Taste

By Radhika Kori

" ‘Revenge—a dish best served cold’ . Is it, though? As a chef, I’ve never believed that. A dish can burn on the plate and still warm the soul.”

“For today’s special,” Ethan announced, his voice carrying easily across the dining room, “we have a hot Provençal stew—Ratatouille—paired with a chilled glass of Laurent-Perrier Brut Rosé.” He gives a theatrical bow. “Enjoy.”

Dinner is a blur of clinking glasses, quiet conversation, and the occasional laugh carried on the ocean breeze. Compliments drifted his way, each one pleasant, but one in particular stood out, because it came from him.

Nick appeared at the edge of the deck. His hands tucked into his pocket, he walked towards Ethan. He leaned in slightly, his voice low enough to give Ethan butterflies. “Chef’s kiss,” he murmured, his gaze holding for a moment too long. 

It wasn’t what he said- just the way he said it, as if he’s claimed something only the two of them know. 

“Thank you,” he managed to say, fighting the sudden warmth in my cheeks. “I’m Ethan.”

“I know who you are,” he says with a hint of a smile. “I’m Nick. Nice to meet you, Ethan.” 

 Ethan tilted his head, amused. “And do you always introduce yourself after making a man blush, or it is just me?”

Nick chuckled. “Depends. Is tomorrow’s breakfast worth waking up early for?”

“That depends,” Ethan shot back, leaning just slightly closer. “Do you like your eggs sunny side up, or your mornings scrambled?”

Nick chuckled. “Surprise me. But make something I’ll remember.”

Ethan smiled, feeling a strange, warm anticipation settle in his chest. “Oh, I will.”

Nick walked away, but not before sweeping Ethan right off his feet. Their friendly banter made his evening like none other. 

The next morning was bathed in a soft golden light, cold morning breeze complementing warm sunlight. Guest began arriving to the dining area, the air fragrant with fresh coffee and warm bread. The omelette station was busy, spatulas clinking against skillets- but only one plate that morning came directly from the head chef’s hands. 

Nick sat on the deck, enjoying the breeze. A waiter approached, placing a plate with quite ceremony: saffron poached eggs on brioche with a side of honey-roasted figs.

From the kitchen doorway, Ethan watched as nick took his first bite. The slow lift of the fork, the pause before tasting made him loose his patience, is it worth it?. Then came the small, satisfied hum, barely audible over the chatter of the other guests. 

Nick glanced up, spotting Ethan half hidden in the doorway. 

“You made this, didn’t you?” he called out, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

Ethan stepped forward, “What makes you think that?”

Nick leaned back in his chair, letting the sunlight catch in his hair. “Because it’s...indulgent. Exactly the kind of thing someone would make for a person they wanted to impress.”

Ethan smirked. “Maybe it’s just the chef’s way of saying bonjour.”

“Mm, then I’ll take my mornings like this from now on, ” Nick replied, voice low enough that it was meant only for Ethan. “Sunrise, good coffee... and you deciding what’s on my plate. ”

Ethan chuckled, shaking his head as he started to retreat towards the kitchen. “Careful, or tomorrow you’ll end up with oatmeal.”

Nick’s grin deepened. “Only if you feed it to me.” 

The day rolled on in a blur and soon it was their last day on the cruise. Ethan so far has impressed all with his delicious and elaborative meals; especially Nick. Their everyday chatter and banter was coming to end. But Ethan wanted to present a final touch of this trip. After a long evening of joyful commotion, the dining area had fallen silent, the last wine glasses cleared away. But in the kitchen, the soft hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic tap of a knife on a cutting board lingered like a heartbeat. 

Ethan stood at his station, sleeves rolled high, a shadow cast across his jaw by the dim pendant lights. Steam curled upward from a copper pot, carrying a scent both rich and faintly intoxicating. He lasted it, lips pressing into a faint smile as though he knew a secret no one else did. 

From the bar, Nick had been lazily sipping his wine, enjoying the solitude, until a metallic crash shattered the quite. It wasn’t loud enough to suggest an accident, but sharp enough for curiosity to win. 

He slipped into the kitchen, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Midnight kitchen experiments?” he asked, voice warm with amusement.  “Should I be concerned...or impressed?”

