Pepper with a sense of humor

 

The problem with chili peppers is that they're ubiquitous. If you rip open one's belly, gut it, and cut it as finely as you can, it will, as a sort of posthumous revenge, take cruel revenge. It will insidiously creep around and attack all your sensitive spots, stinging and burning mercilessly.

Despite many frequent and unpleasant experiences, this time too I allowed myself to be taken in by the belligerent chili. I was rubbing my watery eyes when a guy with a close-cropped haircut and a square jaw walked into the kitchen. He smelled of expensive toilet water, and an impeccably tailored evening gown completed the whole look.

"Where's the toilet?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Around the corner to the right," I replied, sobbing.

"Ah!" – The guy was getting ready to leave when he suddenly stopped mid-stride. – Why are you roaring?

– Let's just say... a certain nasty plant gave me a hard time...

– Oh! – the guy nodded understandingly. – people are wolves, and life is the hunt, my friend!

– You could put it that way – I sneezed loudly.

– Oh! – the guy said and left.

The evening was very busy – as usual at the "Green Monkey." Guests, buzzing unbearably, streamed across the dance floor, and waiters ran frantically in all directions. The manager's bald head was beaded with sweat from overexertion and overexertion, while I churned out dishes at machine-gun speed. This went on for a good few hours, until finally, around midnight, the first diners began to show signs of fatigue. The pace slowed, and the waiters, with relieved expressions on their faces, took cigarette breaks more and more frequently. Only the manager was running around like crazy.

I started doing the evening cleaning – I was cleaning the burner when the guy reappeared.

“I’m Joe Papryczka,” he said out of the blue. “Everyone knows me here.”

“Good to know,” I nodded.

“You’re the chef?

” “So it turns out…

” “So it was your skillful hands that prepared that delicious meal today?

” “Mine,” I grunted, pleasantly touched.

“Such hands are a treasure, my friend.” Papryczka sat on the kitchen counter and swung his legs. “They need to be taken care of!

” “I use the right creams,” I muttered.

Papryczka burst into loud laughter.

“That’s not quite what I had in mind!” It's about certain unfortunate situations and accidents that can happen...something like accident prevention or prevention...if you prefer...

- Situations?

- Well...let's say – your arm could break accidentally, you could get hit in the middle of the street by a car, you could get hit in the head by someone completely by accident at a dance...the ground could slide...who knows?

Something was starting to dawn on me. I straightened up abruptly and threw the cloth over my shoulder.

"You don't mean protection money?

" "Oh, right there, protection money!" Papryczka smiled gently. "Let's say... accident insurance...

" "Of course," I agreed, "but that's a mistake in the address. For insurance matters, please speak to the manager, a certain Sylwester. He's a bald guy who runs around the room with his tongue hanging out... "

Papryczka laughed loudly.

"You're so witty, my friend! Well, I assure you, the address is correct! I'm talking about the protection of your illustrious person! "

I was speechless for a good moment.

"My illustrious person?" I repeated slowly. "And what did my illustrious person do to deserve such an honor?

" "Talent!" Papryczka clapped his hands. "Virtuosity! Taste and culinary taste!"

The guy was taking me by surprise. Boorish and impudent.

"And what happens if I don't take advantage of it?

" "You'll see," the guy jumped off the counter, making a vague gesture with his hand, "the accidents will start to multiply..."

And he left.

He scared me—no need.

I finished cleaning the burner on my feet.

And I realized the very next day that Papryczka wasn't one to mince his words

. The accidents started to multiply. Innocent enough at first.

At lunchtime, Sylvester burst into the kitchen, bristling. He held a plate of untouched pumpkin soup in his hand.

"What's this?!" he growled, setting the plate on the counter.

"It's soup to my liking," I replied, unceremoniously sticking my finger into the liquid, "and even a still warm one."

"And what's floating in it?!

