Service with a Smile

Claude Adams had seen many years in his lifetime with precious few remaining, though admittedly, the majority of them were rather uneventful. Such couldn’t be said for those most recent however, since Claude was enjoying a whirlwind of instant celebrity as of late.

Publication of the firsthand account of his one noteworthy adventure was six weeks on the bestseller’s list and his newfound fame and fortune had brought him recognition and admiration unseen in previous decades.

A modest man, he preferred the simple, familiar life at first imposed by necessity dictated through limited resource and humble prospects. His generous new royalty checks afforded him the opportunity to purchase a moderately sized apartment centrally located in an upscale neighborhood of San Francisco. This he shared with his full-time living assistant, Caroline Baker.

Caroline readied the car for a very special appointment arranged weeks in advance by her employer. Claude was rather secretive about the affair, leaking only the slightest of details to the curious aide. The location given wasn’t particularly unique though the well-known local eatery did feature a rather novel menu … anything you could imagine to order.

Obviously, the Omnivore was prohibited from offering endangered game or inherently fatal cuisine but as long as the delicacy was free of legal as well as lethal restriction, anything was possible.

Apart from the six month ordeal that altered the course of her employer’s unremarkable life, Claude Adams was not a man given to extravagant exploits whether culinary or otherwise. Baker daily served meals that could only be described as conventional and commonplace … so why the sudden longing for the exotic?

They pulled up to the converted Victorian facade just as the hostess hurried from the restaurant steps to open the passenger door. Leading with his red-tipped white cane, Adams exited the auto reiterating final instructions before his assistant departed.

“Caroline, I’ll see you in one hour, yes?”

“Of course Mr. Adams, I’ll return in one hour.”

The hostess seated their new client at a small table near an ornate oak-mantled fireplace in the center of the room with a clear line of travel to the front entrance. He folded his cane, setting it in the chair seat beside.

“No need for a menu eh Miss? Not that I could read it anyway. Is your chef ready to serve?”

“I believe he’s plating right now. Would you like something to drink?”

“Just water please, and maybe some bread to cleanse the palette.”

“Right away Mr. Adams.”

Claude organized his table for easy access, placing the basket of hard rolls to the left and his glass of water to the right at arm’s length. Within minutes the chef arrived with a steaming bowl.

“Mr. Adams, welcome to the Omnivore! I’m Chef Paradiso and I wanted to personally thank you for giving me the opportunity to attempt this most interesting challenge.”

“Well thank you sir for your gracious indulgence, I know my instructions might have seemed eccentric but they were absolutely necessary I assure you.”

“I understand completely though I must advise you that we had to make a small substitution. Since you couldn’t identify the grain in the recipe with certainty, I had to select an alternate based on your description. We chose barley, I hope that’s acceptable?”

Adams fanned the rising mist, drinking in its aroma. “Of course Chef, as long as the key ingredients are there. I’m sorry that I can’t comment on your presentation but I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

Paradiso nodded with a smile, “Please enjoy”, then returned to his kitchen.

Adams sat for several minutes, reluctant to begin his meal, lost in thoughts surrounding the circumstance that brought him to this place.

The death of his younger brother in faraway Singapore two years prior had necessitated a Pan-Pacific flight with a brief stopover in Hawaii. Apart from his recurrent bouts with grief, the journey was essentially uneventful until the ship encountered turbulence several hours out of Honolulu.

Claude remembered little detail after the pilot frantically announced their dilemma, nor could he recall the probable hours spent adrift in the open ocean. His first recollection was of awakening with a mouth full of sand and an insistent male voice beckoning him to consciousness.

Alan Scott was his name, a fellow survivor of the fallen aircraft. Though suffering from a deep gash to his leg, he immediately rushed out from his makeshift shelter to rescue the waterlogged Adams.

Regaining his bearings proved an overwhelming challenge given the abstract sensory assault of a tropical shoreline fused with the traumatic events that led to his situation. The breeze was warm and constant and the surf was repetitively persistent in its ebb and flow hiss, echoing along the sandy beach, the noise seemed deafening.

“Are you thirsty?” Scott asked. “We’ve got plenty of water; I found a steady spring beyond the ridge. Looks like we have an abundance of food too though not very appetizing, the place is infested with seagulls … and not a whole lot else.”

Claude gladly accepted water from the genial young man as well as a few shards of coconut meat.

Alan had managed quite a lot given his injury. He’d scavenged articles from the wreckage whenever they washed up on shore, building a hut roofed in metal sheets from the fuselage, bound together by lengths of shredded wiring harness. Unfortunately, none of the foodstuffs survived though he made use of several storage tins for stew pots and serving bowls.

