Post-Apocalypse Prix Fixe by Emily Gennis

Post-Apocalypse Prix Fixe by Emily Gennis

First time guests at Il Trucchetto could be forgiven for passing right by the restaurant without even realizing it’s there. They will observe the corrugated metal sheets, the ripped tarpaulin, the dented mini refrigerator lying on its side and mistake it all for just another pile of refuse abandoned by wayward travelers wandering through this scarred wasteland in search of some semblance of civilization. But as I have learned from many delightful visits to the eatery, whose menu skirts the line between Southern Italian and dystopian fusion fare, appearances can be deceiving.

When I first caught wind of the two young chefs who had decided to open a restaurant in these, shall we say, challenging times, my heart leapt as it had not had occasion to do since before the Great Deadening. I envisioned crisp white tablecloths. The smell of a rich Bordeaux as it swirled in my glass. Course after course of culinary artistry. The moment I learned the location of this establishment, I did not waste a single moment. I buried my latrine pit, told my companions they could have my ration of the kibble we’d scavenged and set out in search of epicurean delights unknown!

My only reservation (and by this, I mean a concern rather than the other kind as Il Trucchetto is, sadly, walk-in only) was that the eatery happened to be located smack dab in the middle of Chomper Country.  As much as I wanted a good meal, I had no desire to become one myself. This apprehension became acute when halfway through my journey I spotted two figures coming straight towards me from down the dusty road. For a few terrifying moments, I was certain I’d be rotating on a spit with an apple in my mouth by day’s end. 

Thankfully, the pair turned out to be travelers like myself. A rickety, white-haired fellow leaned on his younger companion of perhaps fifteen or so as they shuffled past me with a wary nod. Though the threat had been an imagined one, it left me rattled. Briefly, I considered turning back.

But in the manner of a true hedonist, I decided the pleasure would be worth the risk. In addition to my physical appetite, I hungered for the chance to extol the fruits of another’s labor, or better yet, to excoriate them with cutting witticisms. 

Which brings me to the moment I found myself standing barefoot in the middle of nowhere, studying my hand drawn map, trying to find what could be the hottest new restaurant of the season. When I finally looked up, I observed a pale face peering out from behind a billowing sheet of tarpaulin.

“Hiya! Are you lost?” asked the pale faced person.

Before I could reply, the face disappeared, and I could faintly hear urgent, hissed whispers. A moment later, two women emerged dressed in immaculate chef’s whites. 

“Please,” said the older, burlier woman in the tone of one issuing a command. “Forgive my sous chef. She has very little front-of-house experience. Welcome to Il Trucchetto. Please,” she commanded again. “Come in. Have a seat.”

I gathered that by “in” she meant underneath one of the corrugated metal sheets, which was precariously propped up by two wooden stakes. I obliged, hoping there were no strong breezes in the forecast as surely the rickety structure could come crashing down at any second. The younger chef picked up a plastic chair and placed it at one of the small tables, pushing it in for me as I sat. 

“Can we offer you some water?” she asked. “Still or sparkling?”

“Sparkling,” I replied reflexively.

The young chef disappeared behind the tarpaulin, returning a moment later with a bottle of brown liquid, which she proceeded to shake violently for several minutes, presumably to mimic the effect of carbonation. I was about to feign gratitude, but when I took the cup she offered, I gasped. 

“It’s cold!” I could not fathom how this miracle had been achieved. I estimated the ambient temperature to be a balmy one hundred and fifteen degrees. 

The older chef smiled wryly. “We have our ways.” She straightened her back and smoothed her chef’s coat. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Chef Maggie Harper. I have trained in Italian kitchens in Calabria, Sicily and Abruzzo. Il Trucchetto is my third restaurant, but my first after… well you know.” She waved a hand, casually indicating the rubble strewn devastation that surrounded us. “And this is my sous chef, Julia.” 

“Hiya!” said Julia.

“She’s very green,” Chef Maggie murmured apologetically.

I introduced myself using one of my aliases, slightly disappointed that they hadn’t already recognized me.

