Dog’s breakfast

   I looked at the dish in front of me.  “It looks — dead,” I declared.

   Mike snorted, “Of course, it’s dead! What are you expecting it to do? Moo?”

   Mike rolled his eyes as I gingerly lifted the ingredients around in my plate, re-arranging it into a pyramidal formation, so that I can see the profile of the whole dish at a glance. 

   Mike cleared his throat and hissed, “Can you please stop playing with your food and eat? People are watching us.”  

   I smiled mischievously at my right-hand man and tilted my head slightly to glance over my shoulder to see if people were indeed watching us.

   The place was dimly lit although it was early afternoon. Streaks of sunshine streamed intermittently through gaps in the heavy brocade curtains. There was one other booth that was occupied. Three men in suits, huddled over a large blueprint. I shook my head. I can’t see how this restaurant was going to last till the end of the year. Best to turn this old place into one of those artisanal-whatever joints which are a rage with hipsters now. 

   “I hope you are not going to do what I think you are planning to do,” he said in a low voice, pointing his finger at the no-camera sign painted on the side of every booth.

   I giggled. “Hey, can you please hold up your napkin in front of you for abit? Pretend that you are wiping your mouth,” I purred. 

   “We are going to be thrown out of this restaurant for this,” he hissed, obediently holding up the napkin which I was going to use as a diffuser.

   I angled my cellphone to Mike’s napkin to bounce off some soft light, took a couple of quick shots and slowly brought it down to my lap to review. 

   “Satisfied?” Mike huffed. 

   I nodded. “I like you, yunno. You are not like my husband, so grumpy whenever I want to take photos of my food,” I said sweetly, using my fork to turn the food on its side as though I expected to find something else hidden underneath. 

   I raked the garnishes off the top of my main course, and struggle to saw off a small bite. I held it up to my nose, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Then, I put it into my mouth and swirled it around my tongue.

   “This is so good,” I moaned theatrically, mimicking my favourite tv chef, “like hav —.”

   Mike coughed lightly. I opened my eyes and nearly choked on my food. The young chef was grinning at me, “Is everything alright, Madame?”

   “Yes, yes,” I said hurriedly, scratching my brain for a “politically correct” compliment. 

   “This…” I pointed at my dish repeatedly, “wasn’t what I expected.” 

   He looked at me expectantly. I stared at my dish as if to find the right words. “It’s …hmm.. interesting!” I decided, finally, in a measured tone.

   He gave a slight bow and said, “Thank you for your kind support,” before hi-fiving his way back to the kitchen.

   Mike looked at me and started laughing. “You are a bloody soft Aunty person underneath, ain’t you?”

   “No, I’m not!”

   “C’mon, say that you will give this place another chance.”

   I shook my head.

   “That bad, eh?”

   “It’s the pits. At least I won’t feel guilty when I sign the eviction letter. I’ll splash these photos over social media if they threaten to sue. Anyway —,” I sighed, reaching out for an empty doggy bag in my handbag, “The dog would be delighted to have this.” 


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Andrea Boult

Blogs Malaysian short stories at Occasionally I blog in Manglish.

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