This Book Is Not Good for You

by Pseudonymous Bosch

  “I can taste it in my mind. But I have not yet made my chocolate a reality.”

  “Too bad you don’t have the Tuning Fork,” said Cass as snottily as she could.

  Señor Hugo whipped his head around. “The what…?”

  “The Tuning Fork. The mythical cooking instrument made by the Aztecs. Anybody who had it could make any taste he wanted. Since you’re such a great chef I just thought you would know what it was.”

  “Go on. I’m very interested in culinary history,” said the chef, his attention fixed on Cass. She could almost have sworn he was staring at her.

  “That’s it. That’s all I know about it…” She faltered, suddenly realizing the implications of what she’d just said.

  Of what she’d just done.

  “So how did you hear about this… Tuning Fork?” Señor Hugo persisted.

  “I don’t know. Maybe at school…?” Her voice squeaked unconvincingly.

  “You must go to a very interesting school,” said Señor Hugo.

  According to Mr. Wallace, the Tuning Fork might not even exist. But that wasn’t the point.

  Never talk about the Terces Society. Or anything to do with the Terces Society. It was the Society’s first rule. Almost its only rule.

  “Since you’re such an expert in cuisine you must come to my restaurant as my guest!”

  “Did you hear that, Cass? What an honor!” gushed her mother.

  Their classmates nodded and clapped in envy.

  “Señor Hugo’s restaurant is famous,” said one of the aspiring chefs. “Everybody eats in the dark—so you have to guess what your food is.”

  “People wait months for a reservation,” said another. “It’s like getting the golden ticket!”

  “But we can’t,” said Cass. “Remember, I’m supposed to work on that report with Max-Ernest and Yo-Yoji? The one about chocolate and child slavery? It’s due the first day of school.”

  (The three kids had all told their parents the same thing; their first “homework” session was scheduled for Saturday.)

  “Well, then, your friends should come, too. On Saturday, we will be featuring a multi-course chocolate tasting menu. It will be research. For your report… oh, and don’t forget your Tuning Fork!” joked Señor Hugo.

  “Ha ha,” said Cass, not laughing.

  She tried to cheer herself up. As much as she disliked Señor Hugo, what real harm could it do that he knew about the Tuning Fork?

  After all, she reasoned, he was a chef, not an alchemist. There was no way he could know Dr. L or Ms. Mauvais. It wasn’t as if he were a member of the Midnight Sun.

  But it was no use; she felt terrible.

  At least the blind chef wouldn’t see the tears of guilt welling in her eyes.

  I must pause now to do something I hate: apologize.

  Cherish these words because I doubt you will hear them from me again: I’m sorry.

  You’re not the conniving coward who sent me those chocolates. You’re not the scurrilous scoundrel who trespassed on my property, who rifled through my personal papers.

  I know that now.

  You see, after an exhaustive search of my office, I found a glove. A white glove. It was caught in the clasp of a chest I keep beside my desk. The true intruder must have left it there.

  Naturally, it is alarming to discover that the Midnight Sun has found me. In an odd way, though, it’s a relief. It was inevitable, once I started telling these stories, that they would try to locate me. Now it’s done. The other shoe has dropped.

  Or rather, the other glove.

  What I don’t understand is why they left my book intact. Why did they leave me intact for that matter?

  Are they simply toying with me? Biding their time until they strike again?

  What strange plot is afoot?

  Speaking of strange plots, I’d better continue with mine. Time, it is now clear, is of the essence.

  Let’s see: where were we? I’m afraid my close brush with the Midnight Sun has addled my brain just a little.

  Oh, yes. Hugo’s restaurant. That’s what comes next. But I just had an awful realization: you’re out of sync with the story.

  Unlike Cass, you already know who Señor Hugo is, don’t you?

  If you haven’t guessed yet, I will give you a moment to figure it out. Here’s a hint: think back to Chapter Fifteen, the chapter I let you read at the beginning of this book…

  That’s right! Señor Hugo is one of the three villains in the Tasting Room—those people keeping Simone, the supertaster, prisoner. Hugo is the blind man. The one Simone calls the Pirate.