“Il Trucchetto offers modern Italian fare with recipes and techniques inspired by my travels,” Chef Maggie continued. “I like to say we offer a fine dining experience with all the comforts of Nonna’s kitchen table.” 

“Lovely,” I said. Looking around, my eyes caught on something partly buried in the dirt by my feet. I realized it was the skull of some large animal, cracked and bleached by the sun. A dog’s skull, I told myself. Only no, the shape of it was much too round.

“Now,” she clapped her hands together. “Do you have any dietary restrictions? Any special requests?” 

I responded in the negative and smiled. “I am in your capable hands, chef.”

They both turned on their heels and disappeared behind the tarpaulin. A moment later, Chef Maggie emerged wielding a very large knife, followed by Julia who carried a cornucopia of produce. Half-starved as I was, I could not help but stare at the bounty. 

“This land is one of the few places that wasn’t contaminated by chemical fallout during the Blonde/Brunette Wars,” Chef Maggie explained. “We have a small garden where we grow some herbs and vegetables. The rest of our ingredients are…” she let her gaze travel down the dusty road. “Locally sourced.” 

“If you dig deep enough, the ground stays cool all day, which is how we chill our beverages,” said Julia. “I’m in charge of the beverage program!” 

I nodded, wondering how they had convinced the notoriously disobliging Chompers to let them set up shop on such valuable land.

Owing to the arrangement of the corrugated metal sheets, I was able to watch the chefs at work, but only from the shoulders up while the activities of their hands were hidden from view. Julia stared down in concentration while Chef Maggie peered over her shoulder and shouted. 

“I said julienne, not batons! Come on, Julia, where’s the sense of urgency? Andiamo!” 

After a while, Julia once again disappeared behind the tarpaulin. I was startled by several loud thuds and feared we might be in for a hail tornado, seeing as how the acid hurricane season had recently passed. But soon the thudding ceased and Julia presented me with my first course. 

“House cured carpaccio with sorrel, cactus and pickled white mustard seeds.” 

For a long moment, I stared in bafflement. Her words did not match the image before me. It was a single rose resting delicately on the plate, its crimson petals wrapped around one another in a perfect Fibonaccian spiral, dotted with glimmering dew drops. I inhaled deeply, delighting in the sweet smell that wafted towards me. 

“How?” I asked in wonderment. I had not seen a rose since they were all harvested in that massive air freshening campaign to mask the stench of rotting corpses during the last plague. 

“It’s meat!” Julia proclaimed proudly.

“Pounded petal-thin and lightly cured to enhance the color,” explained Chef Maggie. “The dew drops are mustard seeds, which turn translucent when pickled.”

“Remarkable,” I said as I picked up my spoon (this being the only utensil with which I’d been provided). “But the smell. It is rose, I am sure of it.”

“Rosewater,” said Chef Maggie. “It’s impossible to get now, but I still have a few drops saved from before.” There it was again, that wry smile of hers. “Every good lie needs a little truth to it.”

I removed a slice of meat from the plate. It dissolved on my tongue almost instantly, leaving behind a subtle unctuousness, which was satisfyingly cut by the brightness of the pickle and the cleansing bitterness of the cactus. I tried my best to savor the dish and fully appreciate its brilliance. But having eaten nothing but dog food for the past fortnight, I fear only moments passed before my plate was clean.

I was effusive in my compliments, marveling at the cleverness of the dish. “And the buttery texture! What sort of meat was it?”

Julia opened her mouth to respond, but she was quickly drowned out by a thunderous roar. All three of us began to cough as a cloud of dust filled the air. When it finally cleared and the roaring ceased, three Chompers stood before us.

On the few occasions I have encountered Chompers, my fear has always been somewhat abated by their beguiling devil-may-care aesthetic. The motorcycles, presumably powered by testosterone alone. The waves of sun-bleached hair. The bulging muscles. The leather — my god, the leather! One must remind oneself that they are, in fact, cannibals, so as not to become unduly excited. 