Ethan glanced up, startled for only a before a smirk curved his lips. “Depends.  Do you like being a guinea pig?”

Nick stepped closer, the light catching in his eyes. “Depends.” He says in a similar mocking tone. “Do you plan on poisoning me or seducing me?” 

Ethan let out a soft laugh “They are in direct contradiction”, knowing well enough both can be done if planned carefully.

Nick took a seat at the counter, eyes never leaving him. Silence between them said more than any of them could say to each other. Ethan plated a small portion and slid it forward. Nick’s fork sank into the dish- soft, tender salmon with herbal note paired with a citrus purée and...something else he couldn’t place. The first bite made his breath hitch, the flavours lingering in a way that felt almost intimate. 

When he finally looked up, Ethan was watching him, head tilted, studying his reaction. “You know,” Nick said his voice softer now, “if you keep cooking like this for me...I might start thinking you’re trying to keep me here.”

Ethan didn’t blink. “And if I was?”

Nick’s smile was slow, but his eyes flickered briefly towards the shadows of the kitchen “Then.. I’d say you are succeeding”. He stood closing the distance between them.  The air between them seemed to hum, but before the tension could snap, he added softly, “Tomorrow is our last day here, and I would like to meet more of you. Can we do that?”  Ethan shook his head, his heart pounding, and stomach fluttering with butterflies. Nick grabbed his waist, pulling him closer. His lips brushed Ethan’s in a feather light tease before claiming them fully. The kiss was passionate, electric, sending a shiver down Ethan’s spine. It was good. It was new...but familiar. 

Before Ethan could catch his breath, Nick pulled away, a teasing glint in his eyes. “That had some notes of saffron,” he murmured. 

They let out a chuckle, the moment hanging in the air like a shared secret, before Nick stepped back toward the door. “Good night, chef.”

The next day came in. Lunch was a blur service- clatter of plates, warm comforting scent of seared fish, and low hum of conversation drifting across the dining hall. By evening, the sun had dipped low and Ethan found himself down at the dock, helping unload crates from the supply boat.

That’s when Nick appeared, his hands tucked in his pockets, a faint smile on his face. He stepped close enough that his shadow spilled over Ethan’s hand as he stacked a box. 

“This is for you,” Nick said, slipping an envelope into Ethan’s palm. His fingers lingered- just a beat longer than necessary. 

On the front, in neat handwriting, it read: Open tomorrow at eleven. 

Nick gave no explanation. Just that same, slow smile before he turned and walked away, leaving Ethan staring at the envelope, the sound of the tide explaining his inner tide of emotions. 

The next morning, sunlight poured through the window. Ethan’s phone was buzzing relentlessly on the night stand, the vibrations rattling against the wood. Still half-asleep, he reached for it- and froze when he saw the notifications. 

Messages flooded in from colleagues, friends, and even a few strangers.  “Saw the piece- well deserved!!”  “You are famous now, Chef!” “Brilliant write-up! I am booking the cruise just for your food.” 

Curious, he clicked the link someone had sent. It was an article in a well-known culinary magazine, glowing with praise for “the vibrant, unexpected flavours” and “the quite confidence of a chef who understands the poetry of a plate.” Ethan’s breath caught when he reached the bottom. Beneath the critic’s name, in elegant print was written: Nissan Sharma. 

A slow slime tugged at his lips. And just like that, he remembered the envelope from last night. It was still sitting on the desk unopened.  He slid a finger under the flap, and pulled out the contents. 

Inside was a crisp invitation card: Wine Tasting at the Capitan’s Table, followed by Dinner Today- 4:00 PM

Tucked behind it was a sleek business card. 

Embossed letters caught the light: 

                                                           NISSAN SHARMA

                                                 Food and Travel critic 

 and a personal phone number. 

Ethan started at it, the edges warm against his fingers. So it was him after all.  He saw the time it was noon already. He chose a crisp white shirt, dark trousers, and a blazer that made him look more confident that he felt. The scent of his cologne rose faintly as he slipped on his watch, a small comfort against the restless thrum in his chest. 

He arrived at the venue, and Nick stood there-no, Nissan- in a tailored black suit, the cut sharp enough to make him look like he’d stepped straight out of a magazine. His tie was undone just enough to be deliberate, and his smile was that same slow knowing curve. 