Blind from birth, Claude was utterly dependent on the wounded man to guide him through survival on what might as well be another planet. His limping companion managed to string cords of vine to key locations like the latrine, the fire pit and the shelter, denoted by numbered knots for easy identification. Claude could “sound” his way to a certain degree but the persistent whisper of the breeze and whoosh of the surf made it difficult at best to orient himself effectively.

The days became weeks and the weeks, months, but still no sign of rescue. Alan’s leg would periodically break out with infection, forcing him to soak it in sea water for hours at a time until the redness and discomfort mercifully subsided. The pattern of pain, austerity and outright boredom weighed heavily on the pair, exasperated by the tedium of their daily fare at mealtime.

Scott’s limitations kept him from acquiring the numerous fish in the deeper waters beyond the shoreline and crab, though numerous, were far too small and evasive for him to bother with an attempt. This left the two with seriously limited options: coconuts, a wild seedy grain that Scott referred to as “sea oats” and the numerous white and gray scavengers populating the island.

Alan tried to diversify his offerings but the seagull meat tended to dry up when roasted on a spit or baked in a hot pan. He settled on a stew, the only palatable solution. Every morning Adams was greeted with sea oat porridge simmered in coconut milk and shavings while sunset brought a salty seagull stew with crispy oat tortillas, baked on a flat rock in the hearth.

Both men were grateful for their provision, mundane as it was, but they couldn’t help dreaming of pasta, steak, PIZZA! It was this longing that made Claude begin to question the veracity of his senses.

Early on in their captivity of circumstance, Claude thought for a moment that he detected the faint aroma of roasting beef in the shifting winds. It lasted only a moment but he was certain that he’d accurately identified the scent. Weeks had passed before the sensation recurred, but again, it was as fleeting as the fickle breeze. As time went on he occasionally started when the delightful bouquet returned to assault his nostrils.

Alan seemed oblivious to the phenomenon, citing wishful thinking on Adams’ part but Claude became obsessed by the occurrence. He trusted his generous companion implicitly, finding it inconceivable that he’d withhold red meat if available but he couldn’t deny his senses. Ultimately, he resigned himself that Alan must have been right; it was only wishful thinking, a ghost limb of the mind taunting him with unachievable temptation.

Midway in their fourth month, Claude thought he detected another departure from the norm, though this one was not nearly as pleasant. A considerably rancid odor had been captured on the wind, and he could tell by the uneven breaking of the waves that the source was just ahead in the roiling surf. Something dead had washed ashore!

Alan was preoccupied harvesting “oats” on the other side of the dunes, so Claude took it upon himself to investigate. He honed in on the distinctive sound as the lapping waves splashed against the carcass, its pungent reek giving confirmation that he was on target. Tapping his gnarled walking stick, Adams edged closer and closer until his feet became wet with the surf.

Suddenly from behind, he heard the voice of Alan, breathless from hobbling frantically across the dune. “Claude, Claude … don’t touch it! Walk back toward my voice, I’ll take care of this.”

“What … what is it!?” he responded.

“Oh Claude …” he paused, kicking himself for not spotting it first. “It’s another body … washed up from the crash. I’m sorry my friend, I’ve been trying to spare you from having to concern yourself.  I’ve been burning them on the other side of the island since the beginning.”

Adams was visibly shaken. He took his comrade’s arm as Alan escorted him back to the camp. Claude sat brooding, alone in his thoughts, as Scott labored to roll the former passenger onto a tarp with grunts and disgusted groans. He heard the sound of the plastic sheet grinding across the sand as well as Alan’s limping barefoot gait retreating down the beach until all was silent again.

The incident profoundly disturbed the sightless man, his thoughts racked by the unseen tragedy and amplified by the internal torment of his own helpless dependence. Adams began to wonder what else Alan may have withheld about their situation not to mention their most fortuitous survival.

 Even the familiar flavor of the evening meal inspired questions. Scott used to joke that if you closed your eyes, you’d swear it was chicken. Though Claude needn’t do the former, the latter result, he’d noted, was far from true. Surprisingly, the chunks of meat were unusually dense and devoid of the expected gameyness common with wild fowl. Alan attributed the texture and flavor to the abundance of diluted salt water in the stewing process but now Claude began to wonder.

“I think I’ve had enough of seagull for awhile, do you have any more of those tortillas? Some coconut would be nice if there’s any left.”

“Sure” Alan said. He handed him the rest of the crispy wafers in a bowl with the fruit on the side. “I could take another shot at trapping crab but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“This’ll do for now …thanks.”

Claude became increasingly morose as evening followed evening with his consumption of seagull dwindling ultimately to nothing. Adams loaded up on tortillas of sea oat with an abundance of coconut as the primary entrée. As a result, he was frequently stricken with fierce abdominal pains accompanied by bouts of vicious diarrhea.

Adams didn’t want to voice his suspicions over Alan’s claims as to the origin of his “stew” but by the same token, his mind wouldn’t allow him to indulge in the alternative. 

