L'ange a Souri

A story within a story. A man's last attempt at controlling his fate and a killer sandwich.

Michael Fish

5800 Boul Cavendish

Montréal, Quebec G1A 1C5

Canada

ATwater - 8847

4th April 1912     

Alfred A. Knopf

Secretary, Peithologian Society

212 Hamilton Hall, mail code 2807

1130 Amsterdam Avenue

New York, NY 10027

Greetings, Mr. Secretary and fellow Brothers of the Quill,

I pose a question to you, but first I want to thank you for indulging me in what may turn out to be my last story in correspondence. I am very ill and writing this from my bed.

Très bien…

    If you had the power to stage the last scene in your life, Brothers, what would you do? Where would you be? Would you go out alone or perhaps at a party surrounded by friends and family? Would you be someplace exotic or maybe just on your favorite beach watching the sun rise or set one last time? Would you go out with a bang or would you shuffle off this mortal coil with a quiet smile. Of course the majority of us don’t get that choice. The Lord comes for us without reservations. But just “What if?”...

    It was roughly two a.m. on the good side of Montréal. Richie Moreau sat alone in his restaurant “L’oie Grasse”. It was finally quiet. His crew had gone home for the night and Richie was sipping, a now, watered down Highball and waited with a smile on his face.

   Richie didn’t consider himself a coward. He liked to think of himself as a modern man. A twentieth century man. One who was in charge of his own destiny. That’s why when the doctors told him that within three years he would succumb to Chondrosarcoma (tumors of bone and soft tissue known as sarcomas), Richie arranged for a hit man. 'I'll go out.' he thought. 'But on my terms.'

Tonight he would feed himself and his would be assassin a world class sandwich, drink the finest beer and then...

    It wasn’t long before he heard the old wooden chair being pulled back from the little chef’s table in the back of the kitchen. Richie put his sweating glass down on the coaster and swung around on his leather bar stool slowly, taking in the full view of his life’s work for the last time. He was so proud.

    Richie pushed open the kitchen swing door and met his last guest. The two men just nodded at each other with a quiet politeness. He was just as Richie had pictured him, dark haired, slender build with a neatly trimmed goatee. The stranger had taken off his bowler and coat and hung them on the back door. Richie noticed his tailored suit. It looked very expensive. Thunder boomed overhead and they both looked up at the skylight. The rain was hitting the glass with big fat drops at first then changed to a steady downpour. Un Lavage De Printemps, the Quebecois called it (A Spring Wash). Richie smiled big. “Perfect.” he said out loud and looked over at the stranger. The man was rolling an empty cup between his hands. Richie poured him a cup of the finest coffee in the province without a word and then started working on his last meal.

    Richie started with the bacon. Eight slices of thick cut hickory smoked prime streaky bacon. With the large skillet on medium high, Richie placed the bacon in, added a quarter cup of maple water and put a lid on it. The kitchen came alive with the sounds and smells of a Chef inspired. Richie then sliced four pieces of Pain de Campagne (rustic loaf) from a miche he had set aside earlier. He covered two pieces of the rustic bread with Monterey Jack, placed them on a cookie sheet and put them in the oven. He pulled the lid off of the cooking bacon and started slicing four Roma tomatoes. He turned the bacon over and cut the heat. The bacon sat caramelizing while Richie pulled the bread out of the oven. The cheese was melted perfectly. The stranger looked on at all this with a bemused smile. Richie was in his element. He then spread the bottom pieces of the hearty bread with a liberal amount of house mayonnaise. Richie took his time placing the bacon on the bread, alternating lean over fat until it was perfect. In two different skillets, he poured a jigger of extra virgin olive oil and let it get come to temperature. Using both hands, he cracked two eggs apiece into the hot oil. Richie held his great pepper mill over the eggs and gave three twists apiece. He then grabbed both skillet handles with both hands, and with a deft flick of his wrists, the eggs were resting over easy. Another pass with the pepper mill and they were done. Richie laid the double yoked eggs over each bed of bacon. He then layered the tomatoes cut lengthwise across the eggs. The stranger at the table looked on as Richie pulled his little salt box from his right front pocket. He grabbed a pinch of Fleur de Sel (flower of salt) and sprinkled one apiece over the tomatoes. He then laid a bed of sweet butter lettuce over them and then grated white truffle over his creations. Richie glanced over at the man at his Chef's table and smiled before he capped the sandwiches gently with the lightly toasted cheese bread. Richie used his carving knife to slice the thick and rich sandwiches on separate plates, the hot yokes running out in the middle as he spread the two pieces apart. He sat the plates down on the little table and went back for the chilled glasses and two bottles of beer. Richie pulled the corks and poured the cold Molson into each glass, not caring about the head spilling over and running down the side of the tall glasses. The stranger looked pleased.

    The two men sat in silently for twenty minutes while eating. The only sounds were the raindrops beating on the skylight, infrequent thunder and an occasional belch. Everything was as Richie planned.

    The stranger pushed his plate away after one last swipe with a scrap of bread through a pool of cold egg yolk. He washed it down with the last swig of beer and belched. Richie knew it was coming and the anticipation was killing him.

“So, how are you going to do it, Monsieur?” Richie asked tentatively.

“Excusez-moi?” the stranger replied with a polite smile.

“How are you to kill me then? Will it be a bullet to my head? Perhaps you strangle me, no?”

The stranger said nothing but continued smiling.

    Richie found himself becoming more irritated by the assassin’s apparent cruel game. He finished his Molson and wiped his mouth.  He was giving himself enough time to find his next words but the stranger broke his train of thought when he said

“Monsieur Tremblay, I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.” the stranger had a true sincerity in his tone.

“So, you are not my killer then? Je vois! (I see!).” Richie said.

“Monsieur, you do not see.” replied the stranger.

Richie laid his chin on his chest and wept.

“Why do you cry, Monsieur Tremblay?”

“Because the Lord will have me die a horrible death by bone cancer!” Richie cried out.

Right then Richie felt the stranger’s warm strong hand on his own but was too embarrassed to look up.

“Monsieur Richard Tremblay, you were five foot five and weighed one hundred and thirty six kilos (300 lbs). You were forty seven, ate streaky bacon and drank alcohol on a competitive level.

Monsieur Richie, you died five minutes ago of a massive cardiac embolism.”

“Sometimes God does make reservations, Richie.” the Angel said.

Thank you again.

Most Humbly,

Michael Fish