  And who are Simone’s other two captors, the ones she calls the Doctor and the Barbie Doll?

  Correct. They’re none other than that dread duo, Dr. L and Ms. Mauvais.

  My question is this: have I ruined the suspense by clueing you in that the chef is a villain?

  Or, on the contrary, have I made the meal the kids are about to have at his restaurant scarier?

  Think about it: Cass and her friends will be eating in the dark. They will be entirely in Señor Hugo’s power. He could poison them—or worse.

  Alfred Hitchcock, the famous film director and master of suspense, always maintained that knowing something terrible was about to happen was scarier than not knowing.

  Well, you know that something terrible is going to happen. (And believe me, it is!) Was Hitchcock right? Are you frightened? How frightened?

  Please circle the face that best represents how you feel right now.

  1. INSANELY UNSCARED—WOULD JUMP OUT OF AN AIRPLANE WITHOUT A PARACHUTE.

  2. LAUGHING AT FEAR—WOULD JUMP OUT OF A PLANE WITH A PARACHUTE.

  3. BRING IT ON—WOULD BUNGEE JUMP OFF A BRIDGE.

  4. HAPPY AS A CLAM — WOULD BUNGEE JUMP IF PUSHED..

  5. NORMAL—DON’T FEEL THE NEED TO TEST THE LAWS OF GRAVITY.

  6. SLIGHTLY NERVOUS—THERE’S A CHILL IN THE BACK OF MY NECK.

  7. SCARED—SHIVER DOWN MY SPINE, DOUBLE-CHECKING THE LOCKS.

  8. VERY SCARED—TEETH CHATTERING, KNUCKLES WHITENING.

  9. BEYOND TERRIFIED—FROZEN.

  10. CATATONIC.

  Thank you. That was very helpful.

  From the outside, Hugo’s restaurant, El Castillo de La Noche, looked as its name suggested it would. Like a castillo. A castle.

  But a castle dipped in blue. Midnight blue.

  The stone walls, the iron gates, even the turrets and the gargoyles—all were painted the same deep dark shade.

  As Cass passed through the gates with her mother and Max-Ernest and Yo-Yoji, they all shivered involuntarily. The sun had not yet set but they seemed to be entering a kind of permanent twilight.

  In front of them, a shadowy tunnel of oak trees led to the restaurant entrance.

  “I hope there’s at least one thing that doesn’t have chocolate,” said Max-Ernest. “I’m hungry.”

  “Too bad we haven’t found the Tuning Fork yet,” whispered Yo-Yoji. “Then you could turn your food into whatever you want.”

  “Yeah, but I wonder—even if I could change the taste, wouldn’t I still be allergic? Or do you think—”

  “Shh,” whispered Cass, indicating her mother, who was only a few steps ahead of them.

  The reminder about the Tuning Fork had made Cass slightly sick to her stomach. Although she’d planned on telling her friends about her little verbal slip, she hadn’t yet found the right moment.

  Or maybe it was that she hadn’t yet found the courage.

  The restaurant’s tall front doors were shut and all the windows were shuttered. It looked as if the restaurant might be closed.

  But as they stepped onto the portico the doors opened and Señor Hugo emerged from the dim interior.

  “Cassandra,” he said, smiling directly at her. “My guest of honor.”

  How, she wondered, did he know where she was? She hadn’t uttered a word. Did he recognize her smell?

  “Allow me to welcome the princess to
her castle.” He offered his arm.

  Cass had no more a desire to take his arm than she had a desire to be called “princess,” but her mother gave her a nudge, so Cass allowed the chef to escort her inside.

  The entry room was dark and very plain, save for a candelabra sitting on a small table in the center. The flickering candles reflected on the glass surface.

  Mismatched bouquets of color-clashing flowers were spread around the room apparently at random. But as she examined them more closely, Cass realized that the flowers were in fact very carefully arranged:

  “They’re scent bouquets,” she said to Max-Ernest. “See, this one’s all lemon smells—”

  He nodded. “It’s stronger when you brush against it—”

  A discreet sign listed the rules of the restaurant. Written in Braille as well as printed, it was hung low enough on the wall for a person to touch:

  Welcome to El Castillo de la Noche,

  The Castle of Darkness

  The following items are forbidden:

  Lighters and matches

  Illuminated watches

  Cell phones

  Pocket knives

  Pens and pencils

  Please leave all bags at the reception desk

  “Does a backpack count?” Cass asked their host.

