The Dust Bowl Café

THE DUST BOWL CAFÉ

by Justin Dill

edited by Sonia Urlando

What was advertised as an hour-long wait wound up devouring the lion’s share of the afternoon. By the time the line finally began moving, the bloodflies had practically devoured the lion’s share of me. The line extended far beyond the clearing made to accommodate the hastily erected café and deep into the neighbouring woods. As to the cause of the delay, I could only speculate—and I had plenty of time to speculate as I inched ever forward until, at long last, I arrived at the front of the line and the rather ramshackle facade of the Dust Bowl Café loomed over me. Whatever had enticed such a crowd to endure this agonizing tedium, it certainly wasn’t the ambience. The cuisine, I decided then and there, could not possibly live up to my expectations now that I shared a lion’s appetite. The owner of this establishment could expect no rave review from me. 

Being of the epicurean persuasion, and something of a renowned critic myself, I’d been intrigued by the word-of-mouth accounts that had been circulating about “a dining experience befitting a god.” And though I’d probed, no good soul could for the life of them relate to me the specifics of their dining experience. 

I was greeted at the door by a lavishly bearded skeleton adorned in a billowing blue cape. A bit unorthodox, sure, but a touch of absurdity was to be expected in the Middle of Nowhere Woods, home to such flights of fancy as flying pigs, bleeding stones, and smoke without fire. Some might say the implausible waiter added to the café’s mystique.

“Must not pay you well,” I noted, swatting a bloodfly that had burrowed into the crook of my neck, “else you could afford to put a little meat on your bones, eh?”

“How delightful,” the skeleton grumbled, tapping a brittle finger against the rim of his abyssal sockets. “Right this way.”

As far as furnishings went, the Dust Bowl Café was a resounding disappointment. It boasted all the comfort of an old hermit’s shack—including the smell. Dark stains marred the warped wood walls, and knife etchings that told of great tedium ravaged the lopsided tabletops. I will concede that, as my mud-caked boots traipsed across the creaky floorboards, I observed not a speck of dust on the meticulously swept surface. But then, I suppose, it wasn’t called the Dusty Bowl Café.

Despite the abundance of furniture, all in various states of disrepair, only one table had been set with what looked to be a soiled bedsheet. Ah yes, these ridiculous trendy cafés had been sprouting like mushroom mites all along the southern coast of the continent. Each had its own gimmick, its own bizarre rituals. And at the Dust Bowl Café, only one person dined at a time, just as the grapevines had grumbled (I happened to pass through a vineyard along the way, and the vines wouldn’t shut up about how each diner was promised a unique experience). Hence the torturous wait, exacerbated by the staff’s inability to open on schedule. Seated at last, I took the liberty of perusing the menu.

“You’re quite a ways out from the nearest village,” I rasped, struggling to be heard over the growl of my deflated stomach. It was all I could do to keep from scratching at the myriad bloodfly bites. “When I heard your cuisine was to die for, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

“How charming,” the skeleton grumbled, clasping together his rigid finger-bones. “May I take your order?”

“What else but the house special?” Though my throat was parched, I refrained from requesting libations. One recurring detail from firsthand accounts was that guests at the Dust Bowl Café were permitted to order one item off the menu before they were swiftly whisked back through the rickety door from whence they came. Seeing as the cryptic names of the dishes—Macabre à la Mode and Smorgasbord of Sonder—provided no hint as to the type of cuisine in which I was about to partake, I opted for the curated experience.

“Excellent choice,” the skeleton mouthed, his tone indicating that he thought it was anything but. He then produced a piece of parchment and requested that I sign. When I inquired as to his purpose, he informed me that all diners were to consent to an enchantment—ingrained into their very flesh—that would prevent them from exposing what exactly it was that they had been served. An inconvenient arrangement for a critic, I’ll admit. Being not only something of a gourmet but also one-eighth cat on my father’s side, my curiosity convinced me to abide by the unorthodox requirement. I hadn’t made the arduous day-long trek to the Middle of Nowhere Woods only to leave without seeing what all the fuss was about. With the formalities out of the way, the waiter promptly pivoted around and then vanished through a splintered door that I assumed led to the kitchen. 

