Take-Out

by Rob Hart

  A blaring white rectangle filled Nova’s field of vision and she squinted against it, the brightness searing her retinas. After a moment she could bear it and she watched as the screen flickered and a man appeared in a featureless mask. Like the face of a person with all the definition sandblasted off.

  “I am The Butcher,” he said. “And welcome…” he raised his hands with a grand sense of theater, really putting his back into it, “…to Butcher’s Block!”

  “…the fuck?”

  Nova turned and could see the voice belonged to a tall black man with a shaved head, fists like hocks of ham, straining against the metal pneumatic cuffs keeping him restrained. His arms bulged inside the black, skin-tight chef’s coat with the logo of a bloody knife on the breast. The same coat they all wore.

  Next to him was a surfer-dude who was drug-habit thin, with sloppy dreadlocks tied together in a bunch at the back of his head. Slim arms and neck covered in tattoos. Nova sighed. White guy with dreads—never a good sign.

  To her right was just a guy. Plain as a high school baseball player. Decent haircut, square jaw. Also the least flustered of the bunch. He caught Nova’s look and gave a little smile and shrug, like, can you believe this? Like being restrained in chairs was a frustrating but otherwise normal inconvenience.

  “What’s the deal, brah?” asked White Dreadlocks. “Uh, you can’t do this to us?”

  The figure on the screen titled his head. He spoke in a quiet voice, less theatrical, less formal. “The release you signed says I can. Did you read the release?” He looked at the four in turn. “Did any of you read the release?”

  Silence.

  “That’s what I thought. Now, the name of the game is spontaneity. I’ll introduce each of you in turn, and we’ll go over the premise for the viewing audience, and then, game on!”

  “Wait…”

  “Waiting is over.”

  A spotlight shone on White Dreadlocks. His head darted around like he’d been caught with a joint. Probably a sensation he was used to, Nova thought.

  “Our first contestant is…Chef Cedar! Hailing from Portland, Oregon, known for his combination of rustic Pacific Northwest tableau with Thai and Japanese influences. Cedar has a very interesting story about how he came to cooking, and we’ll get into that a little later.”

  The spotlight clicked off, and then appeared on the man to Nova’s left. “And welcome…Chef Axel! The owner and operator of the famous Nana’s Kitchen in Harlem, Axel is known for bringing refinery to comfort food classics! And from what I hear, he’s quite the ladies’ man.”

  The light appeared around Nova. She squinted in the glare. “And…Chef Nova! Coming to us from Miami, she brings classic French training to the fast-casual dining scene. She’s known for her strong sense of loyalty to her cook staff.”

  When the light clicked off, Nova was relieved, but she took a little offense at the fast-casual designation. She preferred to think of what she did as simple but thoughtful meals in a café-like setting. And that bit about loyalty. What was that?

  The light clicked on to her right. “And finally…Chef Stuart! A native of Connecticut, he’s traveled the world and worked under some of the greatest chefs of our time. And he’s proven he’ll do anything—and I mean anything—to make a buck in the world of cooking.”

  The room filled with dim light, inching away the dark. They were in some sort of dilapidated cafeteria. And from the look of the dirt on the floor, the grime on the windows, the scattered and broke furniture, it likely hadn’t functioned as a cafeteria for a very long time. The screen on which The Butcher appeared was suspended from the ceiling and the chairs they sat on were bolted to the floor in the middle of the room.

  “Here’s how the game is played,” The Butcher said. “There will be one round and one round only. At the end of the round, there will be one winner. Unless there’s not. I will assign you a dish and you must prepare it to perfection. You will be judged on both taste and presentation. Scattered throughout this building you will find everything you need, from cooking stations to ingredients. The timer is set for one hour. You must be back here with one completed and composed plate when the hour ends. And remember, there is one rule…”

  The Butcher leaned forward, his gleaming mask filling the screen.

  “There are no rules. You may stall and sabotage your opponents however you wish. Now, I would like you to prepare a perfect French omelet!”

