Evertaster

by Adam Glendon Sidwell

  Guster couldn’t say if that were true or not. It’s not like he watched the news.

  “Who knows,” Zeke said, pulling his ample cheeks down his face until you could see the red pulp around his eyes. “Maybe he’s looking for something…” Zeke stood up and crept over to Mariah. “Something to eat!” he cried, and bit down gently on the top of her head.

  She screamed. “Rarr!” growled Henry Junior. He banged his spoon on the table and chomped at the air, just like Zeke had.

  “Enough!” said Mom. She put her round moon face in her hands and sighed. “All of you will eat your dinner now,” she said, her voice quivering.

  Guster froze. They were on thin ice. At times like this it was best to avoid Mom’s attention so she didn’t raise her voice at him. He was never sure why she got so angry. Sometimes it started with Zeke. Sometimes it started when she came into his room and he’d left his clothes all over the floor. Sometimes it started for no reason at all.

  Betsy’s Mom wasn’t like that. Betsy’s Mom let them do whatever they wanted when they went to her house. Why is Mom always coming down on us? he wondered. He spread the Chowder across his plate to buy him some time.

  “Dinner was delicious, Mom,” said Mariah, clearing her plate. In a matter of seconds Zeke was finished too, and Mom took Henry Junior out of his high-chair and into the living room, leaving Guster alone with the vomitous mass.

  “Don’t get up until you’re finished,” called Mom as she turned on the TV. She started to fold a pile of laundry. Once again she’d forgotten to remove her baby blue apron. She’d probably leave it on all night, just like every other time.

  He was so hungry! If only he could get his hands on something good enough to eat! There had been a lemon meringue pie once from the bakery down the street — he could tell the sea wind had blown across the lemons as they’d ripened. There was the honeyed pork from Mac Murray’s two years ago, or the mint ice cream straight from the dairy just last summer — the cows that gave the milk in the ice cream had eaten only clover. There was something special about those flavors. Something that only Guster could understand. Something that drove Guster to the fridge on those moonlit nights, when the farmhouse was asleep, to lick up the last of the crumbs. Those were the nights he was alive with taste.

  Sadly, as good as those flavors were, it wasn’t long before they too turned sour and lost their appeal. It didn’t have to be that way! There had to be something out there that could quench his burning hunger, something that could save him. Like a dish, waiting to be discovered, that beckoned to him from far away. A dish so delicious beyond belief that once he tasted it, he would never want to eat anything else again.

  The TV crackled, “And we’re back with more amazing homemaking tips straight from the Queen Bee of the American Household, the Duchess of Decorating, the Czarina of Cuisine… celebrity homemaker Felicity Casa!” There was applause. Mom was watching Roofs, the only TV show she ever made time for. It was a silly program. The host, Felicity Casa, was always showing viewers how to make their own curtains out of grocery bags or grow the perfect gardenias in a milk bottle. Very boring stuff, even if Felicity was richer than the President and had houses all over the world. Mom practically idolized her. There was nothing she wanted more than to visit Felicity’s secret, state-of-the-art kitchen hidden somewhere in France.

  “Tonight I’m going to show you how to make a sumptuous, herb crusted leg of lamb,” said Felicity, her middle-aged face outlined so picture-perfect with makeup, she looked like a painting. Now why couldn’t our dinner be like that? thought Guster. The cooking demonstration was the part of Roofs he did love. Felicity described roasting the lamb from start to finish step by step, in perfect detail. If only he could taste it! “Because, after all, it is the sworn duty of the chef to provide her guests with a taste experience,” she said when she finished.

  Was that what he’d been longing for? He was certain that if he could just get his hands on it, he would eat that. Instead, he was stuck with Ham Chowder.

  He stabbed his fork at it. And then there was Zeke’s story about the stranger in red. What if it were true? What if that chef had caused the disappearances?

  “Guster!” cried Mom as she came into the kitchen. “You haven’t eaten a thing!”

  He shook his head. “I can’t —”

  Mom insisted. “You are far too old for this. Now eat,” she said, her hands on her tubby hips.