Not long after he’d vanished through the rickety door, the skeleton returned pushing a cart bearing an assortment of dishes, which he proceeded to arrange in circular formation on the table before me. Each of the dishes bore a carefully arranged heap of what my eyes suggested and my allergies confirmed to be none other than dust.

“Surely this is some sort of jest?” I hadn’t come all this way and endured such exquisite suffering to dine on flecks of filth. And I made damned sure the skeleton knew as much. After all, I had plenty of dust at home—more than two brooms and an hour of meticulous sweeping could do away with. 

“Shall I fetch you the cheque?” asked the skeleton, and in the voids of his eyes swam the vortex of a threat. I got the message; no fuss was to be tolerated here, lest I be promptly excised from the premises.

“No need for that,” I muttered, plucking the odd piece of cutlery that, in my starved state, I hadn’t paid much mind to until now. I’d been equipped with neither fork nor spoon, but instead what I could only describe as a miniature broom, the bristles made of what smelled like porcupony mane. I glanced up at the skeleton, posted vigilantly by my side. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“I’m quite all right, thank you.”

Okay then. He clearly wasn’t going to budge. Unable to fend off my intense pangs of hunger any longer, I raised the first dish to my lips and, using the finger-sized broom, brushed the light-brown dust into my eager gullet. 

Where I’d expected to gag or at the very least grimace, I experienced an explosion of flavour. Red cinnamon and cloud cocoa, honey salt and emerald sugar. A universe was birthed, expanded, and then shriveled back to nothing on my tongue. When it faded I was plunged into a despair so deep that, if not for the other dishes arranged in front of me, I would’ve feared I’d never claw my way out. The rest of the dishes I practically inhaled. The white chalk dust that tasted of black rose petals and nectar of nightshade blossom; the oddly textured sawdust that evoked truffle gravy and succulent minced wyvern; the glittering gold dust whose taste I could only describe as the cozy warmth that accompanied nestling oneself in a dragon’s hoard of riches. Of the stardust and the pixie dust I have no words other than to say that, for the span of a moment, I transcended this mortal coil and feasted upon divinity. It seemed silly to me then that such an embargo should be placed on discussing this cuisine, as the shortcomings of language itself prevented such an occurrence from even encroaching upon the realm of possibility.

When I came plummeting down from culinary ecstasy and realized that I was down to my last plate, I knew I was not ready to return to a life so mundane, to dishes so plebeian, to flavours that ought to have been ashamed of aspiring to the very appellation. I glanced up at the skeleton. “M-may I have the rest to go?”

“We cannot allow that,” said the skeleton, foiling my hopes and plunging me into a bottomless pit of despair. My tenderized flesh could scarcely survive another hours-long assault by the bloodflies. And even if I braved the elements, who knew whether the Dust Bowl Café would be around that long; these trendy establishments seemed to pop in and out of existence in two twitches of a sphinx’s nose. 

I knew then that I had no hope of ever returning here. But what I did have was recourse to a particularly skilled sorcerer, the best this side of the Sour Sea. If I could smuggle some of the dust out of here, then perhaps—just perhaps—she could tell me from whence this irresistible ambrosia originated.

At this point, it became clear to me why the skeleton had refused to abandon his post by my side, and I resolved to rid myself of him one way or another. And that way presented itself but moments later, when a slight tingle in my nasal cavity gave way to a stroke of genius. Under the pretense of savouring this delectable delicacy, I leaned forward and inflated my nostrils. My mighty inhale would have made the Whiplash Gales of the Wailing Mounts pale in comparison. Even mightier was the sneeze that followed, the brunt of which I directed straight into the face of my adversary.

“I beg your apology, sirrah,” I said, offering him my handkerchief. Much to my delight, the simpleton took the bait. While he dabbed away at the moist globules of spittle that dappled his skull, I used a spare handkerchief to gather some of the dust that had fallen onto the table during the chaos of my violent expulsion and stuffed my spoils into my pocket. 

I’d just about finished when that bony hand breached my line of sight, setting before me a rather extravagant bill. “Your cheque, sir.”