  “…the fuck is happening right now?” Chef Axel asked.

  “Now, if you would so kindly.” The Butcher raised his hands again.

  As he did, the restraints hissed and popped open. Nova rubbed her wrists, trying to focus on the sensation, on the feeling of her skin, the pressure of her touch, because her head was spinning so fast it was hard to concentrate on anything else. She glanced to either side and found her opponents were free, too.

  “Now…would you kindly slice and dice!”

  Axel was the first to stand, followed by Nova, then Stuart. Cedar remained seated. Nova looked at the three of them and tried to imagine a worse position to be in, but she couldn’t. No rules and three men. She slid her hand to the coin pocket of her jeans, where she kept her knife. The blade was only two inches long but sharp enough to slice through sheet metal.

  It was gone. Of course it was gone.

  “Yo, I didn’t sign up for this,” Cedar said, still sitting.

  “I think we all signed up for it,” Stuart said, raising an eyebrow. He looked around. “I’ll tell you what though, this is the last time I skip on reading the fine print.”

  “…this is some Hunger Games shit,” said Axel.

  Cedar paused, then laughed. “Double meaning. I get it.”

  “If it’s like that, it’s like that,” Axel said. “I’m getting my twenty-five large.”

  He took off at a jog. Nova looked at Cedar, who seemed lost, and then to Stuart, who shrugged and said, “What else are we going to do? If we sit around and do nothing, we lose.”

  Nova followed Stuart, who was following Axel, while Cedar called from the back, “I don’t think I’m comfortable with this.”

  Stuart slowed his pace to fall alongside Nova and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re right. We play. What else are we going to do?”

  “And this ‘no rules’ thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Nova said. “I don’t know what that means.”

  It was a lie. She knew. Men barely followed rules as it was, and when there were no rules? Fuck. But she pretended like there wasn’t a threat lingering in the air. Like maybe if she didn’t acknowledge it, she wouldn’t give it form.

  “What do you make of the other two?” Stuart asked.

  “Cedar has probably been high for the past ten years,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. My best sous chef can’t function unless he’s high. I’m worried about Axel.”

  “So you’ve been to Nana’s, too?”

  “Guy knows how to cook.”

  Nova scanned the surroundings. There were little black domes—cameras—everywhere. The place was covered from every angle. So this must be an immersive type of show, like Big Brother.

  Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered in that moment except the omelet. A French omelet being the opposite of the American diner omelet. It was egg, only egg, chives and butter to finish unless you were some kind of fucking animal. Not some pile of shit thrown onto a flattop and cooked until brown. No, a French omelet was rolled out and folded onto itself, a perfectly smooth cylinder of egg, pale yellow, still just a touch runny in the middle.

  Nova knew why The Butcher had picked it. Eggs were the way to test new cooks. Tell them to cook an egg dish and you’d see what kind of chef they were, because you could make a million dishes with eggs, and they were easy to screw up.

  At the edge of the room, Nova and Stuart found an open doorway, the sound of clanging pots beyond, and when they entered, they found a huge kitchen that
could easily fit a team of twenty. Axel was hunched down in front of a cabinet, pulling out pans, inspecting them, tossing them over his shoulder. Nova didn’t need an explanation. They were scratched, nicked, dented. A good omelet took a non-stick pan, or at least well-seasoned carbon steel. Anything else, the egg wouldn’t lift off clean.

  “…not like there are any ingredients,” Axel said, without looking up.

  It was easy enough to confirm. A soft glow emanated from the stoves, where the pilots were lit, but most of the cupboards and the refrigerator were open. The place was picked clean.

  “So what now?” Stuart asked.

  “All I know is an omelet takes five minutes to cook, we have a little less than an hour, and I have to pee,” Nova said. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  She stepped out of the room, left Stuart and Axel to figure it out. She didn’t have to pee. But it was pretty obvious what they needed wasn’t in that room. Maybe they had to bring ingredients back. Maybe not. But nothing was getting done standing around.

