Stormbringer Read Free

money’s just as plastic as everyone else’s.”
    Sigmund slouches in his chair. “A thousand dollars?” he says. “Really? Man, I can’t afford that.”
    “You’re not,” I point out. “Travis is. This is his table.” I point, and Sigmund follows the gesture up the wall, to where a painting hangs above us. Abstract, but still obviously of the LB building, three-column statue-slash-logo-slash-prison and all. “We’ll be fine.”
    Sigmund picks at the tablecloth, then picks up a fork and stares at it. It’s a fancy fork, about $50 per piece to buy: the high price of “design,” of the lifestyle, of the same principles LB is built on.
    “Rich people,” Sig says.
    “Mortal gods,” I agree, just as the waiter returns with all the discreet timing of the impeccably trained.
    He pours the water and introduces the food; sesame-crusted salmon sashimi with ginger and wasabi, served in little handmade ceramic spoons. Then he explains the menu, all eight courses of it. With matching wines. I know the exact moment Sigmund realizes he doesn’t get a choice—realizes that
everything
is dinner—by the taste of shock and panic in the air.
    The waiter finishes with, “Are there any food allergies or requirements tonight I should tell the chef about?”
    “We’ll skip the oysters,” I say.
    “We can substitute the vegetarian option, if you’d prefer,” says the waiter, unperturbed. “It’s Burmese melon salad.”
    “Sounds great.”
    “Anything else?”
    “You right with the shellfish?” I ask Sigmund.
    “Um,” he says, and bites his lip.
    He’s not allergic, he just doesn’t eat things from the ocean that don’t come with scales, the last remaining vestiges of his paternal religiosity. Sig’s father, David, might be distanced from the dogma, but he never ate shellfish growing up, so never thought to introduce it to his son, either. Funny how these things turn out.
    “No,” Sig says after a moment. “It’s fine. I’ll try it.”
    “Certainly, sir.”
    When the waiter vanishes back behind the screen, Sigmund adds, “I figure if I don’t like something here, I don’t like it anywhere, right?”
    “I can call the guy back, if you’re feeling adventurous,” I say, grinning. “Get him to re-add the oysters.”
    “You could,” Sig says, mischief glinting through his fatigue, “but you got rid of them pretty quick. So I’m kinda betting you’re the one who doesn’t like them.”
    “Hah!” I say. “Do you know who I am? Legendary eating contest participant, hello?”
    “One, you lost that—”
    “Eating the dishes was cheating and didn’t count!” (Because I didn’t think of it. Also, the guy I lost to? Literal personification of fire. Like I said, massive cheating.)
    “—and two, I still reckon you hate oysters.”
    “They’re like drinking snot,” I say. “Someone else’s cold, lumpy snot.”
    “Oh. Dude. Gross.”
    “See?”
    “I’m not sure I can even eat my spoonfish now.” Sigmund eyes the item in question, trying to decide how to eat it without embarrassing himself.
    I help him out by taking my own spoon and gulping the contents down, all at once. Two chews and it’s gone. Sigmund copies the gesture, frowns for a moment, then says, “That’s pretty good. I don’t usually like salmon.”
    “That’s the trick,” I say. “People pay a shitload to come here and get no choice over the menu. The chef has to make it good—all of it—else it’s
Kitchen Nightmares
time.”
    “Guess I never thought about it that way before.” Sigmund stares into the bowl of his now-empty spoon. “I always kinda figured, fancy food…it was something you had to develop a taste for, y’know?”
    “Sig, ‘developing a taste’ is for things that are disgusting, like cigarettes and oysters,” I say. “The truth is, the idea that rich people have some kind of special refined palette that sets them apart from the un-rich is a myth. One spread by rich people. Good food is good