I glanced down at my not-quite-empty plate. “But I wasn’t finished.” The skeleton’s sharp glare made it abundantly clear that I had worn out my welcome. So I bid him adieu and, after depositing on the table the owed amount and—if you will permit me to say—a rather generous tip, kindly vacated the premises. 

During the formidable trek back to my humble abode, the temptation to indulge my basest desires and feast upon the pilfered morsels egged me ever so. Only by reciting out loud my intended review of the Dust Bowl Café dining experience did I stave off temptation. And if that isn’t a five star review, well, then I’ll be a goblin’s goat.

Alas, this is not a culinary review but rather an account of the tribulations that followed my ill-fated visit. Upon arriving home, I had intended to call upon my sorcerer acquaintance to deduce the origins of this most scrumptious entrée. Well, said acquaintance, by some stroke of misfortune, happened to be indisposed, and so it was that I had to store the dust in my cold room for upwards of a fortmoon.

Whether a Monksday or a Flyday, I cannot recall, but one morning I ventured into the cold room, unable to resist temptation any further. I unfurled the handkerchief, lustily eying the specks of shimmering dust. All would have ended then, had my voracious appetite not caused a strand of drool to dangle from my lips such that when I leaned forward, the saliva dripped onto the dust. Now I’d done it! The moisture soaked into the dust, forming a sort of paste. When I dipped my finger into the paste and found that it tasted of the same variety of dust you’d likely find gracing the underside of an oven, I cried out bloody murder.

Just as I had predicted, the Dust Bowl Café was rather a short-lived venture. Indeed, it existed for but a week before vanishing like a necktie in a wardrobe infested with mule-moths. Any hope I had of procuring more of the dust was lost. Grief consumed me, so much so that I nearly succumbed to starvation. At last, after several days, I mustered the strength to fetch the handkerchief from the cold room and dispose of the last remnant of my great blunder.

Upon entering the cold room, I found that little clumps had formed in the paste. Alas, my spoils had, well, spoiled. Further inspection, however, revealed that what I had mistaken for sacs of mould were in actuality mounds of dust with little floppy ears and bushy tails. 

Dust bunnies!

Would that I had put an end to things then. But, being one-eighth cat, it is in my disposition to yield to the mistress named curiosity. And so it was that I decided to keep the curious critters, even going so far as to experiment with providing them sustenance. For carrots and onions, they possessed no palate. For potatoes and leaven-loaf, hankerings they had none. Only by sheer happenstance one day did I leave the cold room door ajar, allowing one of the critters to escape. Later that evening, I discovered the absconder, feasting atop my dustpan.

From then on, we entered into a convenient arrangement wherein I’d allow the dust bunnies free roam of the house every evening so that they might feed and I might be spared an unpleasant chore. Thus we continued for some time, until one day—it was a Windsday, of that I’m certain—one of the bunnies, now swelled to the size of a capybara calico, refused to return to its cage. The stubborn brute, having relieved me of my supply of dust, had dislodged one of my hefty tomes from the bookcase and was chewing on the dust jacket. This behaviour I promptly tried to quell, only for the bunny to bite me!

My patience wore thin in the days that followed. The bunnies, you see, had begun to shed. Given that they did not seem inclined to graze on their own fur, I was left with no recourse but to sweep up the stray hairs myself. With a grapevine-worthy grumble, I set to the task, half-inclined to dispose of these troublesome pests on the morrow.

While engaged in this tiresome chore, I stumbled upon yet another peculiarity. So delicate were the hairs that when the bristles of my broom nudged them, they dissolved into specks of dust. Those too I was inclined to sweep up, but they possessed some quality that gave me pause. Yielding to my inner-cat, I had but a taste. Instantly, I was transported. The hairs, to my great elation, had disintegrated into the very dust from whence the bunnies had spawned!

Hastily, I wrote to my sorcerer acquaintance, assuring her that I no longer required her services. That evening, I procured myself a set of cages large enough to accommodate my proverbial golden geese. 

Thus began the experiments. I could compel the bunnies to shed dust of the garden variety, but what of the other extravagant flavours of which I’d partaken? 

