Mel and I arrive at Rude Food only thirteen minutes late. Which is practically punctual for us. I'm already livestreaming as we enter the dark little restaurant. I can feel Mel's annoyance as I point my phone at the friendly hostess who takes our reservation, and ushers us to the establishment's sole table. I know my streaming bothers people, but what they never seem to understand is that the staff here is temporary. After our meal, we'll never see them again. But the views. The views are forever.
The maître d' is a tall skinny man in a neat black suite and bowtie. With a bright red napkin over his arm, he waves us to our seats. Opposite each other, across a small table, I peek out from behind my phone to smile at Mel. She shows me her teeth and I roll my eyes at how nervous she is. I'm about to tease her for being such a baby when the maître d' clears his throat.
"Will madams be enjoying one or two tastings this evening?" he asks. His accent is aggressively French. Overplayed to the point where I'm positive he's never so much as set foot in Eurpoe.
I swivel my phone to take him in. "This is our first time here. What do you recommend?"
"Madams may find that sharing a single tasting allows them to best digest the experience," he says, and slides a thin laminated menu in front of me.
I don't recognize any of the dishes on offer. But I figure it won't make much difference for the content. So I just check a random box for each course.
"That's a lot of courses!" Mel whispers across the table.
"That's how you know it's fancy," I tell her.
As soon as I finish, the maître d' whisks away the menu and disappears through some saloon doors. To wake up the chef, I presume.
"Yeah, so this place is supposed to be totally wild." I continue chattering, half to Mel and half to my phone, "I had to sign a waver just to get a booking."
"Really?" Mel asks. "What kind of stuff was on it?"
"Oh, I didn't read it. It was super long."
"Then it was probably important!" she hisses at me. But she falls silent as the maître d' returns, now accompanied by a shorter, broader, man who I assume to be chef. I assume he is the chef because he's wearing all white, including a silly cylinder hat. I make sure my stream gets a good shot of him.
The maître d' sets a small silver serving tray in the center of our otherwise empty table. "For ze appetizer. Oysters fa diablos." He lifts the lid with a flourish. My phone's camera is expertly positioned to take in the amazing food without steaming up the lens. But on my screen, all I see is a gravy boat brimming with vibrant orange sauce. Beside it lie two loops of what looks like rough help rope. I look at Mel and see she's just as confused as me.
"So the oysters are in there?" I ask, pointing at the gravy boat.
The maître d' and the chef say nothing. Instead, they move swiftly and in unison to grab the loops of rope. Before Mel or I can process what's happening, the maître d' is behind me, the chef is behind her, and they're looping their rope around our respective necks!
"God damn it Amy. This is one of those sex rest-" Mel manages to yell before the rope is pulled tight, pinning her back against the chair. Her eyes are wild as she claws at the rope. Not that I should judge, I'm doing the same. My phone skitters away across the table.
The livestream is now transmitting the restaurant's low, but vaulted, ceiling. Not the kind of content my viewers are looking for.
I manage to get my hands under the rope. And though the maître d' might as well be a million times stronger than me, I'm able to apply enough counter pressure that I can still breath. Even if it's difficult.