There was something floating. And quite briskly, too." Some insect was desperately flailing its limbs, trying to escape the drowning. Holy crap! A real, live, bloated cockroach!

"Strange..." I muttered. "I thought cockroaches didn't like our menu...

" "We'll get even, you prankster!" Sylvester grabbed another serving and dashed out onto the dance floor.

He was back within seconds.

"What the hell is that!?"

I rubbed my eyes. Two cockroaches were swimming in the second bowl of soup! Apparently, the temple doesn't give you a headache—but then again, no one ever said proverbs were universally wise and applicable to all situations.

"I have no idea!" I shrugged. "For my taste, these vermin have gotten a bit overgrown.

" "Check the containers," Sylvester yelled.

I'd emptied all my pumpkin soup supplies. No sign of insects. And yet... somehow, in every bowl of soup I served, a new cockroach appeared. This went on for over an hour and was even starting to get funny. Finally, Sylvester withdrew the dish from the menu.

Dinner also got off to a rocky start.

A very plump and stocky gentleman, along with an ugly, pockmarked woman, were fussing over steaks for a long time. And when finally an impatient Sylvester offered them something vegetarian as a substitute, the gentleman stood up and pulled out his ID:

"Sanitary inspection! Lead us to the kitchen, man!"

The inspector proved to be an exceptionally meticulous and competent specialist.

He carefully examined the temperatures of the meats, cold cuts, and fish and issued Sylvester a hefty fine for what he considered improper segregation of chicken and duck wings. As if that had any bearing on dead poultry...

Due to the plump clerk's official duties, the kitchen was forced to suspend operations for a good three hours.

"We'll be held accountable when we get paid!" "Sylvester growled at me and rushed to the dance floor.

Dantesque scenes were unfolding there.

A man lay beside a table, moaning and wailing horribly. He turned red and green alternately, clutching his stomach and bulging his eyes. The woman with him skillfully heated things up, screaming at the top of her lungs:

"They've poisoned my man! Help! They've poisoned my man!"

Naturally, the incident piqued the interest of the other guests.

Sylvester dashed sweatily between the tables, trying to stop those who had prudently begun to leave the restaurant.

And the arrival of the medical team added fuel to the fire.

The doctor proved to be a man of incredible tact and great sensitivity.

He kicked the fallen man, then stood in the middle of the room and announced loudly,

"This guy's going to die soon! Call the funeral home!"

Then, after consulting with the paramedic, he added reassuringly,

"Ladies and gentlemen! All those who ate the shrimp salad are requested to immediately go to the nearest health facility to have their intestines flushed! Strychnine was found in the salad in significant quantities! There's no reason to panic! I repeat...!

You should have seen this mass exodus..."

And Sylvester sat cross-legged at one of the tables, swaying helplessly.

I wondered what to think of all this. One thing was certain: I was done for the day.

My mood wasn't improved by the postcard with the skull that had mysteriously infiltrated the kitchen and sat forlornly on the turned-off burners:

"So, nice guy? Ready for more fun? Or would you rather get punched in the face? Joe."

I was already thoroughly amused, and I wasn't in any hurry to respond.

The "Green Monkey" was closed for another week. In the empty rooms, only the sad shadows of inspectors, lab technicians, and specialists in disinfection, rodent control, and whatever else loomed.

Journalists, meanwhile, were writing lengthy front-page articles about the murderous chef and the vampire manager. The story proved to be very popular, especially since it was the height of the culinary season.

Only after five days did rehabilitation begin. It turned out that our alleged victim was alive and well. And the sudden and ominous-looking indisposition was nothing more than acute appendicitis, which had struck the unfortunate gentleman right here in our restaurant.

The specialists, however, after numerous tests and analyses, unanimously declared that none of the staff had used strychnine to flavor meats, desserts, or foamy drinks. They even added, reassuringly, that we also used pepper in reasonable and moderate amounts. The apology and restoration phase began, and the "Green Monkey" reopened to the public.