  Nova jogged to the other side of the cafeteria and ducked down a hallway. Paused and listened. Empty rooms. They were in a school. The windows were blacked out. She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. If it was night or day. Didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the omelet. Having a goal distracted from the sheer absurdity of the situation.

  She jogged down the first floor hallway, and then most of the second, when she came to a locked door. That made her pause. Everything else was wide open. Which made it the first anomaly, which meant it might mean something.

  “Now,” The Butcher said, again, clear as day, like he was standing next to her. “You all might be interested to know a little more about our chefs. Let’s start with Chef Axel. We know Nana’s Kitchen is one of the hottest restaurants in New York. That’s what he called his grandmother, who inspired him to become a chef. Which is very kind and honorable, but also a little odd, considering his last girlfriend took out a restraining order against him. I wonder what that was about?”

  Nova paused. Even better. It wasn’t enough to pit them against each other, now he was going to pit the audience against them? Worse, what would happen when it was her turn?

  She pushed it out of her head. Knelt down and focused on the lock. She couldn’t pick it, didn’t know how, but she knew how to kick a door open. Kick near the knob. She learned that when her niece locked herself in the bathroom with the tub running.

  She leaned back and threw her foot into it. Didn’t budge. Tried again. Nothing. With every crack of her foot she winced at the sound, because it might be enough to attract the other contestants.

  One more kick. Nothing. Sweat trickled down her back. She looked around, found a fire extinguisher hanging from the wall. Better. She slammed it on the knob. Once, twice, and on the third swing the knob broke and clattered to the floor.

  Inside was an office, no window, no light, but she could hear a faint humming sound. She could feel the vibrations. She stepped inside, leaving the door open a crack so there’d be light, and found a mini-fridge underneath the desk. Inside: three eggs, salt, butter, a ramekin with freshly-chopped chives, and white pepper. Her heart skipped and sighed.

  Next to the fridge was an induction plate. She looked for a pan. Nothing. No plate, either. The omelet had to come out of the pan as soon as it was done, or the residual heat would cause it to overcook.

  Nova leaned against the desk. Surveyed the room. She needed to find a pan, to start. Should she bring the ingredients with her? The eggs were fragile. She couldn’t carry everything plus the induction plate. She went for a half-measure, opened one of the drawers in the desk, put everything inside, slid the induction plate underneath the desk where it couldn’t be seen.

  She stood up, checked her work. It would be easy enough to miss. She turned and stepped into the hallway, smacking into Axel, which was like bouncing off a brick wall.

  The two of them stared at each other. Nova felt her face do something, betraying emotions she’d rather keep to herself. Axel frowned. “Don’t think that. It was a misunderstanding.”

  “I wasn’t…”

  “…sure.” He shrugged.

  She nodded her head toward the office. “Nothing in there.”

  Axel stared at her, then through her. She didn’t like it. She could see the equation playing out in his eyes.

  No rules.

  He stepped around her and gave the room a cursory look. Nova hoped he would mistake the fridge for a filing cabinet. He didn’t, walked over and opened it.

  “Empty,” Nova said.

  Axel stuck his hand inside. “…Still cold though.”

  He stood up, full height, which was a full head over her. Took a few steps toward her and asked, “…You holding out on me?”

  “Hey!”

  Nova turned to find Stuart. He spoke to Nova but looked at Axel. “All good here?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Nova said.

  “Well,” Stuart said, still looking at Axel. “I get it, we all want to win, but let’s not lose our cool, you know what I mean?”

  Axel arched an eyebrow in response, gave one last look at Nova, his eyes patting her down, to see if she was hiding anything, and pushed past her, into the hall.

  “You okay?” Stuart asked.

  Nova took a deep breath. Willed her heart to slow down. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to take it easy on you.”

  Stuart smiled. It was a nice smile. “Wouldn’t expect you to. Find anything?”

  “Not yet,” Nova said, trying to keep her voice honest.

  Stuart nodded. She wasn’t convinced he believed her but it also didn’t matter. She stepped past him, into the hall, and Stuart called, “Hey.”