“Right on time,” Nick said, his voice low and warm. Eyes flicked briefly over Ethan’s outfit before meeting his gaze again, a glint of approval and affection. 

The space inside was intimate- warm light, shelves lined with bottles, the air rich with the scent of oak and spice. A sommelier poured the first glass, describing hints of blackberry and smoke. They moved from one tasting to the next, the wine loosening the tension between them. Ethan leaned back in his chair, swirling the liquid in his glass. 

“So...” he began, a half smile tugging at his lips. “When were you planning to tell me you are The Nissan Sharma?” Nick’s brow arched, but his expression stayed calm, “If I had told you from the start, you would have cooked for Nissan Sharma, not for me.” Ethan tilted his head. “And that is bad because....?” “Because then I wouldn’t have seen your true nature,” Nick replied, his voice steady but softer now. “The way you think about flavour, the way your eyes light up when you taste something new...that’s passion I wanted to witness. Not a performance. ” Ethan held his gaze in awe, soaking the sincerity in his word. Nick’s smile deepened. Soon a beautiful night filled with intoxication – not of wine but of presence of each other ended. 

And just like that from exchange of glances, to contacts came the day where they exchanged rings and vowed to be true and together in their worst. 

Ethan planned on quitting his job on cruise and opening his own restaurant; Nick was really supportive of it but before quitting came a really big opportunity. He was called in for special appearance in season finale of ‘COOK WITH HEART’, a cooking reality show. But the shoot was on their three year anniversary. They had a fight where both said things they didn’t mean. 

Ethan boarded his flight, the hum of engines quite down the ache in his chest. Down on the ground, Nick sat in their apartment replaying the fight in his head over and over until his eye stung. His phone pinged- it was a video call from Sam. After constant declining and explaining the situation she texted – I’m coming over. Nick replied quickly, telling her not to. But still, she showed up. 

Ethan had never liked her. She’d always behaved strangely around him—too flirty, too lingering—and he knew she nursed a little crush on Nick. He had mentioned it before, but she’d laughed it off, and Nick never truly believed him. 

Nick was already raw, his voice cracking as he told her through tears that he never meant the things he said to Ethan, that he regretted every word. “It was just an anniversary,” he said, his hands trembling, “we could’ve celebrated it when he came back...I was stupid. So stupid.” In the middle of his rambling confession, she kissed him. He didn’t pull away. One kiss blurred into another, and before either of them thought to stop, things spiralled. Nick cheated on Ethan. 

The guilt hit him next day, a nauseating pit in his stomach. He wanted to tell Ethan, to confess before it festered. But Sam told him to bury it, to forget it happened. Nick tried, but the truth has a way of rotting from inside out. 

When Ethan returned, Nick apologized for the fight, for being irrational, for letting their anniversary turn into a battleground. Ethan forgave him, and for a moment, it felt like they were back on steady ground. 

Until the day... they were  together with some friends including Sam. And she blurted out drunk “Nick I told you it would be okay, you were crying for no reason.” Nick’s body language changed when inquiring about it he shook it off and changed the subject. But the seed of doubt has been planted. Ethan remembered about the CCTV they got in the hall. He checked its footage, there it was – undeniable. Her lips on his. Ethan’s blood ran cold. Ethan’s head tilted watching the footage “Aww dummy, you didn’t even care to delete the footage, as if you wanted to get caught” he said with a disturbing smile on his face. 

He went straight to Nick’s office, heart pounding..only to see them together – laughing, holding hands, eyes locked. Ethan turned around and went home. He confined in a friend, who advised him to wait, to either catch Nick red-handed or let him confess. 

Later that evening, Nick walked through the door, loosening his tie, sighing about what a “rough day” he’d had. Ethan stared at him, the disbelief numbed him. 

It was Sam’s birthday a few days later. Ethan claimed he felt sick and stayed home while Nick went to party. By the time Nick returned, it was past midnight. He stepped inside the faint scent of wax and freshly baked cake. 

The living room was dark, flickering glow of candles burning atop on a small cake. Ethan sat across, his expression unreadable, the dancing light catching his eyes. Nick frowned, taking a step closer. “What is this?” Ethan tilted his head voice calm but cold. “Today is you girlfriend’s birthday...shouldn’t we celebrate it? She’s officially the other woman now.”