For now, however, it was deserted, operating as a tourist attraction.

Sylvester sat at the bar, yawning with boredom, while I, for lack of anything better to do, chased flies and played "lounge boy" with the kitchen staff.

Four days passed like this.

I was preparing lunch for Japanese businessmen who, unaware of the place's notoriety, had risked ordering when none other than Joe Papryczka himself entered the kitchen.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the knives hanging in a row on a holder mounted on the wall.

"Hello!" he said, as if nothing had happened.

I straightened and moved a little closer to the wall.

"What can I help you with? Would you like some cyanide-infused fish or an egg with arsenic?"

Pepper burst out laughing.

"I see, my friend, you haven't lost your sense of humor! That's good!

" "It's a kind of gallows humor," I growled, "and it's quite dangerous!"

The knives were already within my reach.

"Yeah!" Pepper examined his manicured fingers. "So what's going to happen to us? We pay the tax and the peace of mind tax? Or maybe he'll treat you to some kind of mass poisoning?"

I quickly assessed the blades. I quickly grabbed the handle, snatching the largest of the knives, and jumped back, taking a defensive stance.

"Just try approaching, you rascal!"

Pepper paled and nervously stepped back. For a gangster, he didn't have particularly strong nerves—I noticed this with some satisfaction.

"What's this, Mr. Protection Specialist? Are we all scared?"

Pepper cleared his throat in embarrassment and raised his hands in a gesture of apology.

"Okay! End of joke! Put down that razor and I'll explain everything in a moment!"

I lowered the knife in surprise.

Pepper scratched his head in embarrassment.

"Where to begin... Well... you're right. I'm no racketeering expert. I'm an actor..."

"An actor?" Despite his conciliatory tone, I was constantly on guard.

"An actor. Not a particularly popular one, but still. Generally, lately I've only been playing tails and halberdiers, but, as is often the case, I keep hoping that "Hamlet" will be my thing again someday...

" "To the point!

" "Well, to stay in practice, and above all, for fun and laughs, I freely admit it, I arrange such masquerades from time to time...

" "Masquerades?!

"That's right," Pepper scratched his unshaven beard, "I arrange various situational scenes, test the joke on unsuspecting victims, and I tear up watching them thrash. That's all.

" "Something like that!" – The explanation seemed a bit convoluted, though quite plausible – meaning that those cockroaches…

– My friend planted them – Papryczka nodded.

– And that inspection…

– A friend from the theater. A great actor, by the way. If only you'd seen him in "The Inspector General"…!

– And the guy after a dose of strychnine…?

– That's my brother-in-law, actually – Papryczka smiled apologetically – but very talented, as you saw. And my brother-in-law's sister too – the one who screamed so piercingly… A great vocal talent, isn't she?

– And the emergency medical service?!

– Colleagues, they're all my colleagues.

I raised the knife and started approaching him, murderous intent written on my face.

– But I wasn't winding up the journalists! Pepper cautiously backed away – they wrote such nonsense themselves…

“Come here, you rascal,” I gritted through my teeth, “let me have my moment of inner joy!”

And I lunged at him.

The Japanese businessmen didn’t eat lunch that day, and poor Sylvester turned gray within five minutes.

When I later watched the entire incident recorded by security cameras, I felt no regret or indignation at being fired.

After all, it’s not often that a chef armed with a cleaver, in a white lab coat like a ghost, chases a customer like a madman, trampling tables, yelling,

“Come here, you bastard, and I’ll scalp you!”

Erratum:

We sincerely apologize for certain inaccuracies that have crept into the text, completely against our will.

Firstly, the restaurant is called the "Blue Monkey," not the "Green Monkey" (because who's ever seen green monkeys?).

The author worked there for a time as a quasi-independent chef—though we must admit with remorse that he was a rather mediocre cook, and fortunately for society, he resigned from the position.

Secondly, Joe Papryczka never showed up there. We're not even sure he even exists.