This food is dreadful.
The main course has the texture of half-boiled egg whites, and it slips and slides around in my mouth, avoiding my desperate bites. Chewing this food – if I can even bring myself to call it that at this point – only releases a further torrent of disgustingness, for within the greasy outer membrane is a thin, tart, almost rancid juice, which I suspect is not even supposed to have the taste or texture it does. It’s what I’ve always imagined eating an eyeball would be like.
The side is bearable at best, if bearable were a synonym for edible and if edible were to simply mean “not poison.” I might as well be chewing on cardboard soaked in lighter fluid. The chef – if I can even bring myself to call him or her that at this point – must have added too much wine, too much vinegar and not enough love.
I don’t understand. Don’t people taste the food they prepared before they serve it? What is wrong with people? Everyone else seems to be enjoying the food. Is it just me? Do I have strange tastes? No way. How could anyone like this stuff? Maybe it’s just my food. Maybe it’s just a fluke and I should politely speak up about it. Or what if it was meant for me? What if this was done on purpose? Oh God, I’m being poisoned, aren’t I? I knew it; I was beginning to wonder how this food could not be poison. This is it, I’m being poisoned.
I’m going to die right here, my final moments consisting of muscling through the worst culinary experience of my life and paranoid introspection. I’ll probably collapse forward into my death meal, my face drowned in putrid juices with pieces of god-knows-what stuck to my nose and cheeks. The other people will mostly gasp in horror when this all happens, but someone – probably a heavyset man trying to impress a girl – will undoubtedly laugh, joking that I’ve had too much to drink. But it won’t be a joke. I’ll be dead due to poisoned food from the same kitchen and in the same place everyone else is eating. Panic will ensue and accusations will be thrown. The truth must be found!
Surely, the coroner will perform a swift autopsy on my cadaver and find the poisons in my stomach very easily, as I have had no time to digest very much of it, if its even possible to digest this stuff at all. There is no doubt he will wonder what I was eating when it happened, but he will at least know the poisons came from the food. I imagine the police investigation won’t take long and the responsible party or parties will be brought to swift justice.
There will certainly be a flood of emotions from my family in the courtroom, cursing the perpetrators. One can only hope the presiding judge and accompanying jury will have no place in their collective ruling hearts to grant any sort of mercy on these wretched, poisoning heathens; the scum of society. How dare they poison an innocent man!
But – maybe I won’t say anything about the food. I don’t want to seem rude.
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