🫢 Sorry I Spiked Your Sauce

The realization overpowered his hangover in the morning. Instead of apple cider vinegar, Hinga had included brandy in the French dressing. That explained its eccentric flavor but also accounted for Beaumont’s uncanny cheerfulness. Had he been able to drive home after downing the equivalent of 2 fluid ounces of 100-proof liquor? Hinga half-expected to be confronted with the news of his death behind the wheel once he unlocked his phone. Clear. He called Belinda to ask if the chef had made it to his Airbnb OK. Clear.

“No, no, it’s nothing. I just wanted to extend our friendliness in case that scores us extra points. I’d have called him directly, but I don’t have his number.”

“Right. Well, as I said, he’s doing great as far as I know, but definitely not as great as last night. We absolutely spellbound him. This could be the start of something massive for The Lodge.”

“Fingers crossed. Catch you later, Bella.”

Clear, clear, clear. The path ahead, however, was anything but. There’s no handbook detailing how to tell someone you inadvertently tried to kill them.

After weighing his options, none of which were favorable, he decided to take the bull by the horns. Finding Beaumont was easy; his website charted his restaurant route. The plan was to intercept him that weekend since he would still be traversing the Lake Nakuru chain of eateries. For some reason, his assistant had already heard of him and agreed to set a meeting between them. Tail between his legs, Hinga dragged his feet to the popular watering hole the critic selected for their second tête-à-tête. The location choice compounded his already unfathomable unease.

Someone was crooning about their lover from the speakers of the dimly lit joint. Beaumont sat with his back to the entrance. Hinga gingerly approached his conspicuous white afro, wondering how he had still managed to be late despite arriving an hour ahead of the agreed-upon time. The slightly-built food aficionado extended his arm in greeting when Hinga came into view. Neither was expecting the usually-grumpy older man to sacrifice his seat to welcome the younger, however momentarily.

The conversation began innocuously enough. Hinga had learned that Beaumont hated small talk, so he steered him toward sharing his experiences around the Lake’s most prized dining spots.

“Is this why you wanted to meet? To get an inside scoop on the competition?”

“In a sense. I doubt The Lodge will be in the running for your good graces once you hear what I reveal tonight. With any luck, you can pardon the hive for one worker bee’s misdeeds.”

“Who’s the delinquent worker bee, Hinga?”