  He shook his head again. He just couldn’t. Ham Chowder was slime; it was ooze; it was a dirty, pig-filled sack of nasty eyeballs, and it tasted like poo.

  “Eat,” she said again, with a voice like a megaphone.

  He touched the fork to his tiny lips. Eww. The sour cream had not soured enough. The ham was too moist. It was like eating paint.

  “Swallow,” she said.

  He tried. He really tried. He wrapped his lips around the slime, then forced it with his tongue to the back of his throat until he couldn’t stand it anymore and — plllbbbttt! — he spewed it all over Mom’s baby blue apron.

  “Guster Stephen Johnsonville!” She picked him up from his chair and pulled him over to the sink. “Look what a mess you’ve made! I thought you were eleven!” she screamed, and began scrubbing his shirt.

  Guster spit into the sink — he had to get rid of the taste — while Mom wrestled to clean off his shirt. The stairs pounded as Zeke and Mariah came thumping down from their rooms and into the kitchen.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Zeke hollered.

  “Ezekiel, get back up to your room,” Mom shouted. He scrambled for cover.

  “But Mom, all I want is a taste experience!” cried Guster through tears of pain. Why couldn’t they eat things like Felicity made? He stuck his mouth under the running tap water.

  Suddenly, Mom stopped wrestling. She let him down, dried off his shirt as best as she could, then pressed her hand to his back. It almost looked like concern on her face. “I know honey, I know,” she whispered.

  He just hoped she wouldn’t hug him. If she did, he might run away and hide himself under the couch. He sniffed. He hadn’t meant for his tears to break free.

  Mom closed her eyes, as if resting herself for a minute. “Guster, go change your clothes. We’re going into the city,” she said.

  Chapter 3 — The Master Pastry Chef

  The city of New Orleans was an hour’s drive away from the farm. Guster stared out the window at the cloudy night sky as the family’s old rusty Suburban tumbled down the road, with Zeke behind the wheel. Maybe the city would provide something to eat — if Zeke’s driving didn’t kill them first.

  “Eh? Eh?” Zeke turned around to make sure Guster noticed the learner’s permit he’d folded and placed prominently on the dash. Zeke had shown it to Guster at least once a day since he got it. Guster smiled weakly.

  “Eyes on the road Zeke,” said Mom. Guster couldn’t believe she was letting that maniac drive.

  Sometimes Guster wondered if Zeke liked being his brother. Zeke was always throwing acorns or cow pies at him. He’d even pushed Guster out of a tree house once.

  As for Mom, it was about time she got with the program. If it wasn’t Ham Chowder today, it was Cantaloupe Omelets yesterday, or Toasted Lasagna Sandwiches with butter the day before. That’s the way it had always been, ever since Guster could chew, his own mother shoving a scum-juice tube down his throat and cranking it on while there was nothing he could do.

  Zeke steered the Suburban over the yellow dots in the middle of the road, bouncing Guster in his seat and bobbing the bun Mom wore on top of her head up and down like an apple. “Sorry,” Zeke said. The country road turned into highway, and the highway turned to freeway as the bright lights of New Orleans came into view.

  They rarely went into the city. The family had moved to Louisiana only three years before.

  “We’ll go into the French Quarter,” said Mom. Guster had heard of the French Quarter — it was a neighborhood older than America itself.

&nbs
p; “This place was built by pirates,” Zeke said. “And there’s voodoo magic everywhere.”

  Yeah, right, thought Guster. Zeke was probably making it up, just like everything else he ever said.

  “Exit the freeway here,” Mom told Zeke. “There are a lot of tricky streets in the French Quarter, so you will have to be very careful to follow my directions,” she said in her sternest Mom-voice. She pointed to a street on their right. “Turn here.”

  Zeke turned down the street, then stopped at a red light. Guster rolled down the window so he could get a better look outside. There were lights everywhere. Crowds of people walked back and forth across the sidewalks or sat outside at little tables eating and drinking. It smelled of fresh gumbo in one direction, which was decent, and banana bread pudding in the other direction, which ruined everything else. Bananas aren’t ripe enough, he thought. But there were so many choices. So many opportunities. If they were to find that perfect something, it was bound to be here — if it was anywhere at all.

