Nye Williamson followed the old waiter into the restaurant, sitting at the only table. It was centred in the dark wood panelled room under an enormous chandelier.
There were two place settings.
Nye touched one of the silver plated knives with a finger tip and the old waiter immediately picked it up. After examining it minutely, he polished it with a dazzlingly white cloth that he pulled from somewhere about his person, then replaced the offending knife back with a grunt and a sideways glance at Nye.
Hearing a soft chuckle, Nye looked around, spotting Darren Crosby standing at the door, a knowing smile on his lips.
Nye had been somewhat in awe of Darren Crosby since they’d met some five years ago. The man had been to private school, then on to university, where he’d been head-hunted by their company, unlike Nye who’d had to work his way up from a lowly office clerk.
As he watched the big man walk over to the table, Nye wondered - not for the first time - why Darren Crosby had befriended him. They had so little in common.
“I see you found it then,” Crosby said, sitting opposite Nye.
Nye just nodded, feeling unsure of himself in the oppressive atmosphere. He looked about, raising his eyebrows. “Just us then?”
Crosby smiled, flicking open his serviette and tucking one corner over the top of his waistcoat. “Just us,” he agreed.
The old waiter opened a bottle of wine and poured them both a glass, the rich ruby liquid reflecting the overhead lights.
Nye picked up his glass and took a sip, eyebrows rising in appreciation. He’d never tasted so satisfying a wine before. It was velvet on the tongue with a slight hint of copper. Holding the glass up to the light he studied it.
“What wine is this?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Crosby said. “They only serve the one wine here and I’ve never been able to find out what it is. Believe me, I’ve tried. Exquisite isn’t it?”
“Do they only have the one table or is there another dining room somewhere?”
“Just this one table,” Crosby replied. “One table - one course - one wine - one invite - once a year,” he finished.
Nye thought about that for a moment, trying to make sense of what he was being told.
Nye could see that Crosby was serious. “You can only book a table here once a year? But that’s preposterous. Why would you bother. Even for such an exotic tasting wine as this.” He took another sip from his glass and sighed in pleasure.
“No, you don’t just book a table here. You have to wait until you’re invited.”
Nye sat back, drinking his wine in silence, the unasked questions twirling around in his mind.
“So, did you tell anyone that you were dining here tonight?” Crosby asked.
Nye shook his head, unfolding his serviette before placing it across his knees.
“And the car arrived on time?”
Nye nodded again. “But I could just as easily have got a taxi,” he said.
They were interrupted by a rattle as the old waited reappeared, wheeling a trolley on which were two silver cloche covered plates.
Placing the plates on the table, the old waiter removed the covers with a flourish and wheeled the trolley out of the room again.
Nye looked at his plate. A roll of meat he couldn’t identify sat in the centre, covered by gently steaming gravy. He lent forward and took a sniff. His eyes widened and he felt a little dizzy.
He’d never smelt such a —
Nye couldn’t begin to describe the delectable odour rising from the meat - only that it was making him salivate at an alarming rate.
Crosby picked up his knife and fork and began eating, slicing thin pieces of meat from the roll, dipping them in the gravy before slowly placing them in his mouth, his whole face lighting up with pleasure each time he did so.
Nye picked up his cutlery. “Aren’t we waiting for some vegetables?” he asked.
“My dear boy,” Crosby said, “you don’t expect vegetables when you dine at The Mannathropic Club. This is it. It doesn’t need any sort of accompaniment. Try it and see if I’m not right.”
Nye took a small piece of meat and put it in his mouth. The taste that exploded across his tongue made him gasp and he choked.
Crosby watched, chuckling delightedly.
“But this is fabulous,” Nye said, taking another piece. “I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful in my life. What is it?”
“Club members have their own carcass kept for them here and once a year the chef prepares a special meal from it. Tonight was my turn and I thought it would be nice to invite you along Nye.” Crosby paused, chewing silently for a moment, savouring the taste. “The carcass lasts about five meals, then we have to supply the club with a new one.”
Nye took another mouthful, his head spinning with the delicacies flooding his nervous system.
They stopped talking and ate, each taking his time over the meal, wanting it to last as long as possible. Finally their plates were clean and they sat back, looking at each other.
Crosby raised an eyebrow. “Was it worth coming?” he asked.
“My God, yes!” Nye responded. “How do I become a member. However much it costs, I’ll find the money.”
Crosby pulled his serviette from his waistcoat and wiped his lips. He looked across the table at his guest, noting with satisfaction at the dazed look in Nye’s eyes.
“My dear boy. You don’t become a member,” he said. “You become a part.”
The old waiter entered the room with another trolley, this one much longer and covered with a white shroud. “Is he ready sir?”
Crosby stood up, dropping his serviette onto the table. “Yes,” he said. “Take him away. He should do quite nicely, don’t you think?”