The largest of the Chompers dismounted his motorcycle and adjusted his chaps. It was then that I noticed the gangly figure who had been riding in the sidecar. The last time I had seen the boy propping up the old man as they passed me on the road, he had looked wary. Now, his eyes were filled with abject terror.

I looked around for the elderly man, but did not see him. As the Chomper, whom I took to be the leader, stepped forward, I spotted a lock of white hair hanging from his belt, still attached to a patch of pink, bloody scalp. I allowed myself a brief moment of pity for the old man, for I knew his end had not been a quick one.

“Please,” croaked the boy, tears streaming down his dusty cheeks. “Don’t let them eat me!”

Chef Maggie put her hand on his shoulder in what at first seemed to be a gesture of comfort. She then proceeded to squeeze his bicep between her thumb and forefinger. “He’s skinnier than the last one you brought me,” she said. “I’ll have to cook the meat low and slow to get it tender.”

The Chomper licked his lips and twirled a finger around the lock of white hair that hung from his belt. “Take your time. We had a snack on the way over.”

She glanced down at the lock of hair, unphased. “Do you have what I asked for?” 

He removed a heavy sack from the back of his motorcycle and handed it to her. A bouquet of carrot tops poked out and I detected the earthy aroma of thyme and marjoram. 

She examined the contents and for the first time I saw the hint of a smile brighten her face. “Remarkable. Where did you find all this?”

The Chomper bristled. “Enough questions, cheffie. Are you going to cook or not?”

Chef Maggie straightened, nodding once. “Julia,” she said, holding up the sack. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Julia’s eyes widened and she clapped her hands together. “Tasting menu!”

“Three courses.”

“With beverage pairings?”

“Certo.”

Without another word, they grabbed the boy by the arms and escorted him through the tarpaulin. I shall never forget the blood curdling screams that followed, which were punctuated by a series of dull wet thuds. With a chill down my spine and a sick feeling in my gut, I realized the deal that had been struck between Chef Maggie and the Chompers: She could run her restaurant on their land provided she cook whatever, or whoever, they wanted. 

As I listened to the boy’s dismemberment, I began to wonder why the evening’s menu did not also include one devilishly handsome virtuoso of the written word. Indeed, the Chompers seemed to take no notice of me at all. I suppose they may have found my sickly, emaciated appearance less than appetizing. But I realized there was a much more likely explanation. My cover had been blown. They knew exactly who I was and that, with the stroke of a pen (or in this case, a partially melted crayon I found in a burned out car), I could make or break this establishment.

I decided not to squander my obvious notoriety. Without having uttered a single word, these connoisseurs of human flesh were clearly entreating me to judge whether their cuisine — albeit macabre — was truly elevated. I have always considered it a duty to inform those less cultured than myself of what does and does not taste good. And while I found it a shame that the young boy had been brutally murdered, I have never been one to let good meat go to waste.

As a gesture of bonhomie, I attempted to engage my leather-clad dining companions in conversation. This was met with a few grunts and the bearing of teeth which had, of course, been filed into sharp pointed spikes. I surmised that there would be no clever repartee. Thankfully, Julia quickly brought out our beverages.

“This is our signature cocktail,” she explained. “It’s called ‘The Trucchetto.’ It’s made with orange flower liqueur, celery bitters, aquafaba and mint extract.” 

I examined the glass of brown liquid, which looked suspiciously similar to the ‘sparkling water’ I’d been given earlier. Once the flecks of black sediment settled to the bottom, I chanced a taste. There may have been a few floral and herbaceous notes, but sadly they were overpowered by the pungent flavor of raw sewage. (Observant readers may have noticed that I bestowed three rather than four stars on Il Trucchetto. While the restaurant has many strong points, I highly recommend guests to BYOB.)

An hour or so later, Chef Maggie emerged from behind the tarpaulin with our antipasto. 

“Terrina di viso, with celery seeds, fennel and chilies.” 

I peered down at the slice of terrine before me. Apart from the lower lip on the corner, the tip of the nose in the middle and what appeared to be the cross section of an eyeball off to one side, it looked like any other well cooked terrine. 

