The diner stepped out of his long black car and nodded to the chauffeur, who drove off to the garage. The diner wouldn’t see him again for at least an hour.
He walked towards the buildings double-doors, which opened automatically as he approached, and walked into the dimly lit warmth of the restaurant. The crimson carpet, the dark dark wood panelled walls, the glittering chandeliers… it was still as beautiful as the first time he’d entered.
A waiter in a black waistcoat stepped up to him as the doors closed behind him.
“Good evening sir,” The waiter greeted him. “It’s wonderful to see you again. Your usual table?”
“Thank you, that will do nicely.” The diner replied.
The waiter led him over to a table near the wall, set already with only one chair. Almost everyone at the restaurant ate alone.
When the fluffy pony craze began, very few people considered eating them. The creatures themselves were such vile, filthy beasts that it was the furthest thing in most people’s minds. But times changed, people’s attitudes changed, and while abusing fluffies became more normal, eating them was still something of a rarity.
But that didn’t mean it was lacking an audience.
And so, over time, special dining clubs and eateries had begun opening up around the world, restaurants that specialised in a very specific kind of ‘cuisine’. But of course, their customer base was very small, and the cooking processes often very difficult, so such places were often very expensive and exclusive.
One such place was Raphael’s.
The story went that Raphael had started his restaurant with the sole intention of perfecting the art of fluffy pony cuisine. He worked day after day, experimenting and refining and altering until he had a flawless dish, which was then promptly added to the menu.
The diner had been coming to the restaurant ever since it had opened, but even he was still to try every dish on the menu. The diner ran his eyes down the list, taking in the stews and soups made with fluffy meat and bones, the deep-fried foals with dipping sauce, the smoked meat-strips drizzled with a savoury sauce made from the same fluffy’s own blood…
He paused, uncertain.
“What does the chef recommend?” He asked the waiter.
“Today, sir? That would be the ‘sketty and meatfoals’, a true delicacy.”
“I haven’t tried it before, why not? I’m feeling adventurous.”
“Wonderful, sir. And would sir care for something to drink?”
“Naturally, does any wine pair well with the meal?”
“We would recommend the '54 Bordeaux, sir.”
“Excellent, thank you.”
The diner settled back in his chair and glanced around the restaurant. He had dined here several times before, and every time had been a delight. The food was expensive, but then again, the cooks were among the best in the world, and cooking fluffy ponies wasn’t exactly as easy as it sounded.
For one, the chefs were as patient as Buddhist monks. They would put up with any amount of screaming, shrieking, flailing, begging, pleading, and whining, all without ever raising a hand to their victims, lest they damage their highly sensitive produce.
As he waited on his own meal, he glanced around the room, looking at some of the other diners.
There was ‘the Countess’, a woman in her 70s who seemed to be wearing every piece of jewellery she had ever owned, with multiple rings on her boney fingers to heaps of necklaces surrounding her withered throat.
She had opted for the ‘Stuffed Smarty’: a still-living Smarty fluffy who had been shaved, cut open, and their organs removed and then replaced with a variety of options. Meats, vegetables, seafood… the Countess had opted for shrimp and rice in her Smarty, it seemed. The diner watched as she skewered a piece of shrimp on her long fork and raised it to her thin lips, hands trembling with Parkinson’s as the shrimp passed her lips to be chewed by her false teeth.
The diner turned and saw a newcomer, a fat balding man who looked rather nervous. It was understandable, the community for those who enjoyed eating fluffies wasn’t as large as some believed, and even though nobody bothered to shame abusers anymore, there was still something of a stigma attached to the consumption of fluffies.
It must’ve been his very first time.
The diner watched as a waiter brought him a covered dish, then ceremoniously lifted the lid away, revealing a steaming plate of food. The first-timer had apparently ordered the ‘Organ Platter’: a large plate of various fluffy organs, harvested from numerous fluffies and cooked in a variety of ways.
There was the bowl of hearts, which had been deep-fried and now resembled tempura shrimp. There was the bowl of brain chunks, which had been slow-cooked and now melted in the mouth. There was also the bowl of the ever-controversial genitalia, which had been soaked in a barbecue marinade for 48 hours in advance before being grilled up. Sautéd slivers of lung, steam-cooked lengths of intestines…
The diner watched as the first-timer nervously skewered a piece of breaded fluffy stomach on his fork and tentatively bit into it, chewing slowly… but gradually getting faster as the delicious taste washed through his mouth. He chomped down on the rest of it, then began working on the deep-fried heart chunks, savouring every crispy morsel.
The diner turned and caught sight of another regular, a man whose name he did not know but had mentally named ‘Mr Creosote’, for obvious reasons. The man was massive, overflowing from the tiny chair he was perched upon, his head supported by several layers of chins that gradually receeded into the swelling bulk of his bloated guts.
The man was, in a word, fat.
He himself was dining on an extra-large meal, the sort of thing meant for a group which, of course, ‘Mr Creosote’ was shovelling down his singular mouth as fast as he could. The dish in question was a fluffy pony, shaved bald, tied with twine, it’s eyes plucked out, and then cooked until it’s skin was dark red and crispy.
All while it was still alive.
