Today is Wine and Cheese day– the perfect day to celebrate our guilty pleasures.
So it is that we tell a story in its honor.
Where there is wine and cheese, a critic won’t be far behind- and he will learn– when it comes to serving judgment, time will come to taste.
🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷
Le Caveau de Minuit was a picture of ordinariness– a restaurant situated in the misty hills of a forgotten European Village bearing a name that Lisette couldn’t pronounce. The village with no name was spartan– few houses, few people, and even fewer chances to do what Lisette loved most of all– taste testing at restaurants.
Ordinary.
Maddening.
She arrived in front of the ruined door of the restaurant, ready to wield her critique’s knife and fork. She had seen and heard about such restaurants many times before– unseen guests making themselves at home at tables, floorboards that creaked under the weight of the invisible, and curtains that shut in synchrony, an eerie orchestra performing for no audience.
“There’s no fear that a good brie can’t cure.” she consoled herself, taking a tentative step through the door.
But it was small consolation. Fit to eat?
She wasn’t sure.he arrived in front of the ruined door of the restaurant, ready to wield her critique’s knife and fork. She had seen and heard about such restaurants many times before– unseen guests making themselves at home at tables, floorboards that creaked under the weight of the invisible, and curtains that shut in synchrony, an eerie orchestra performing for no audience.
🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷
She strode with confident cynicism into the sparse dining room. At the long dining table, its edges hewn and uneven, sat a motley crowd of three.
Three oddities.
Each looked-
Grave.
Yet the restaurant was no stranger to wine pairing. Pairing had been done– each of these guests sat with tailored wine and cheese.
Tailored to their quirks.
In front of Mavis was cheese–
Broken. Her wine looked–
Sour. Rancid.
The wine next to Barry was covered with film.
Unwanted froth. The cheese was like the words he spoke–
Tough.
Not chewable.
Samantha sat with wine that was–
Sweet.
Too saccharine.
And the cheese with her was–
Faux.
A sample put in a display case.
Lisette wasn’t left out. Her wine was a smoky red. Her cheese?
Veined blue.
That bled.
Ever so slightly.
The sommelier provided service– with a cryptic difference.
He spoke in riddles that an unamused Lisette dared not decipher.
The establishment had an owner– one whose presence was felt rather than seen.
Oddly felt.
Only whispering through walls.
🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷
The food came before them, each dish stranger than the last.
A dish of escargot whispered.
“Eat me,” one invited.
Grilled fish moved, writhing in pain.
“I’m burned,” it cried as it announced.
Then the guests themselves began to change.
Mavis began to shatter.
Broken.
Discouraged.
Like her cheese.
Bob’s skin hardened.
Too hard.
Wrinkled.
Flaky.
Like the cheese before him.
A white substance began to cover Samantha– she began to smell
like an overstretched bakery.
Wonderful was covered by icing sugar, way too sweet.
Lisette herself started to develop visions– visions of herself crushing a weakened soul with reviews far from rave.
White film caked her tongue.
It was dried.
Without the softening touch of water.
Her voice developed a second layer.
Too coarse.
Like sandpaper that grated when carelessly used.
🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷
Lisette recoiled as the cheese in front of her bled.
Her wine hadn’t aged.
It recalled.
The bitter beverage stung the eyes before it hit the tongue.
The cheese?
It was sour, cultured from the chefs whose careers were no more.
Ruined.
By her.
The walls with their endless whispers.
“You’ve crushed.”
“You’ve soured.”
It was the host.
Her angst-ridden soul.
🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷
Lisette bolted for the door.
Which swung shut.
Locked.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror.
With a sommelier’s apron.
Ill-fitting.
She had to serve.
A new critic.
His arrival?
Looped.
His tongue?
Cutting.
Gaps in the heart that would not close.
Like Lisette’s.
She learned a lesson that all critics someday face–when serving judgment, remember time will come to taste.
🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷🧀🍷
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 