Nick’s brows furrowed. “Ethan, that’s not-”

“Oh, don’t bother denying it” Ethan cut in, standing up. “I found out about you two long time ago. I just didn’t say anything.” The candles flickered between them; each second stretched taunting his infidelity.

Nick’s voice rose, defensive “It was once, and I feel bad about it.” 

“You.Feel.Bad?” Ethan scoffed, his words sharp. “You feel bad when you see a car running over puppies, not when you cheat on your partner!” “What we had was good, Nick, until I wasn’t enough for you.”

“No, Ethan; you are enough for me. You always have been.”

“Then why,” Ethan’s voice trembled with both rage and hurt, “didn’t you break it off?, Why was she sitting on your lap IF I WAS ENOUGH FOR YOU??”

Nick’s eyes narrowed his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. “How do you know?”

Ethan’s lips twisted into a humourless smile, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes. “Remember that plushie I got you? It was actually a nanny cam.”

The air between them thickened. Nick’s jaw worked, a muscle twitching near his temple. “You were spying on me?” His voice trembled — not from guilt, but from the insult of being caught.

“Yes, Nick, I was,” Ethan shot back, his voice breaking on the edges. “What are you going to do about it? You going to hit me?” He stepped forward, defiant, his shoulders squared though his hands trembled at his sides.

Nick’s eyes flashed with something sharp — hurt, anger, and pride all tangled into something volatile. In one sudden movement, he closed the distance and clamped his hand on Ethan’s shoulder. His grip was iron, his breath hot against Ethan’s face. “I will write an article about you - and then we’ll see.”

Ethan’s heart slammed against his ribs, but he didn’t flinch. “You won’t do anything of that sort.”

“Oh, will I?” Nick’s voice was sharp, each word cutting like glass.

“You won’t.”

Nick’s mouth curled in a cruel half-smile. “Or what? You going to hit me??”

Ethan’s stomach knotted. The room felt smaller, air heavier, the silence between them charged with the kind of energy that could shatter into violence at any second. Nick’s grip tightened, his fingers digging in, shaking Ethan as if trying to rattle the truth out of him.

In that instant, instinct overrode thought. Ethan shoved him - hard.

Nick’s back slammed against the wall with a sickening thud. The crack of his head hitting plaster echoed through the room. He slid down slowly, leaving a dark, glistening smear behind, his eyes fluttering closed as his body went limp.

I felt nothing. No remorse, no hesitation. I dragged his body into our walk-in freezer, the plastic wrap crinkling as I wound it around him, sealing him in. He looked small like that — smaller than he ever did alive. I left him on the floor, the hum of the freezer swallowing the silence. On my way out, I grabbed the bleach and a mop. I scrubbed every inch of the place, every speck of blood — gone. The smell of bleach stung my nose, burned the back of my throat, but I didn’t stop until the floor looked like nothing had ever happened here.

Nick’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Message after message from Sam. I unlocked it, my fingers steady, and typed out a reply.

That day, I became Nick for Sam. Giving her all kinds of excuse just do that she won’t land up here. 

I never thought things would come to such extent, if this is how it is going to end so be it.

Sam has a show called “Let’s Eat It!” — a cozy weekend segment on national television where smiling foodies chased their dreams. For me, it was a stage. A stage to serve my revenge in courses.

I strapped Nick to the steel table, his skin goose bumped in the cold light. I stripped him bare—no fabric, no dignity—just flesh and the slow fog of his breath. My knife met skin, and I began to cut. It wasn’t just meat I was slicing; it was betrayal, trimmed and portioned. The first dish I prepared for Samantha was a Beef Wellington—how poetic, given it was one of Nick’s favourites.

I cooked it with precision, the air filling with buttery, savoury warmth that almost masked the coppery tang beneath.

The delivery was simple: a perfectly plated dish, a handwritten note — “Greetings, here is a dish from @NolanCooks. Below is my email.”

The email followed: Greetings, my name is Nolan Spencer. I’m a food content creator, though not very skilled. I dream of making it to your show. If you’re willing to guide me, I’ve made Beef Wellington. Please give it a try and tell me the truth.