  The light turned green. Zeke turned the Suburban left, just as a crowd of people stepped out into the crosswalk in front of the car.

  “Zeke!” Mom cried. Guster lurched forward in his seatbelt as Zeke slammed on the brakes.

  “Freakazoids! What are they doing?!” Zeke cried. Guster looked up just in time to see two headlights approaching from the right. A horn blasted. Zeke threw the Suburban into reverse, turned it around and drove the opposite direction as the car zoomed past.

  “This is a one-way street!” Mom cried as a green car came speeding toward them head on.

  Zeke turned the Suburban a hard left down another street as Guster braced himself on the seat in front of him. Zeke was going to kill them. More car horns blared as they passed another ‘One-way’ arrow pointing in the opposite direction.

  “Right! Turn right!” screamed Mom. The car lurched again, throwing Guster into the seat next to him as a truck zoomed past.

  “Why don’t we park here?” Mom said, her voice quivering. Zeke pulled the car next to the curb and screeched to halt. Mom yanked the keys out of the ignition. Guster caught his breath.

  “Did you see those guys?” Zeke asked. “Walked right out in front of me!”

  Mom shook her head. “They were in the crosswalk dear,” she said, and got out of the car. “You’re going to have to re-read that safe driver’s handbook. Let’s walk.”

  Anything to be out of a car with Zeke behind the wheel. Guster unclicked his safety belt and hopped out.

  Unlike the other streets, this one was dark and quiet. Most of the shops were closed for the night, except for a Bistro one block ahead. Mom pulled Guster toward it. It was nearly empty. The smell of cooking meat hung like a fog on the street. “How about this one?” said Mom.

  Too greasy, thought Guster. There had to be something better than this. He shook his head.

  Disappointment crossed Mom’s face. For a second, Guster thought she would scold him. Instead, she tugged him onward.

  They passed a bakery, a small café, and a dozen other shops. Some were closed. The rest smelled awful. He shook his head at each one. His tiny stomach was so empty, but Mom’s patience was wearing thin.

  “Guster,” said Mom, leaning down to look him in the eyes, “You’ve got to find something to eat.” That was easy enough to say, but it couldn’t be just any old food. He looked down at the oily pavement under his feet. He wished Mariah were there, instead of at home, babysitting Henry Junior. She never got angry at him.

  “Then we’ll have to go home,” said Mom sadly. She started toward the car.

  Then a new smell hit him. One that was different from all the rest. Across the street, on a dimly lit corner, the word “Patisserie” was painted in golden letters on an old and dusty window. The most wonderful aroma of tarts and cakes spilled from it. It was so strong, he felt like he was tasting fresh berries and chocolaty crusts, all from the little pastry shop right in front of his eyes. “Wait,” he said. Mom stopped. “Over there,” he pointed.

  Mom took Guster by the hand and led him and Zeke across the street toward the patisserie. The curtains behind the window were closed and, except for a faint sliver of yellowish light that shone between them, the shop was entirely dark. A sign that read “Closed for Business by Order of the City of New Orleans” was propped up against the glass in one corner.

  “You couldn’t pick a place that makes more than desserts?” asked Mom.

  Guster shook his head. There was no doubt about it. This had to be it.

  “Maybe the chef has a cookbook I can buy,” she said, and pounded on the boarded-up door.

  No one answered. Please, someone be in there, thought Guster.

  “The place is closed Mom,” said Zeke. He clutched his learner’s permit in his hand. “Maybe we ought to drive back over to —”

  Mom shook her head. “Walking will be just fine.” She put her ear to the door. “I think I hear someone inside.” She pounded again. It was silent.

  “Let’s check around back,” Mom said. She went around to the side of the building to a dark alleyway, where there was a porch with a narrow door. She turned the knob and the door opened a crack.

  “Mom, is this breaking the law?” Zeke asked. Mom held her finger to her lips. Guster grabbed hold of her baby blue apron. The dark entryway was just the kind of place where someone might break your kneecaps.

  Don’t be stupid, he thought. How could something that smelled so good possibly be dangerous? There was a weak coughing sound.

