Here’s a little piece I wrote a couple weeks ago for Flash!Friday Vol. 3-26 based on the photo prompt below and reference to a farmer. This one, admittedly, is kind of gross.
“This carpaccio is absolutely divine,” she declared, holding her flute of Dom Pérignon 1921.
Adjusting his mask, Annibale agreed.
“So what are you supposed to be? A lamb? Don’t you love the Italian theme? I’ve been waiting for him to do Italian.” She sipped her champagne and glanced across the ballroom. “Aren’t his balls the best?”
“Would you excuse me?”
Annibale invited only the cream of society’s cream. Those with class, grace. With taste. And he’d never served so many.
His parties made Jay Gatsby’s look like sweet-sixteens; his home turned William Randolph Hearst’s into a duplex.
He exited the ballroom and descended two flights of stairs to the prep area. Servants plated the steak tartare. Others draped the salads with strips of prosciutto sliced bible-paper thin. He crossed the sprawling kitchen to his private kitchenette where he and only he presided over the night’s main course: osso bucco.
Three intruding cooks hunkered shoulder to shoulder over the ovens.
“Qué tipo de carne es esto?”
“No lo sé.”
“No me gusta…”
Annibale cleared his throat and closed the door.
“Lo siento señor.”
The one the media called “The Farmer” (because, according to the coroner, he used a scythe) smiled.
Next time he’d serve Mexican.