants grew louder, the cooks in the back swayed with each religious cue, cooking up order after order of pleasantly pungent stew. No one realized they were behaving suspiciously, no patron, no stranger; except the cook in the far back. Stuck on sausage grinding duty, she stuffed the natural casings with the odd mixture she was grinding up blindly and when the grinder got caught, she took pause to clean out the intake.
Dipping her finger inside she found the cause, a hard piece she had to pry out. It took a few quick tugs to free, until she came to stare at what was noticeably familiar.
Just one, notable, human index finger.
She slowly looked up and the rest of the kitchen began to come back into focus, the finger held firmly between her own index and her thumb. The back and forth of the kitchen staff too the walk in cooler, the hoot and holler of hurried French in demand of items to be cooked, and the realization of the situation slowly creeping up her spine until she dropped the finger back into the bowl of already done sausage; yet to be tied and cut of course.
She licked her suddenly too dry lips and stumbled backwards as her head snapped up to the head cook who stood in the door asking if she were done, eyes sharp and intent on her. She shot a look down into the bowl as the cook followed, they stood in silence, as much as one could in a busy kitchen.
When their eyes connected again, he tisked and whispered, in loud, deep timbered Cajun French.
"C'est Dommage."
Something about Shame.
Her brain was quick to note the gleam in the cooks eye, noticed the chef knife in his hand as she ripped the apron from her person and tossed it as hard as she could at the cook as he made the step around her work table toward her. With a panicked screech, she ran out of the back screened door and as far as she could without looking back.
The chef looked down at the apron she tossed then came to the back door, catching it before it slapped against the wood and held it while he looked longingly out. With a soft curse, he turned and looked back into the kitchen.
Walking back to the bowl of sausage, he plucked the finger out and examined it before tossing it back in the bowl and lifted the bowl up and took it to the kitchen with him.
Once upon the Sous Chef, he tossed the bowl in front of him, mid plating and with a loud metallic clunk and clattered, the younger chef turned and gave him a glare and threw his hands up.
"What is this?" He yelled, with deeply French accented English.
"You cost us the new girl with your silly prank." The head chef spat, hand coming out to wave at the bowl in question.
"I did no such thing, not on a Friday night." He yelled back, mild confusion popping up on his face as he glanced down at the bowl again.
"Then what is that?"
They both stood and stared down at the finger, when they both looked up at each other again they swallowed hard and looked around as a dance of plates full of the house special left the kitchen, and plates licked clean came back in steady droves.
"Merde."
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