The smell of spices linger as though they are the ghosts of past meals. Leaving nothing behind but the memory of what once was. Moonlight sneaks through the high windows, trying to enter the home to enjoy the elaborate meal she knows is soon coming. The cold chrome tiled floor and white marble table top gives the feeling of an art gallery, yet there is something in the air that makes one feel at home. The rich smell of wine sitting in the decanter is far too tempting and I pour myself a glass, the rich oaky taste is evidently just as calming as the sent.
I am a perfectionist; I take the highest care of my work, especially when it comes to food. It is in fact my favourite past time, preparing meals and throwing elaborate dinner parties. Every meal shall be a masterpiece and every bite a paroxysm of flavour that takes the mind to places it has only travelled in past lives. I pull the aged mahogany box made by father for mother from the glass cabinet and order through tattered pieces of parchment until I find what I am searching for, an old recipe for seared heart with caramelized vegetables my mother has created, traditionally done with deer heart. I remember hunting with my father, gathering meat for my mother to cook. She wrote all of her recipes in this box and cooked each one to perfection. This recipe in particular I have been waiting a long time to make my own.
I remove the heart, which has been sitting in the vinegar, salt, oregano, thyme and black pepper marinade. The smell is overwhelming and only heightens my intrigue. Grill everything on high heat. Put the heart and vegetables on the grill and leave them with the cover open for 8 minutes. Flip and grill, uncovered, for five minutes. Remove and put in foil to steam. If the heart is not cooked through, steam for two to five more minutes. The meat wants to be 135 degrees in the centre. Let rest for five minutes. Sprinkle with fine sea salt before serving.
Benjamin, a patient of mine, runs through my mind while I cook. How could I have helped this poor man? He comes to me with trouble sleeping and sociopathic thoughts. A danger to himself and society. He is incurable. Lost in the world, alone. I cannot help but feel deep pity for the tall man, his messy brown hair, his sleepless eyes. He had no one, no mother, no father, brothers or sisters, wife, husband, lover, children. He was truly alone, apart from me. He started to believe we were becoming friends, while I knew our relationship was purely professional.
* Slice * the sharp edge of the blade slashes through my flesh just below the thumbnail on my left hand and just above the knuckle. I inspect the wound and see a glimpse of the white matt finish of my bone. This is going to take attention away from my dinner, how unfortunate. I walk to the restroom to retrieve the first aid kit and dress the wound. Before I begin to cook, I remove the blood from the tiled floor. Another scar to add to the collection. Bleach, one shot glass and a quarter lemon. First remove the blood with a towel, soaking up the majority. Pour a shot glass of bleach over the area and let sit for exactly one minute, remove with towel. Squish one quarter of a lemon into the floor to cover smell and give a brand-new effect. By the time I return to the masterpiece, my masterpiece, it is almost ready to serve.
The presentation is as important as the meal itself. It doesn’t matter if you are the richest man in the city, the most respected psychiatrist around, no one will respect you if you are not presented well. A high end, three-piece suit. Silver cufflinks. Double Windsor knot with a perfect two-centimetre indent. Matching silk pocket square. Polished shoes, a belt that complements the whole outfit. This is how you earn respect, otherwise no one will look at you twice. Perfect preparation is very important indeed. A carrot and cucumber garnish sculptured into flawless flowers. And a jus ring around the outskirts of the plate to tie it all together.
The blood starts seeping through the dressing I have on the wound, slowly making itself known. A nearby port glass contains the blood while I attend to the damage. I return to the table and take some for my own, watching the small glass fill gave me a desire. The liquid coats my throat, warming me from the inside until I feel it reach my skin. Memories of my childhood washed over my mind like the soft waves of the ocean. When I would slash myself as a child while climbing a tree my mother would give me the smooth liquid to calm my nerves and take the pain away. She would take some for her own. The taste still lingers on my lips while I reach for my knife.
The first bite would always be the sweetest. The anticipation grows as my fork softly glides into the heart. The knife slashes like a shark’s fin in water making its way to its prey, smooth and agile with absolute stealth. As the sliver of meat passes through my lips the first drop of jus hits my taste buds, my tongue softly caresses the flesh before placing it between my canines where it is softly cut smaller, the small knives which my body has given me, exactly for times like this. As I swallow, I know to the extent of what I have created, this is more than food, this is art, this is a masterpiece, this truly is what the human heart was made for.