GHOST RESTAURANT

Wometimes, when people die, their ghosts fly, Fly far away to new and unknown destinations Through the crisp, cold air, Along the horizon of the sky and past the clouds Feeling the buzz of the life around and throughout the Earth.

Sometimes, when people die, their ghosts just sit and deny, They deny truth of their new reality, and cling desperately to the small slivers from their past life, Floating around their house and sitting in the armchairs by the hearth. In the night, they confess their regrets that fuse with the wails of the wind, The whispers of their cries echoing through the pipes.

Sometimes, when people die, their ghosts haunt the ones who wronged them, Deep-pitted resentment in their ghostly hearts.

But over time, they all forget the who’s and the what’s, and live their days as the unalive Watching life grow as small green buds bloom into leaves, Then turn into hues of bronze and red and flutter to the ground.

And like the leaves, they waited for that feeling to be reborn again by going to Ghost Restaurant.

Ghost Restaurant stood on the corner of a particular street,

A place where the spirits of old couples sat side by side, Generations of families broke bread together, And the lonely found company.

From dawn to dusk, the lights of Ghost Restaurant were always lit

And inside, it was filled the spirited cacophony of clinking silverware against porcelain, Bustling waiters as they passed through velvet draped tables, Plumes of smoke in rainbow shades escaping through the chimney, Floating candles and glass chandeliers, Smooth classical music notes filling the air Intermingling with the delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen doors. Where only one dish was ever prepared, and one dish was only ever ordered.

It was called “Something Alive”

First ordered many years ago by a spirit, Not of a deceased soul, but of one alive. It belonged to a real estate agent, one of the most popular in the area. His days were filled with numbers and mechanical voices,

And not even the green, gleaming cash deposited and tucked away in the safe Could soothe his soul, who wandered around to different places each day, To escape the whispers and hundreds of thoughts, the demands, the expectations pounding in his head. The spirit roamed over the grass fields and through the lone streets, trying to find some purpose, some calm.

And one day, when he finally stepped into Ghost restaurant, The waiter asked his what he wanted to order, And the spirit, with empty sorrow in his eyes, simply replied, “Something Alive”.

It was a peculiar order, one that puzzled the chefs. For it was easy to live, but hard to be alive. But an order was an order, and what more could make a ghost feel more alive than emotions?

The euphoria and the thrill, the heartache and the pain, the love and the joy, the checks of reality that made humans alive and want to live.

The kitchen porters were in charge of gathering the ingredients.

First was some fresh serotonin.

The chef heard lustrous notes coming from the open window, and found a man, playing his violin in the park, a symphony of shrill, sweet notes

And saw the fuchsia pink waves emanating from the crowd of children and adults around him,

Brought out a jar, and collected the ribbons of pink.

Second, just a pinch of anxiety. That had to be handled the most carefully. Just a small dip of the jar from an open window Into the high school classroom, murky gray particles filling the jar.

Adrenaline, a teal-colored gas

Leaving a trail behind the roller-coaster cart. Anger, heartbreak and sadness

All collected in trace amounts from a mother’s tears, Which fell behind her child’s locked door.

Emotions which the saucier mixed with a puree, Adding pinches of spices and some thickening. And when it started to bubble slightly over the hot stove, He incorporated the adrenaline, pouring slowly while the other chef whisked rapidly.

The Sous Chef demanded to taste the sauce, while The Entremetier’s steel blade sliced the carrots, Julienned the serotonin into paper thin slices, Chopped the peppers into cubes, onions into dices.

Finally, the Rotisseur worked on the steak

Unwrapped it from the parchment it was steaming in with a mixture of herbs, And marinated it with spices. He placed it in a sizzling iron-cast pan Added a chunk of butter, a solidified piece of love and basted each side of the steak, skin glistening brown.

Presented on a simple white plate. Salad on the side, sauce poured over glistening meat The waiter took out the order and gave it to the soul.

With each bite, the flavor grew And the ghost got déjà vu of the rainy afternoons spent in front of his piano, fingers lightly skipping over the ivory keys of the laughter of his wife during dinner time, family time of the yapping of his Pekinese, and the rush of excitement as he rode his bike down the hill He remembered these emotions, cooked so carefully in the food, with each bite and finally felt alive.

As the real estate agent learned to live, Step by step, savoring his passions. More hungry souls craved a taste, And the more this dish was made, Emotions collected every day

And glided out the kitchen doors on platters of gold

To make the souls of the dead feel something alive

The most popular dish of Ghost restaurant, the story now told.

archways Zion Brown Photography