Why does the chef refuse to reveal his family recipes, and what gives the sauce that unusual oceanic taste? Which regular customers only dine during the new moon, and why do they whisper in languages the waitstaff don't recognize? What's locked in that basement wine cellar?
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The trouble with eating Italian food is that five or six days later you’re hungry again.
George Miller
The aroma from Nonna’s Kitchen had always been intoxicating, but lately it carried something else---a sweetness that made passersby stop mid-stride and follow their noses through the heavy wooden doors. Chef Giovanni Torretti had inherited more than just his grandmother’s recipes; he’d discovered her leather-bound journal hidden behind loose bricks in the kitchen wall, filled with ingredients he’d never heard of and preparation methods that seemed to dance between the lines of his vision.
The restaurant’s success had been immediate and overwhelming. Reservations were booked months in advance, and food critics traveled from distant cities just to taste Giovanni’s legendary ragù. But the staff began to notice peculiarities---how the chef would disappear for hours into the walk-in freezer, emerging with cuts of meat that bore no resemblance to anything delivered by their usual suppliers. The butcher’s bills had mysteriously stopped coming altogether.
Regular customers developed an almost religious devotion to the restaurant. Mrs. Henderson came every Tuesday, ordering the same pasta dish with an intensity that bordered on desperation. She’d grown gaunt over the months, yet insisted she’d never felt more satisfied. Her husband mentioned how she’d stopped eating anything else, claiming nothing could compare to Giovanni’s cooking. The other regulars shared similar symptoms---a wasting appearance coupled with absolute contentment.
One evening, server Elena Vasquez volunteered to help with inventory in the freezer. Among the hanging sides of beef, she discovered something that made her throat close with terror. The meat bore tattoos---faded, but unmistakably human. When she confronted Giovanni, he simply smiled and offered her a taste of his latest creation, explaining that his grandmother had taught him that some hungers could only be satisfied by understanding the true relationship between cook and ingredient.
As Elena backed toward the door, Giovanni’s eyes reflected something ancient and patient. He whispered that the recipes had been passed down through generations, originating from a cookbook that had sailed from a Mediterranean village where the fishermen sometimes hauled in nets filled with things that shouldn’t exist in terrestrial waters. The hunger, he explained, was spreading through the city one satisfied customer at a time, and soon everyone would understand the exquisite pleasure of truly fresh cuisine.
