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The Best Pie In London

A Grisly, Gristly Surprise

By Deanne AdamsPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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The woman seated at table 12 screamed. She leapt to her feet and dropped her cutlery onto her plate. The fork spattered dark gravy over the crisp table linen. The knife slid off and clattered on the floor. Her high-backed chair teetered for a moment on two legs then toppled backwards. It crashed against the striped floorboards. Every other diner fell silent and turned to look, but she continued screaming. Her husband, fork frozen halfway to his mouth, stared at her.

Several waiters flocked to her. She babbled and pointed at the table. The wine? No. The pie? Yes! She stood back and sobbed against her spread fingers. The three men followed her quivering, accusing finger to the half-eaten steak and ale pie. It was the most popular dish on their homemade specials board. Just that evening, Chef had received the compliments of no fewer than seven contented customers and the waiting staff had received generous tips. In their regular restaurant feature, The London Evening Star had proclaimed the dish "The best pie in London" and awarded Lovett's a five star review. Mr. Green had had to book a table a fortnight in advance of their wedding anniversary.

But now, four faces peered down into the hole Mrs Green had made in the pastry.

“What the…?” began the husband, his eyes growing round.

The next second, the head waiter whisked the plate from the table. “Sir... Madam... I must apologise. There will be a simple explanation. I will talk to Chef at once… Andrew… Marcus … show our guests into the private dining room upstairs. Now." The junior staff fluttered around Mr. and Mrs. Green, speaking softly and propelling them towards the back stairs.

Simon's mouth grew tauter. He turned on his heel and walked a little faster than usual to the kitchens.

***

Chef was seasoning his speciality beouf bourguignon when the door swung open and Simon was swept in on the tide of female sobbing. The tide deposited him at Anton’s elbow. Simon waited until the noise of broken cries and footsteps had moved to Mrs. Lovett's private dining room upstairs, then he clattered the plate on the counter.

“Look at that, will you!” Simon said.

Anton took no notice.

Look at it, for God's sake!”

“I'm busy. What is it?” Anton said, sipping at the sauce in the pot.

“We've got a problem. With the pie.”

Anton finally looked at Simon. Then he glanced at the returned plate. “What d'you mean, a problem with the pie? That's the best pie in London, that is!” A horrid smirk crept onto his face. “They're queuing round the block to get their mouths around that pie! It's special. Made with special meat.”

Simon glared at Anton. “Look inside the pie. Look what's in it.” He shoved the plate closer, under Anton's nose.

Anton's smirk slipped a bit. He looked down at the plate, then looked in closer, where the ear, all white and gristly, swam in its beery gravy. The smile left his face entirely. “That's not my fault,” he said. “It's not my job to get rid of all those bits. They're supposed to.”

“That's not the point! Get on the phone to Mrs Lovett. They're only next door. They're eating there tonight,” Simon said. “Tell her to tell him he's needed. I’ve got to catch that couple before they leave. Andrew and Marcus don't have the brains to keep them there long.”

He swept back towards the door, but hesitated, then came back. He picked up a boning knife, tested it against his thumb and slipped it inside a menu.

Next door, in the apartment above Todd's barber's shop, Mrs. Lovett picked up her phone. “This had better be important, Anton,” she said.

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About the Creator

Deanne Adams

I love stories. Stories which make me laugh, cry, wince or get angry. Stories which make me care. Most of all, I love helping others tell stories that captivate. Reach me at bestbookyoucan.com or follow me on Facebook.

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