When it emerged from the oven, it was still wheezing and mewling in pain. It’s mouth was opened, an apple was jammed inside, it’s missing eyes were replaced with small pieces of onion and the tied fluffy was served on a bed of rice and greens, with a variety of carving knives provided.
The diner watched as ‘Mr Creosote’ cut a sliver of tender meat from the fluffy’s rump, slicing it off and cramming it into his slobbering mouth, loudly chewing on it while he readied the knife to cut another piece, this time opting for a large chunk from the fluffy’s front. The diner watched again as ‘Mr Creosote’ sliced off the piece, juices oozing from the chunk as it came away from the fluffy’s body.
The fluffy itself was still twitching and whimpering, unable to speak around the apple jammed into it’s mouth, unable to see, and unable to move despite the constant pain of the knife cutting into it’s tender, sensitive, heavily burned flesh.
The diner was snapped out of his observations as he saw a waiter approaching his table, carrying with him another covered tray.
The diner fixed his napkin to his neck as the waiter placed the tray before him, lifting away the shining pewter cover. The dish was, as advertised, a plate of spaghetti. The pasta itself was hand-made by the chefs, cut into long, flat strips of Fettuccine, which formed the base. The sauce was then added on top, a rich marinara made with garlic, capers and red wine.
But the pièce de résistance was the meatballs. Or rather, the meatfoals.
Heaped on top of the sauce was a small pyramid of well-cooked foals, completely hairless and totally motionless. Some had horns, some had wings, some were just regular earthies, but they were all around the same size. The diner knew the restaurant well, he knew they got them from their own in-house fluffies… and they prided themselves on picking the ‘just born today’ foals for these dishes.
They weren’t even 24 hours old.
Perfect.
The waiter departed with the lid and returned only to provide the diner with his bottle of wine and a glass, allowing him to fill it as he pleased.
But first, the diner picked up his knife and fork and deftly cut one of the foals in half. He smiled at what he saw.
In true cordon bleu fashion, their bellies had been slit open with a knife prior to being cooked, and their intestines, bladder and bowels were removed, replaced with a variety of diced vegetables, spices and herbs, before they were sewn back up with a very fine thread. This ensured that diners wouldn’t taste any of the feces that fluffy ponies were famous for, but would instead find a surprise treat inside every foal.
The diner picked up the front half of his meatfoal and placed it in his mouth, gingerly chewing at it. But as ever, he had no reason to fear. The cooking process had almost completely melted the already-fragile bones of the foals, reducing them to a soft, chewable substance that gave way under his teeth with very little resistance. The same could be said for the unicorn’s horns, which only posed a threat in terms of getting stuck between the diner’s teeth.
He swallowed the first half of his meatfoal and then started on the second, chewing through it’s rump and genitalia before swallowing it too. He tasted the succulent meat of the foal, the exotic spices in it’s belly, and the soft chunks of onion, mushroom, carrot and potato that had been mixed in to replace it’s organs.
The diner smiled as he felt the foal hit his stomach.
It tasted perfect.
Half an hour later and he was finished.
“How was the meal, sir?” The waiter asked with a smile.
“Absolutely spectacular.” The diner replied honestly. “I don’t know how your chefs manage to do it, but every time I come here, I have one of the best meals I’ve ever had. You’ve yet to disappoint me, and honestly, I doubt you ever will.”
The waiter smiled and nodded.
“Thank you, sir. I will, of course, pass that along to the chefs. Will you be requiring the bill? Or would you prefer something else first?”
The diner paused, thinking.
“You know, I’ve been coming here for quite some time,” He said. “And in all that time, I’ve never once even looked at the dessert menu. Could you perhaps bring one over?”
“Certainly, sir.”
The waiter departed and returned a moment later, handing the leatherbound book to the diner. He leafed through it briefly, smiling at the various options until he spotted one that caught his eye.
“I think I’ll try the foal sorbet.” He said. “I had foals for dinner, might as well keep the pattern going.”
The waiter chuckled.
“Very true, sir. I shall inform the chefs immediately.”
30 minutes later, the dessert arrived.
The waiter presented him with a glass dish containing a frozen foal, whose head had been removed and then replaced on top of the body. The diner plucked it off, and saw that the foal’s corpse had been hollowed out and filled with bright red sorbet. He spooned out a small amount of it and placed it in his mouth, noting the taste of various red fruits… but also a small hint of blood.
They had used the foal’s own blood to flavour the sorbet, just as they were supposed to.
The diner smiled warmly, and continued eating.
Truly, there was not a single bad meal at Raphael’s.
The diner made sure of that.
Some time later, he climbed back into his black car and drove away from the restaurant. The diner, also known to the world as Raphael, burped quietly into his hand as he allowed his meal to digest.
He frequented his own restaurant often, as the staff only knew him as another customer, no different from any others. He was a frequent visitor, but still nobody special. Yet despite that their work was always exceptional, and his experiences often helped him concoct new ideas for the menu.
It was as he was being driven home that he began pondering about a new dish: a mama who had been force-fed her own newborn foals, swallowing them whole while they were still alive, then being cooked to roast the foals inside her own belly, essentially using the mama as a pressure-cooker.
Raphael smiled.
His menu would have a new item soon enough.