“Claude … you need to eat some protein! Please …have some stew, at least drink the broth. You’re wasting away at this rate and frankly, I’m getting seriously concerned for your health.”

Adams bowed his head between his knees, searching for a solution. His nutrient deprived brain began concocting images of his good natured friend merrily stringing passenger’s bodies from the rafters of some palm covered smokehouse, shearing off portions of flesh for the evening meal.

Claude shuddered.

The aging blind man shook his head to blot out the sensory assault. His survival was truly on the line, he could not deny that, but was it worth crossing a line to achieve it? Adams wrestled with the conflict, personal ethics versus survival. Was there really a choice?

The most frustrating aspect of his struggle, he realized, was his own inability to be certain that there was any conflict at all. Alan gave no indication that the stew was anything more than what he claimed. He had proven himself trustworthy from the very beginning, a true friend in every sense of the word yet … he had chosen to hide one pivotal truth. Why would he do that if not to shield his disabled friend from unnecessary strife?

Adams’ head was swimming. His companion had never lied about the bodies, merely refraining from announcing their existence. Was he lying now about their pragmatic disposition? And was Claude only being prudish, possibly even selfish, in his refusal to transform their tragic deaths into an opportunity to redeem his own life? He began to wonder that what may have plagued him most was nothing more than the maddeningly unavoidable ignorance borne of his congenital affliction.

If he knew, then he could decide, but what if in knowing, he chose abstinence? Would it be better to simply believe Alan’s assertions and live or have him prove his claims and risk alienating the best friend Claude would ever have?

The troubled Adams settled on a compromise, he would take Scott’s word but only after first hearing all the tedious details of the process by which the stew came into being. If Alan faltered in his delivery or became reluctant to give disclosure on what should be a simple conveyance of recipe, then Claude would reassess his decision.

Adams was subtle in his approach, consistently forming his questions seeking information rather than leveling accusation, this kept Alan off of the defensive and free to respond openly without reservation.

Scott was a bit befuddled by Claude’s sudden curiosity of Spartan survival cooking methods, but he complied gladly if only to give comfort to his hesitant friend. He spoke of ratios, salt water to fresh, as well as ingredients like palm dates and seaweed. Oats were added to the mix in sequence then simmered for an hour, at least by Alan’s estimate.

Adams listened intently to each detail but gave most of his attention to the unwavering sincerity of Scott’s verbal demeanor. Satisfied that he’d detected no evasive guile or deception, Claude willingly and ravenously devoured the bowl.

In the weeks that followed, Adam’s health quickly rebounded though the same could not be said for his thoughtful partner. The incidents of infection had increased in frequency and severity, often forcing Alan to remain bedridden for most of the day.

Fortunately, providence delivered salvation in the form of a cargo ship, rerouted in an effort to avoid a deep sea tempest to the south. Due to a keenly observant crew and Captain, the campfire smoke was spotted and a shuttle dispatched, Claude and Alan were rescued!

Alan Scott had survived the voyage home but sadly passed away within a month due to complications with his injuries. Claude Adams was once again left alone, the sole surviving witness to what transpired those arduous months.

Claude treasured the memory of his fallen friend and never doubted that he always had Adams’ best interest at heart. He would never stoop to declaring him a liar even if time revealed that he had been less than truthful. Claude preferred to think only of Alan’s compassion, misguided or not, to spare him the agony of an ethical conflict in the midst of the greater good of survival.

He imagined that if Alan believed that withholding unpleasantness was the way to redeem his visually afflicted companion then so be it, he would bear the burden alone.

Adams rose above the tragedy, even thriving, but he couldn’t live another moment in doubt. If he had done the unthinkable, then he’d find a way to cope but if not, he’d thank God for his incredible mercy in sparing the two of them that terrible choice.

**********^**********

He took a deep breath as he held the spoon to his lips, wincing slightly at the bitter flavor of the salty broth. With a promise and a prayer, he took the morsel into his mouth, chewing slowly with reverence and hope. In an instant, the truth was known. He pushed the bowl away slowly, raising his sightless eyes heavenward as tears streamed down his cheeks. The broadest of smiles crept across his face as he fulfilled his promise, uttering words unheard by those who had ears.

His waiter approached as Claude wiped his eyes, reluctant to interrupt what was obviously a solemn moment. He glanced at the full bowl then back to the diner whose face reflected the epitome of fulfillment. The obvious contradiction baffled the young waiter but failed to faze him. He’d seen the motivations of Omnivore clientele vary widely over the years, often resulting in a mere taste of the forbidden.

Reading his charge, the waiter stoically asked, “So Mr. Adams … did you find your seagull to be … satisfactory?”

Claude leaned back almost giddy, “Oh yes young man … more than you could know!”