  Nova turned.

  “Axel is the strongest competition. We trip him up, we’re on an even playing field.”

  “You proposing a team-up?”

  “Just something to think about.”

  “Okay,” Nova said, not really sure what that okay, meant, just that she wanted the conversation to be over so she could get back to work. She jogged down the hallway, in the opposite direction of Axel, climbed to the third floor, gave a cursory run-through—no more locked doors. A chime echoed throughout the corridors.

  “Fifteen minutes have elapsed,” said The Butcher. “You have forty-five minutes left. You boys might want to keep up with Chef Nova. So far, I think she may be the one to beat…unless someone else is up to the challenge.”

  “Oh, you motherfucker,” Nova muttered.

  She picked up her pace. Heard footsteps coming from the other end of the corridor, so she stepped into the stairwell and went the only direction she could: down, which brought her back to the first floor. The stairs led down another level still, into a pool of pitch black. She didn’t even have her phone to light the way.

  Then something caught her, made her stop. Sitting upright in the middle of the top step leading down to the basement was an object the size of her forearm. She reached for it and felt the cool metal of a flashlight.

  She looked around to make sure she was alone, then clicked it on and went down the stairs, following the narrow beam of light.

  She didn’t like the dark. It seemed to press on her, making her muscles tight. It got worse when The Butcher spoke, like he was whispering in her ear. “Chef Stuart is quite the hero, stepping in to make sure poor Chef Nova was safe.”

  Poor Chef Nova? she thought. Die in a fire, asshole.

  “But would it change your opinion of Chef Stuart to know he’s the subject of a class-action lawsuit for improperly withholding tips from employees? Seems he’s pocketed more than forty thousand dollars that was supposed to go to his waitstaff.”

  Nova grimaced. That was a cardinal sin. Restaurant margins were tight, but the waitstaff was the front line, and a happy staff meant a happy restaurant. She hated to know it about him. His face was just nice enough she had thought about asking him out for a drink after.

  After. She wa
s looking forward to after, no matter what form it took. No more cooking competitions, though. Next time she wanted publicity, she’d invent a burger topped with mac-and-cheese three different ways. Something for the Instagram crowd.

  She sighed. Swung the flashlight back and forth in front of her, occasionally catching a black-domed camera. She imagined someone watching this clip, probably shot in infrared, a ghostly white figure stalking the hallway.

  What kind of show was this, really?

  At the end of the hallway, she came to a large room. Painted on the floor in front of the door was a smiley-face. She wasn’t sure if it was graffiti or a clue, but she stepped in anyway.

  There were a number of items in the middle of the room, the flashlight catching glimpses, not revealing the whole picture. She saw rope. To the right, just against the wall, was a soft glow. A light switch, covered in fluorescent paint. She flicked it on and blinked hard against the glare.

  In the center of the room, suspended from the ceiling, was a non-stick skillet. Attached by a chain to a rope, which ran through a loop at the ceiling, and led down to the floor. Ten feet in the air, and nothing to stand on to reach it.

  Underneath the skillet was a meat cleaver.

  Nova inched closer. The rope was thick. She imaged it mooring a battleship. The puzzle seemed simple enough—use the cleaver to hack at the rope but don’t let the pan hit the floor. The floor was concrete and, if the pan dented, it would be useless. So she picked up the blade with one hand, gripped the rope with the other, and swung.

  The cleaver bounced off. She looked at the edge. It was torn to shit, like someone had spent the afternoon smacking it against the floor. It still had a touch of sharpness toward the handle, so she focused on that, swinging that bare two inches of sharp space again and again at the rope, which began to fray, a strand at a time.

  She had worked up a sweat by the time she made it halfway through, glancing over her shoulder every couple of swings to make sure she was still alone.

  When there were only a few strands left, she tightened her grip. And when the rope snapped, she held tight, lowered the pan slowly, until she could just reach it. She placed the cleaver down so as not to make any noise, and reached up to claim her prize.