  “Hello?” Mom said. She opened the door wide, took Guster’s hand and stepped over the threshold. The place was dark and cramped. A small oil lamp burned in one corner, casting a dim light across tables cluttered with strange cooking devices. There was a tall, golden mixer with gears sticking out from every side, a set of silver measuring spoons with etched handles, an old wooden rolling pin the size of Zeke’s entire pudgy arm, and a set of iron scales that balanced perfectly in the still air of the patisserie.

  Zeke picked up a tiny wire whisk and held it up to the light. “What kind of place is this?” he whispered.

  “Careful what you touch, Zeke,” said Mom, ducking to avoid a pot dangling from the ceiling.

  On the other side of the room a dim, white light shone in a glass case full of pastries: éclairs topped with cream, tarts smothered in berries, layer cakes with flaky crusts and heavy chocolate filling drizzled in vanilla. Guster let go of his mother’s hand and ran to it, his mouth watering.

  He pressed his nose against the glass. Finally! There were fruits; there were nuts; there was chocolate! He wanted to laugh. He had never been so near such wonderful food. If he could just touch one — He stood on his toes and reached over the top of the glass.

  “Guster! Hands off!” hissed Mom.

  A loud, hacking cough came from an open doorway in the back. “If pastries are not made for eating,” said a voice before it started coughing uncontrollably again, “then what are they good for?” A short man with a white chef’s hat that bubbled up out of his head came out of the door. Long white hairs stuck wildly out from under the hat. He wore a navy blue bath robe and slippers.

  Startled, Guster snatched his hand away from glass case. The old man was a strange sight indeed.

  Mom grabbed Guster and Zeke and pulled them close. “Pardon us Sir, but of all the shops in the city, my son only wanted a taste of your pastries,” she said.

  “Oh?” said the old man and coughed a big, noisy cough that shook his body. His face looked pale and sweaty, like he’d eaten something that disagreed with him.

  “It seemed like your shop was closed, but there was a light on. He wouldn’t eat anything else, so we had to try,” said Mom.

  The old man steadied himself on a chair and breathed slowly. “So determined then, are we?” he said. He eyed Guster carefully as if trying to size him up. “A particular palette can be useful.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or dangerous.”

  Guster squirmed. The way the old man sta
red at him was odd. “I wasn’t going to steal anything,” he said.

  “No! No! Boy, you misunderstand me,” said the old man and stepped toward them with his arms open wide. “I am the Maitre Patisserie! The Master Pastry Chef. I make all these creations.” He put an arm around Guster’s shoulder. Mom tried to pull Guster away. “I admire someone with such excellent taste as yourself! Would you like a tart?” he whispered, as if it were a secret for only Guster to hear.

  Of course, thought Guster, no matter how strange you seem. He was very hungry, and they looked so delicious. He nodded.

  “Good!” said the Master Pastry Chef. He plodded his way behind the glass counter, his slippers flopping against his heels. “Which one shall it be?”

  “How much do they cost?” interrupted Mom. The family didn’t have the money to buy expensive things.

  “My dear,” wheezed the Master Pastry Chef, “I have little use for money anymore. You may try whatever you like.”

  Guster looked back and forth between the chocolate layer cake and the raspberry tart. He pointed at both.

  “Excellent choice,” said the Master Pastry Chef with a smile. He picked them carefully out of the glass case with a tissue and handed them to Guster.

  He bit into the chocolate layer cake first. At last! It was soft, dense and spongy like warm fudge wrapped in a crispy crust. There was nothing wrong with it. In fact, it tasted like the cocoa powder had been hand crushed, and like the milk chocolate had been brewed only yesterday. Divine, he thought, as the sugar rushed all through his body. He closed his eyes and took another bite. I didn’t know food could taste like this!

  “Guster is very particular Sir. If he likes your baking it is an extraordinary compliment,” said Mom. Rain began to drum softly on the window outside.

  There she went, calling him particular again. If this were any other moment, he might have opened his mouth to protest, but right now, it was full of the most delicious raspberry tart, and he could not miss a moment of taste.

  “Do you, by chance, also cook other things? Like healthy, stick-to-your-ribs kind of meals?” Mom asked.