For a moment, I paused to reflect on my gratitude to the young boy who, just a short while before, had begged for his life, only to have his face chopped off and stewed with herbs, spices and aromatics until fork tender. When the moment had passed, I took a bite. 

The flavors hit me in waves. First, there was the subtle licorice taste of the fennel. Then, the umami of the tender yet toothsome meat, which had a gentle sweetness to it. Finally, the heat from the chilies, which lingered on my tongue for some minutes after I’d swallowed my last mouthful. It left me ravenous for more.

As I waited for the next course, I occupied myself by observing the chefs at work. Julia appeared to be strenuously grinding something in an enormous mortar and pestle while Chef Maggie stood back and shouted, which seemed to be her preferred modus operandi.

“Dammit Julia, I said powder! Does that look like powder to you? I can still see granules!” 

Finally, Chef Maggie mixed the contents of the mortar with eggs, kneading and rolling out the dough in powerful, efficient movements. 

Although I was irritated that the rest of the preparation was hidden from my view by those cursed metal sheets, it only added to my surprise when she brought out the finished product. 

“Gentlemen, your primo: chitarra di osso,” she said, placing a perfect nest of pasta before each of the Chompers, then myself. “Made from freshly ground bone meal and finished with twenty-two month Grana Padano.”

“I’m also in charge of the cheese program!” announced Julia.

While this final bit of information gave me pause, the nutty, slightly pungent scent of the dish was intoxicating. It was, unquestionably, a revelation. The pasta was perfectly al dente, married seamlessly with its decadent sauce. I was so intent on finishing every last bite that for some time I did not notice I was the only one eating.

“And how are we all enjoying our pasta?” Julia cheerfully asked the cannibals.

“No meat?” growled the leader. “Where’s the meat?!” He threw his plate to the ground. 

Chef Maggie stepped forward, clenching her fists behind her back. “I’m sorry it wasn’t to your liking. The secondo will be out in just a few minutes.”

The fellow sat back in his chair, pacifying himself by scratching his crotch. “You know the deal, cheffie. Either you cook the meat, or you are the meat.” His comrades grunted and scowled menacingly.

“Understood,” she said flatly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to put the finishing touches on the final course. I think you will all find it quite satisfying.”

What followed was a flurry of activity. The two chefs maneuvered their bodies in a rapid pas de deux, passing ingredients to one another without a word. They seemed to be moving faster and faster. Then Chef Maggie whispered something into Julia’s ear and they both froze. Intrigued, I strained to hear them. 

“No, chef. Please. I can’t do it.” Julia’s face was even paler than before. 

“Come on, Julia,” said Chef Maggie in an uncharacteristically low voice. “A great chef must make sacrifices. You do want to be a great chef, don’t you?”

“Si, chef. Certo. But I can’t do that.”

“You can!” Chef Maggie slammed her fist down against the corrugated metal. She picked up her knife, holding it by the blade so that Julia could grasp its handle. “This is the final push, Julia. Andiamo. Finish strong!”

Slowly, Julia wrapped her slender fingers around the handle of the knife. With a grimace, she held it high above her head and brought it down with a loud crack. Chef Maggie nodded once, then disappeared behind the tarpaulin. A moment later, she emerged with the final course.

“Gamba di ragazzino,” she said, placing the enormous hunk of glistening meat in the center of the Chompers’ table. She carved it tableside, slapping a generous portion onto each plate. “And for you,” she said to the head Chomper. “A palate cleanser.” She dropped a severed finger, still bleeding, onto the table.

He grinned, bearing all of his brown pointed teeth. In a surprisingly delicate gesture, he held the finger between two of his own, put the bloody end in his mouth and crunched through the bone like a carrot stick. 

In case it isn’t already evident, I have quite a strong stomach. But even for me, this was a bit much.

I decided to focus my attention on the dish before me. The meat was so tender it succumbed to my spoon without resistance. Its aroma harkened back to Sunday roasts of yore, but the flavor was infinitely more complex. There were notes of cinnamon, bay and allspice. And something else that I (forgive the pun) couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something vegetal. When I realized what it was, I very nearly fell off my chair. 