Through much trial and error, I came to discover the recipe, as it were, for recreating the different varieties of dust. Expose the dust bunny to the light of a crystal moon for stardust. Bathe it in the nectar of the wild aurumrose for gold dust. Take it for a stroll through the pine-scented woods at dusk for sawdust. But for every success, I suffered ten times as many failures. So obsessed was I with finding an answer during this phase of experimentation that I even allowed one of the bunnies to feed on slivers of my own flesh. That proved a serious misstep, for but a few hours after the bunny had sufficiently gorged itself on yours truly, it crumbled into a heap of dust that had so foul a taste I gave serious contemplation to removing my tongue.

Over the next few weeks, I amassed such great stores of dust that I had to transform my bedroom into a pantry just to accommodate them. The inconvenience bothered me not, for every night I feasted on the heavens themselves. But with more dust than even my leonine appetite could see to, it occurred to me that I ought to open my own café. 

I did just that. The venture burned through the entirety of my life’s savings, but if I charged even half of what that old skeleton had, I’d recoup the investment in no time. My preparations were carried out without a hitch. And on the eve of my grand opening, I set up shop in my brand-new storefront by Basilisk Bay, which I dubbed The National Dust. 

As I was soon to be richer than I’d ever imagined in my wildest dreams, I decided to celebrate by the fire with a nice spot of brandy. That spot soon turned into a blot, and the gentle crackle of the fire lulled me into a drunken slumber. 

When I awoke the following morning, I knew that something had gone horribly wrong. The night’s passing had failed to leave an unpleasant aftertaste on my tongue or form a crust in the nooks of my eyes. I seemed to have alleviated myself of a puddle of acidic bile in the night, but the discharge, oddly, had no odour. 

It dawned on me then that, in my stupor, I’d forgotten to secure the locks on the dust bunnies’ cages. With unprecedented haste, I confirmed that, yes, I had indeed neglected the task and my bunnies had, alas, flown. Upon catching a glimpse of my hands—or, rather, what remained of them—I realized that was the least of my troubles.

Never had time slowed as it did during my mad dash to the mirror. When I gazed upon my miserable form, I could have wept, had I recourse to any tear ducts. Sometime between getting loose and flying the proverbial coop, the dust bunnies had relieved me of every last scrap of flesh. Staring back at me with hollow sockets was the spitting image of my old adversary. A skeleton, stripped bare.

My ill-conceived plot had cost me everything, including—quite literally—the skin off my back. Well, not quite everything. Though the dust bunnies were no more, I did still have my stores of dust. Not enough to accumulate the wealth I’d anticipated, but then, a handful was more than enough to spawn a new batch of bunnies. 

All would be fine. So what if I’d lost a few pounds? I’d earn plenty of pounds—and perhaps a few shillings—in return! With renewed vigour, I sat down for my breakfast. Chalk dust, as was routine. Shoveling the first spoonful into my gullet, however, revealed the full misfortune of my predicament. Without a tongue, I could not taste a thing!

Incapacitated by grief, I sunk into my sofa and soaked myself in what remained of the brandy, which had neither taste nor potency when consumed by bare bones. In my attempt to gain the world, I’d been expelled from paradise. So thorough was the gloom encapsulating my being that I remained indisposed far beyond the hour at which I had intended to welcome my first customers.

At last, clarity descended upon me. The only way I could possibly move on was to rid myself once and for all of what remained of this wretched venture. I had half a mind to set the whole place aflame. Thankfully, some vestige of sanity remained within me, and I opted to open for business so that I might at least recoup some of my squandered wealth. To ensure that my sorry fate befell no others, I resolved to serve but one customer at a time. Should any misguided fool attempt to smuggle dust out of the premises, I would be there to thwart them.

With the dourest of dispositions, at last I greeted my inaugural customer. The lady took one look at me and wrinkled her nose. “You must be paid a pittance,” she quipped. “Can’t even afford to put a little meat on your bones, can you?” She had no inkling how true her words were; not all the wealth in the world could have accomplished that.

“How delightful,” I muttered, though in reality I’d have awarded the joke only two stars out of five, and that was being generous. “Right this way.”