Within an hour, she replied—sweet, trusting Sam—sending me her do’s and don’ts. 

Oh, Sam. How can you just… eat something from a stranger?

And so it began — my quiet ritual. Cooking Nick’s favourite dishes… from Nick himself.

From then on, my knives learned the language of Nick’s body. Every week, another “favourite” of his made its way to her. Lamb shanks. Braised short ribs. Filet mignon. Each plate was a memory, reduced to bone and fat, dressed in sauce. All while, maintaining the mask of “Nick” for Sam was draining, but worth it.

Then came her message: for the 500th episode, she wanted Nick himself as a guest critic. How fitting. How impossible. Unless she could mould him from what I had left, Nick wasn’t coming back. All I had was a container in the freezer—marbled fat, pale and trembling, scraped from his belly—my last cut of him. Perfect for my final dish. So I texted back “Will meet you there!”

You know, the strangest thing about cooking a man is how quickly you forget it was a man. The smell of searing flesh is… familiar. Comforting. The kind that makes you salivate before you realize what you’re eating. Maybe that’s the worst part. 

I always wanted to be friends with a cannibal. Just in case I kill someone and need the body to disappear. I would technically be providing them food for 2 months tops. 

Finally the most awaited day arrived. On today’s menu was Sam’s favourite dish – Ravioli in pesto sauce. So...easy. So comforting. That’s the beauty of pasta – it hides everything. 

 I kneaded the dough until it was smooth as skin, rolling it thin enough for light to pass through. The filling? Minced fine, almost silken, the fat binding it together into something rich, indulgent. 

The pesto was the loudest thing in the kitchen. Basil crushed to paste, the sharp bite of garlic, the oily perfume of pine nuts. Strong enough to smother any… unusual notes in the meat. Strong enough to make her think it was just dinner.

When I plated it, the ravioli gleamed under the sauce, fat little pockets swollen with their secret. The steam carried the basil up to my nose, and for a moment, I almost forgot. Almost.  I packed it carefully, just like the first time. Only this time, the note read: ‘Congratulations on 500 episodes, Sam. For you, I made your favourite. No one deserves it more.’

And I meant it.

But today it arrived early, you see Nick was always punctual – even a fraction of second mattered to him.  And today of all day he would arrive at least thirty minutes before. I’d make sure of that. Sadly Sam didn’t realise it. She kept the package on the kitchen counter and left for her shoot. 

Sam didn’t think much of it when the delivery came. She set the package down, grabbed her bag, and rushed out for the shoot. Hours later, when the cameras were off and the applause faded, fury bubbled in her chest. This was supposed to be her 500th episode—and Nick had promised he’d be there. She stormed into her apartment, slamming the door behind her, tossing her keys onto the table.

She snatched her phone and typed furiously: “How can you break a promise?” The reply came almost instantly. “I didn’t.” Her brows knitted. “Huh?” she typed back. “I kept my promise. I arrived thirty minutes early.” replied Nick. A cold prickle crawled up her neck. Her thumbs hesitated.“Where?” The dots danced for a moment before the final message appeared.

“ I was with you back then… and now I’m in you.”

She froze mid-bite, her teeth sinking into something unexpectedly sinewy. The pasta’s sauce clung too thickly, coating her tongue with an iron tang. She chewed once more—slowly—before her jaw stopped. Her mind connected the grainy, fibrous texture with the memory of running her hands down Nick’s arm, the faint scar near his elbow.

She looked down. One ravioli had split open in the fork’s tines, its filling spilling out in greyish, stringy clumps—like shredded muscle. 

Outside her window, Ethan stood in the dusky light—smiling. Slowly, he lifted his hand and waved. The fork clattered to the floor. Sam clutched her chest, the sharp pain tearing through her ribs. The world blurred as she gasped, choking—her lips foaming faintly green from the ‘wolfs bane-laced sauce’ . 

Her vision tunnelled,  eyes locked on Ethan one last time. He leaned forward, pressing his palm flat to the glass, his grin still impossibly wide, as if he could already taste the silence she was about to leave behind. And then she toppled forward into the cold ravioli, her cheek smearing through the sauce that had once been Nick.

END____________________________________________________________________

By Radhika Kori