This was no institutional cafeteria stocked with veneered tables and plastic chairs: glass chandeliers descended from the high plastered ceilings; the walls were paneled polished wood the color of cocoa; and placed between thick deep-green marble columns were round tables covered in creamy linen cloths. Through the enormous arched windows I could see a leafy courtyard dotted with oversized urns of wildflowers and trailing ivy. There were statues of wolves and trumpeters and a brick archway that went nowhere.
Everyone grabbed plates off of a serving buffet and lined up in front of a long display of heated dishes. Bing handed me a warm plate.
“Take whatever and however much you want to eat. What do you like?” He narrated the buffet as I followed along that first lunch. Did I want butter buns? Did I like cheesy pies?
“Take some crispy crunchy noodles,” he said, plopping a portion on my plate. It was all so new and strange to me. I let Bing fill my plate with delicious smelling meats and buns, fresh fruit and nuts. My empty stomach felt bottomed out and I was starving. I joined everyone around the table and saw that they were each holding up a mug. I picked up the mug in front of me and held it up as well, waiting. Immediately, a sprightly little man ran over. He was wearing a chef’s cap, a white apron, and a large silver urn slung across his body, from which he filled every mug with a cupful of warm caramel sugar. I put my mug under the urn and it filled perfectly. I sipped. Mmm, delicious and the perfect temperature . It tasted like a melted piece of caramel. I drank it all up and immediately my mood improved. As I dived into my lunch, I listened to everyone’s stories about the Prime Minister.
“He spit all over my face,” laughed a boy named Drake.
“He grabbed my arm and I tried to bite him to make him let go,” said Poppy. “Which made him even angrier. I ran out so fast that I lost my balance and fell on my bottom out in the hall.”
Whew. I didn’t fall or get grabbed by the old man; in retrospect maybe I didn’t have that bad of an experience. It all sounded scary or was it? Already I was starting to question my natural reactions. Was that what they wanted from me—to analyze everything?
I asked, “Did he ever catch anyone?”
“Nah,” said Drake. “It’s Chanticleer, a benevolent world, though it might not always seem so.”
When I didn’t laugh, he wrinkled his nose at me and gave me an expectant look.
“It’s from Miss Clarice, don’t you remember? She says that to everybody!”
I did remember. It was obvious that what was happening to me had happened to everybody else at the table as well. All their arms and legs were accounted for and they had smiles on their faces. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe everything would be all right.
“Why is he called the Prime Minister? Does he run this place?”
“No, thank goodness,” said Rafe. “He has that accent, but it’s just a nickname. Most of the time he just sits in his room counting his piles of money.”
So I had been right.
“I don’t understand why he is so mean?” It didn’t make sense to me for him to live like that, inviting us in one minute only to chase us out the next, even if we laughed about it later.
Nobody answered me.
“Um, I don’t know,” Poppy finally volunteered. “It’s just the way it is. Oh look, dessert is out!” Everyone at the table jumped up to get in line. I joined the line again, waiting patiently to pluck a treat from a luscious pile of sugared artistry. There didn’t seem to be any concern about loading us up with sugar. Still, I modestly chose only one item, a piece of milky chocolate molded into the shape of a nutcracker.
“What, only one chocolate nutcracker?” Bing cried when I got back to the table. “You’ll make us all look like little pigs if you don’t take more than that, Miss Macy!”
I bit off the helmet and head of the nutcracker and its outer layer of chocolate
Everyone grabbed plates off of a serving buffet and lined up in front of a long display of heated dishes. Bing handed me a warm plate.
“Take whatever and however much you want to eat. What do you like?” He narrated the buffet as I followed along that first lunch. Did I want butter buns? Did I like cheesy pies?
“Take some crispy crunchy noodles,” he said, plopping a portion on my plate. It was all so new and strange to me. I let Bing fill my plate with delicious smelling meats and buns, fresh fruit and nuts. My empty stomach felt bottomed out and I was starving. I joined everyone around the table and saw that they were each holding up a mug. I picked up the mug in front of me and held it up as well, waiting. Immediately, a sprightly little man ran over. He was wearing a chef’s cap, a white apron, and a large silver urn slung across his body, from which he filled every mug with a cupful of warm caramel sugar. I put my mug under the urn and it filled perfectly. I sipped. Mmm, delicious and the perfect temperature . It tasted like a melted piece of caramel. I drank it all up and immediately my mood improved. As I dived into my lunch, I listened to everyone’s stories about the Prime Minister.
“He spit all over my face,” laughed a boy named Drake.
“He grabbed my arm and I tried to bite him to make him let go,” said Poppy. “Which made him even angrier. I ran out so fast that I lost my balance and fell on my bottom out in the hall.”
Whew. I didn’t fall or get grabbed by the old man; in retrospect maybe I didn’t have that bad of an experience. It all sounded scary or was it? Already I was starting to question my natural reactions. Was that what they wanted from me—to analyze everything?
I asked, “Did he ever catch anyone?”
“Nah,” said Drake. “It’s Chanticleer, a benevolent world, though it might not always seem so.”
When I didn’t laugh, he wrinkled his nose at me and gave me an expectant look.
“It’s from Miss Clarice, don’t you remember? She says that to everybody!”
I did remember. It was obvious that what was happening to me had happened to everybody else at the table as well. All their arms and legs were accounted for and they had smiles on their faces. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe everything would be all right.
“Why is he called the Prime Minister? Does he run this place?”
“No, thank goodness,” said Rafe. “He has that accent, but it’s just a nickname. Most of the time he just sits in his room counting his piles of money.”
So I had been right.
“I don’t understand why he is so mean?” It didn’t make sense to me for him to live like that, inviting us in one minute only to chase us out the next, even if we laughed about it later.
Nobody answered me.
“Um, I don’t know,” Poppy finally volunteered. “It’s just the way it is. Oh look, dessert is out!” Everyone at the table jumped up to get in line. I joined the line again, waiting patiently to pluck a treat from a luscious pile of sugared artistry. There didn’t seem to be any concern about loading us up with sugar. Still, I modestly chose only one item, a piece of milky chocolate molded into the shape of a nutcracker.
“What, only one chocolate nutcracker?” Bing cried when I got back to the table. “You’ll make us all look like little pigs if you don’t take more than that, Miss Macy!”
I bit off the helmet and head of the nutcracker and its outer layer of chocolate
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