  Her backpack contained nearly every forbidden item. But she didn’t feel secure leaving it. Especially at Hugo’s restaurant.

  “Normally, yes. But for you we will make an exception.”

  Why was he being so nice to her? Cass wondered. Was it possible he wasn’t as bad as she thought?

  “You are about to enter a world of darkness,” said the chef to the group at large. “But it is our hope that you will not feel so much the loss of sight. Instead, you will feel as if your other senses are heightened.”

  Behind Señor Hugo, a pair of dark blue curtains opened and a pale man in a gray smock silently entered the room.

  Señor Hugo acknowledged the newcomer without turning around. “Howard will be your waiter and your guide. Like all of us here, he is blind and has no trouble navigating in the dark.” The chef bowed. “And now, if you will excuse me, the kitchen beckons—”

  As Cass’s mother thanked him profusely, Hugo disappeared through a side door.

  “Madam,” said the waiter, staring in the general direction of Cass’s mother. “If you please—”

  The waiter instructed Cass’s mother to put her right hand on his shoulder and Cass to put her right hand on her mother’s shoulder. Max-Ernest and Yo-Yoji were supposed to follow suit.

  “Now follow me, please. And if you need to stop, say so. We don’t want any collisions.”

  The waiter led them past the velvet curtain into a long hallway. At first, the hallway was dimly lit from the outside—but there was little to see. Only bare, gray walls. And a thick, dark carpet.

  Then Max-Ernest, the last of their party, walked in and the curtains closed behind him.

  Suddenly, it was pitch-black.

  “What happened? It’s so dark!” whispered Max-Ernest.

  “It’s supposed to be,” said Cass. “Just keep walking.”

  “Yeah, but it’s really dark. I can’t see anything. Not even my hand.”

  “You should have practiced like me,” said Cass. “I always spend at least one hour a week blindfolded. Just in case I ever get stuck in a cave and my flashlight goes out.” (This was a slight exaggeration, but it was true she’d tried walking around her room with a blindfold a few times.)

  “If you would all be quiet for a moment,” said the waiter calmly, “I am now opening the door to the main dining room.”

  They could tell right away that they’d entered a much larger space. The air felt cooler and lighter. And there was more of an echo.

  Other diners had already been seated and their disembodied voices came seemingly from all directions.

  “Oops—I hope that was just water!”

  “… I’m not sure, I think it’s fish.”

  “Ouch—you hit my nose!”

  “Don’t try to seat yourselves or you may wind up on top of somebody else,” the waiter warned when they reached their table.

  The kids snickered.

  “The theme tonight is chocolate,” he continued, leading them to their chairs one by one. “Almost every dish, whether savory or sweet, contains at least a small amount of cacao. Except for Max-Ernest, who will be served an alternate menu.”

  “How did you know?” asked Max-Ernest, relieved.

  “I believe your friend mentioned you would go into anaphylactic shock otherwise,” said the waiter dryly.

  He said there was an amuse bouche waiting in front of each of them, and after explaining what that was (of course, you already know), he quietly departed.

  Feeling around their table, our friends ascertained that it was fully set with plates, utensils, glasses—and a few other items that were harder to identify.

  “Hey, Cass, can you tell what’s in this? Is it my amuse bouche?”

  After a couple tries, Max-Ernest managed to hand Cass a small bowl. She reached in—

  “Little… balls… Ugh, they’re mushy and slimy and cold.”

  Yo-Yoji laughed. “It’s like a haunted house—you know like when they put your hand in a bowl of olives and tell you they’re eyeballs?”

  Cass tentatively licked a finger. “Actually, it’s just butter.”

  Exploring further, Cass discovered a warm round object on a small plate: “A roll! I think everyone’s got one.”

