Art by Beth Weaver

Cooked Up

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Flinging off her white apron, Diane Lachance scowled and pointedly asked, "Is your last name really 'Savage' or is that just a name you use to get a rise out of law-abiding restauranteur?"

Gene Savage slipped his credentials out of his pocket with a sigh and passed them over to Diane, who scrutinized them for a long minute before finally nodding her head. "What does the health inspector want with me? I run a clean and lovely kitchen, I assure you."

They had met off to the side, in the area used for the main banquet hall of the Match of Elegance restaurant. Diane had just come from the kitchen with the proper attire and covering for her long hair. Hers reminded Gene more of a pirate's head scarf but it still met regulations. He assured her that he had read over the last report from a fellow health inspector and they'd given the restaurant high marks. Never mind the fact the inspector vanished soon after the inspection.

No, he was here because of the rumors about the food "changing" people. Diane folded her toned arms and lifted her head. "So...I make good food and you government types can't just give me a pat on the back about it? You gotta go snooping around, huh?"

Rubbing his forehead, he reassured her that his investigation was fairly-routine, even though the reports he had were not. Flipping through the folder he remarked, "I have one case here of an eighty-year-old man whose birthday pasta made him break down in tears and then, reportedly, he changed over the course of the party into an eighteen-year-old woman with long, curly hair. A husband-and-wife switched places. A young boy changed into a mature woman. And so on."

Snorting, Diane inquired, "Who reported all this?" Gene sighed and noted that the reporting was anonymous but did admit that none of the affected patrons filed the reports but, rather, it was related parties. Diane jabbed a table with her finger. "It's family and friends and all that jazz! People who think they know it all when the customers, the real customers, the paying customers, are fully satisfied!"

Turning his folder, Gene scrunched his face and asked, "Wait...so you don't deny these accusations? Is something going on with your food?" When he got the folder, he had to admit he was skeptical. It sounded as out-there as the allegedly-haunted restaurants he'd heard gossiped about around the office. But that could be passed off as old buildings with undiscovered infra-sounds and carbon monoxide build-up. Something real which could be fixed.

Diane made a point of pressing that she totally denied the complaints, so far as it being something wrong. But she clearly didn't denounce the events. Scratching his head, he asked, "So wait...are you dumping hormones or hallucinogens into your food?"

"Neither! That would be crazy. I cast spells over them."

Gene rubbed his eyes and made a few quick notes on his sheet. "Spells...?"

She nodded and said it was something from her grandmother in the "old country". Food spells. Incantations and combinations of seasoning which brought out "the best" in those who ate it. She smirked and proudly-proclaimed she'd been improving upon the original recipes.

With a sigh, Gene made another note. He really didn't want to write a full report because someone higher-up would want to get the place inspected by a whole team and it might be shut down while they checked for any illicit substances. He hated doing that but the stuff she was talking about was deeply-concerning. He asked to be led around.

It wasn't that big of a place, just the far end of a strip mall with a handful of booths and tables, aside from a small bar with fancy TVs and a pleasant banquet area. Gene tried not to look out-of-place as he ambled. The people around seemed happy and the seating was near capacity, quite good for an off-hour. Sitting to detail some notes, he glanced at a patron with a large bowl of pasta puttanesca.

He blinked his eyes to clear them of any bleary tiredness from the long day. Before him sat a robust and well-dressed gentleman with a broad beard and a slight pompadour. As the man shoveled the food into his mouth, his mouth drew in and began to tighten. His lips swelled but with a rich pinkness instead of the bloated red tone one might expect if he were having an allergic reaction. His beard outright vanished as he dabbed his chin. His chest puffed up, distending his suit in unexpected ways. Long, lovely hair spilled over his shoulders and his suit twisted and shifted.

Before his eyes, within the span of a few seconds, the robust gentleman had been replaced by a busty lady with bright makeup in a red, skimpy dress which made Gene blush. He looked away as her nipples lewdly pressed against the material. The woman squirmed and soon strutted to the restroom in slim pumps. He didn't want to pin any suggestive words on her but he would say she definitely seemed ready for a far more...private setting than this.

Scrawling a quick note, Gene rose and gazed around at the other patrons. A few had glanced in the woman's direction and one or two had watched the entire proceeding. He wasn't losing his mind. But no one screamed or shouted.

Meeting Diane back in the kitchen, he fumbled for words as she prepared several dishes to be sent out. His hands drooping in front of him, Gene was without words. He could only inquire, "Spells...on food?"

She grinned. "Right-o. You saw that one? He's been asking for it for a while. He has a whore fantasy and I figured that dish would be especially apt. Here, have an appetizer."

Without thinking, Gene stuffed the soft pastry in his mouth and muttered as he swallowed. It was only when he reached for a drink that the realization hit. Before he could ask what she had done, he found his voice had acquired a feminine cadence with a perturbed, mid-western accent. His hair swelled but was soon swallowed by a bandana.

The durable, clean clothes of a chef covered his changing body as his hands paused over a bust which matched Diane's. In another breath, he was her twin, from her work-weathered hands to her generous behind, which far too much sampling had swelled and no exercise had managed to deflate. Automatically, Gene jumped in and started working on a dish that needed to go out.

"Thanks, friend. I've always needed an extra sous chef. Not that I'm gonna keep you this way, but I figure explaining it doesn't work as well as being down in the trenches, you get me?"

Bearing much the same mind as hers inside his head, Gene, as Diane's twin, had to nod. It made sense to him right there. Vaguely did he panic inside his head but that was easy to silence.

Only at the end of dinner service did the spell start to wane and he realized he was supposed to be someone other than Diane's twin. He wasn't happy, but she never got written up "Savage"-ly.

A few months later, there were headlines that Match of Elegance had opened up its second location and the head chef was a young and talented lady who bore a striking resemblance to the head chef and owner of the original location.