I looked around to see if the Chompers had realized the same thing I had. But no, they were enthusiastically devouring their meals. Chef Maggie and I locked eyes and a flash of understanding passed between us. 

Silently, I watched as the Chompers finished eating and lazily climbed back onto their motorcycles. 

“Here,” said Chef Maggie, handing them a slip of paper. “My list for next week. And remember, I only cook the freshest meat. Whoever you bring must be alive and unharmed. Understand? Too much bruising spoils the flavor.”

As ever, she was standing straight backed with her hands clasped behind her back, but her hair was disheveled and sweat speckled her forehead, despite the rapidly dropping temperature as evening descended.

The three of us watched as the motorcycles roared to life and carried their riders into the gloaming void. It was not until the cloud of dust left in their wake began to settle that I let my guard down.

“How did you do it? The celeriac tasted so strongly of meat. If it hadn’t been for the slightest hint of bitterness, I would have thought I was eating…”

“A boy,” said Chef Maggie, walking over to the dented mini refrigerator which still lay on its side. “This boy, in fact.” She swung open the door and out clambered the young fellow I thought I had devoured thrice over. 

“My neck!” he said, shaking out his gangly limbs. “What took you so long? I could hardly breathe in there.”

“Julia said the flavor of celeriac was too strong,” said Chef Maggie. “I should have listened to her. Thankfully, the other guests didn’t seem to notice.”

“Another successful service!” chirped Julia. “We crushed it, chef!”

Suddenly, everything seemed to click into place. “The terrine base, was it lentils?”

“A blend of legumes,” replied Chef Maggie. “Mushrooms for the nose and lips. Tapioca pearls for the eyes.”

“And the pasta was just…”

“Pasta.”

“It was spectacular.”

“Grazie.”

I was so excited that I nearly forgot where I was. Already I was beginning to mentally compose this very review. But then something occurred to me. A piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. “The finger,” I said. “It looked so real.”

Chef Maggie held out her hands. The right was rough and calloused, mottled by scars and old burns. The left was in a similar state, except it had an incomplete appearance due to the absence of its index finger, the stump having been hastily bandaged in gauze. I suddenly recalled what she had said about every good lie needing a little truth.

I have visited Il Trucchetto many times since that day, occasionally sharing a meal with the Chompers, who are quite a jolly bunch once you get to know them. But more often, I dined alone, so as to better appreciate the ingenuity of Chefs Maggie and Julia, who was recently promoted to Chef de Cuisine.

The astute reader may be wondering whether I might have experienced some sort of existential crisis as a result of my first meal at the restaurant. After all, I was willing (one could even say eager) to consume human flesh. Whether this lapse in morality was due to my own state of starvation or an innate malevolence within me, I cannot say. But such reflections have no place here. After all, this is a restaurant review! One must endeavor to keep things light.

Despite evidence to the contrary, I do possess a modicum of realism. I know that no one will ever read this review. If the Chompers discovered the deception behind Il Trucchetto, the chefs would be finished. Granted, I wouldn’t necessarily peg the cannibals as avid readers, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate the breadth of my literary appeal.

In a few moments, I will toss these pages into the meager fire I built to warm my Meow Mix to a palatable temperature. But not quite yet. I shall read it over one last time, searching for spelling mistakes or passages that are perhaps a bit too wordy, though I very much doubt I shall find either as I have always prided myself not only on my impeccable attention to detail, but also on my ecomony of language. 

You may be wondering what the point of such labors could be. Why prepare an exquisite menu for a dinner rush that will never come? Or write a brilliantly evocative restaurant review for a readership of none? Why save one boy from brutality when so many others are already doomed?

But if I have learned anything from these trying times of ours, it is this: the point of doing a thing isn’t always to get it done. Whether one labors to cook or to write or to lend a hand (or a finger) to a friend in need, sometimes, my dear imagined readers, the point is in the doing.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Emily Gennis 2025