Why does the restaurant's menu include dishes that require ingredients not found in any local market, and what's behind the private dining room that's always reserved but never seems occupied? Which regular customers order meals that aren't written down anywhere, and why does the kitchen staff work with recipes passed down in a dialect even Chinese scholars can't translate? What's aging in those basement storage rooms that smell like something other than food?
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Chinese food in Texas is the best Chinese food in the United States except Boston.
― John Updike
Dorian Blackthorne had always prided himself on his adventurous palate, which was why the Red Dragon Chinese Restaurant’s unusual menu intrigued rather than deterred him. The establishment occupied a narrow building squeezed between a defunct bookstore and a pawn shop, its neon sign flickering erratically in shades of crimson that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat.
The interior was dimly lit by paper lanterns that cast dancing shadows across walls adorned with intricate dragons whose eyes seemed to follow patrons as they moved. The elderly proprietor, Mr. Chen, greeted Dorian with a smile that revealed teeth stained an unsettling shade of rust, speaking in hushed tones about “special preparations” available only to distinguished guests.
Over the following weeks, Dorian became a regular, drawn back by flavors that seemed to awaken something primal within him. The other patrons were a curious lot---pale, thin individuals who ate with methodical precision, their conversations conducted in whispers. He noticed they all shared the same glassy-eyed expression, as if looking through him rather than at him.
It was during his seventh visit that Dorian witnessed the evening ritual. As the clock struck nine, Mr. Chen would disappear through a beaded curtain behind the counter, returning with dishes that bore no resemblance to any cuisine he recognized. The regular customers would lean forward eagerly, their movements synchronized like marionettes controlled by invisible strings.
The breaking point came when Dorian glimpsed his reflection in the restaurant’s mirror-polished surface of a serving platter. His own eyes had taken on that same vacant quality, and when he ran his tongue across his lips, he tasted something metallic and foreign. The realization hit him as he watched Mr. Chen emerge from the kitchen, carrying a steaming bowl toward his table with that rust-stained smile growing wider.
Dorian tried to rise from his seat but found his limbs unresponsive, his body no longer entirely his own. As Mr. Chen approached, Dorian understood with crystalline horror that he hadn’t been dining at the Red Dragon---he had been dining on something far older and hungrier than himself, something that wore the guise of sustenance while slowly consuming him from within.
