[Pride In Horror Month] - The Vegan Sandwich Maker: A Short Story
Trigger Warning: This story may contain sensitive content.
When a popular vegan restaurant opened its doors across the street from Etienne’s restaurant of fine french cuisine, Claudette’s father died of a broken heart. The next day, Claudette cried on my shoulder. I was just there to pick up my girlfriend Lindsay, an Etienne’s waitress who had caught my eye. But while she and the other waitresses dutifully worked their shifts with fewer and fewer diners, they weren’t enthusiastic about the food they were serving. And they avoided Claudette.
I, on the other hand, loved french food. And Claudette was great. She didn’t insist that I fill the silence or share my feelings. She let me sample the dishes she prepared, which I think was the only way I got through those salad bar dates Lindsay preferred. I didn’t always know what Claudette made, but I was easy to please. So while I waited for Lindsay, Claudette would take me back into the kitchen. We would discuss women and wine and the world - well, she would discuss. I would eat.
The next thing any of us knew, business had slowed to the point that Claudette was forced to close Etienne’s. Despite the closing, there were a few customers with reservations Claudette chose to honor. She hadn’t taken the closing well, but threw herself into new culinary experiences for the remaining dinner parties.
When I walked in Etienne’s to meet Lindsay, the dining room was closed but the grinder was running. There was food for an army on the kitchen counter. Some of it I was even starting to recognize. I took my regular seat on the stool.
But instead of eating any of the dishes before her, it looked like Claudette was making - a sandwich? She took a freshly baked loaf from the oven and began slicing. “It’s a shame Lindsay is the skinny girl, no?” Claudette nearly shouted over the grinder so she could be heard. “She cannot keep you warm at night. She cannot be soft to hold.” She handed me a piece of warm bread. She buttered hers, but I ate mine plain. The crust was crunchy and delicious.
Where was Lindsay? She was supposed to meet me here to get her last paycheck before we went out to this salad bar she’d been dying to try.
Claudette sliced a tomato, juices barely escaping the skin as she wielded her knife around the luscious red fruit.
“All those vegans working here. Turning up their noses at my father’s food! How can anyone resist this?” She gestured to the delicacies in front of her.
My mouth watered.
“When the customers ask what is good,” she ranted, “the waitress is supposed to say ‘EVERYTHING!’ She is not supposed to say,” she pretended to flip her hair like the waitresses and made her voice into a pretty good imitation of Lindsay’s, “‘I don’t know. I don’t really eat the food here.’” In her regular voice, volume rising, she said, “You work in a restaurant, you love to eat the food! You love to drink the wine! YOU! LOVE! IT! ALL!” She punctuated her final declaration with a cleaver, mutilating a head of lettuce that never stood a chance.
I could really have used some wine. But I just nodded and let Claudette rant.
She sifted through the handfuls of shredded lettuce with her fingers. Her movements were quick, crisp, and precise as anger fueled her passionate preparations. “But no! Stupid girls. And they - they ate my FOOD’s food!”
I nodded. I tried to look sympathetic. I’m not sure if it worked.
“I made steak tartare. They wanted something more simple. So I prepared friand foie gras - the most delicious duck pasty - and they turned it down. But they’ll eat TOFU BURGERS! My father turns over in his grave, you know?”
Wouldn’t duck taste like chicken? I’d never actually tried it before, and I could see Lindsay turning up her nose. Steak, however, always sounded good to me.
Claudette went back to sandwich preparations. “I need cheese. But what kind? Cheddar? Brie? Oh, how silly of me. I’ll have American on my vegan sandwich.”
Surely Claudette Etienne, of all people, knew that cheese was not vegan. However, I didn't dare correct her. She hummed a little tune as she peeled off two slices of American cheese and set them on the counter.
My stomach rumbled. The bread had only whet my appetite.
“Oh, but where are my manners? Try this, cherie: friand foie gras." She cut into the dish with a fork and brought it to my open mouth. “Bon appetite!”
I accepted the bite gratefully and smiled at her. “It’s good.”
“Of course it’s good. I’m Claudette Etienne, no? I know food!”
The grinder gurgled. She turned to it and clapped her hands with delight as finely ground red meat coiled out and into a bowl.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Vegan,” she snipped, but I must have heard her wrong. She sank her fingers into the sausage like it was therapeutic clay and sighed contentedly.
Admittedly, I’m no chef, but it didn’t look like tofu. Maybe bean paste? Then again, who was I to argue?
She scooped a ball of the mystery meat, or substance, I guess, into her hand, formed a patty, and then slapped it onto a sizzling burner. She lightly seared each side, then placed the patty on her freshly baked bread. She added cheese, lettuce, and tomato.
“For you, mon pere.” She took a bite of her sandwich. Red juice dribbled down her chin, but it wasn’t from the tomato.
As the realization sank in, the bread and duck shifted uneasily in my stomach. I guess Lindsay wouldn’t be going to that salad place with me after all.
The next thing I knew, Claudette spat out the bite, threw down the sandwich in her hand, and ran to the fridge. She grabbed a bottle of cheap wine, popped the cork, and gulped deeply. Then, she gargled another large swallow and spat into the sink. “That wasn’t vegan! She said she was vegan!”
*****
By Phyl Campbell
Phyl Campbell is an Arkansas native currently living in York, Pennsylvania. She writes for all ages, but notably entertains middle grade readers with her Mermaid's Revenge series. Her pronouns are she/her, but she'll answer to "hey you" as long as the speaker is serving Dr. Pepper and chicken strips.
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Website www.phylcampbell.com
Email phyln[at]hotmail.com