  But when she tried to butter hers:

  “Ow—you stabbed my hand!” complained Max-Ernest.

  “Sorry.”

  “The amuses are on our plates right in front of us,” said Cass’s mother. “Oh, it’s delicious! But don’t take little bites—eat it all at once.”

  “Too late. Mine’s dribbling all over my chin,” said Yo-Yoji.

  Max-Ernest gingerly prodded his amuse bouche with a spoon. It was soft and wet and round and jiggly and felt like a large egg yolk.

  Trying to be brave, he put the whole thing in his mouth and bit down—

  It squirted in all directions and he was hit with blast after blast of flavor. Like different colors of fireworks exploding one after another. First came a warm and mellow taste. Could it be… pancakes? Then came the cooler and juicier taste of… blueberries? Yes, blueberry pancakes. At the end, his senses were doused with maple syrup.

  “Hey, did anybody else’s taste like breakfast?” asked Yo-Yoji. “I think mine was bacon and eggs. And hot chocolate.”

  “Funny, mine tasted like a frittata with smoked salmon and caviar,” said Cass’s mother.

  “Which just happens to be your favorite breakfast,” said Cass in a slightly accusatory tone. “Just like my favorite happens to be waffles with mint-chip ice cream. Which is what mine was. Wow, what a coincidence, Mel!”

  She’d loved her amuse bouche and she knew she should think it was sweet that her mother had special-ordered the food, but Cass couldn’t help it: she hated the thought of her mother conspiring with Señor Hugo.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” said her mother.

  “What—you mean Mel? Why? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  Before her mother could reply, the waiter arrived with their first course: soup.

  In tiny, thimble-like glasses.

  Everyone sipped at the same time, but no two soups were the same. Or was it that no two sets of taste buds were the same? Each soup tasted like a well-known food item, distilled to its very essence:

  “Popcorn!” (Max-Ernest)

  “Pop-Tart!” (Yo-Yoji)

  “Peanut butter and jelly!” (Cass)

  “Potato chips!” (her mom)

  All except Max-Ernest’s had the barest hint of chocolate.

  As the meal continued, the dishes became increasingly elaborate—and increasingly difficult to identify. But according to the waiter (who was only willing to name a dish after it had been ta
sted) they included: salad with cacao vinaigrette; scallops in a dark chocolate reduction; pinto beans spiced with chipotle-cocoa powder; a pork roast with an apricot-chocolate glaze; and, of course, chicken in mole poblano, the famous Mexican sauce made from nuts, dried chilies, and a healthy portion of Mexican chocolate.

  Each new dish was harder to cut/spear/scoop than the last, and it didn’t take long for the impatient eaters to give up on their forks and knives and start using their hands.

  “It’s a good thing Mrs. Johnson isn’t here,” said Max-Ernest. “She wouldn’t think we were using good table manners.” (He was referring to their school principal, who was a stickler for manners; the “Principal With Principles,” she called herself.)

  “I’d like to see her try to eat here!” said Yo-Yoji.

  “Well, I hope you don’t abandon manners altogether,” said Cass’s mom. “Your principal may not be here but somebody’s mother is.”

  She sighed contentedly in the darkness. “You know, I think this may be the best meal I’ve ever had. Hugo is a genius. I could eat his food every day.”

  “Well, why don’t you marry him, then?” asked Cass, unable to bear another positive word about Señor Hugo.

  “That’s ridiculous—I hardly know him!” Her mother sounded flustered. “But you make it sound like a death sentence. Would it really be so awful?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “You know, one day I may actually want to get married, whether to Hugo or someone else,” said Cass’s mother stiffly. “And when I do, Cassandra, I hope you open your heart a little bit and don’t hide your feelings behind cheap sarcasm.”

  The s-word. Cass hated it when her mom complained about her sarcasm.

  “Why should I have any feelings about it?” she shot back. “You’re not my real mom anyway… technically.”

  Cass bit her lip. Why had she said that? She knew how much it would upset her mother.

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Cass, because your friends are here, I’m not going to respond to that right now,” her mother said finally. “We’ll talk about it later, OK?”