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The restaurant was crowded with couples and office parties, and the noise level was high. People were talking in loud, giddy voices, and a tinny hi fi blared out tacky Indian music. This was accompanied by a percussion of knives and forks squeaking across plates, wine bottles being opened, chairs scraping on the floor, and distant crashing sounds from the kitchen. At a table in the far corner, all was silent. They could have been alone in the restaurant for all the notice they took of the din around them. The air between them bristled with cold electricity, impatiently waiting for an outlet. He spread out and ate in grand gestures, snatching up a piece of naan bread and tearing off a chunk. He ate fast, not noticing the delicate combination of coriander and garlic. For her, the bread swelled in her mouth and stuck in her throat, choking her. Like everything she had eaten at that meal, it only tasted of blood. Chicken jalfrezi, made with succulent chunks of marinated chicken breast, pilau rice golden with saffron; she forced each mouthful down to the taste of metal and bitterness. Eventually, she stopped eating and just pushed the food around on her plate. At last, he threw down his fork and demanded, “What ?”
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© Scarlet 2002
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I wrote this as an exercise on a creative writing course. We were asked to recreate a meal setting from memory, and add in fictional bits. Can you tell what's real and what's fictional ? I hope not !
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