Pasta Heroes (8) - A short novel about noodles, rats and courage

Mutated rats with a taste for gourmet food escape from a laboratory in New York. While fast food chains remain untouched by the rats, restaurants like Pasta Heaven are getting overrun. Time for it's owner, Vincent, and his employees to grab a gun and go to war.

The pasta dough started to form lumps, reaching a crucial point where Vincent had to add water spoon by spoon, when he heard a knock.
"Is that the front door?" Michael asked.
"I think so, I'm gonna have a look."
While Vincent was walking through the dining room, there was another knock so powerful that the wooden door shook. Hopefully not the police, he thought, or the health department, coming to close the restaurant. When he opened the door, he saw a fat man with a mustache and next to him a woman who was almost as tall thanks to her hairspray.
"Are you open?" the man asked, leaning to the side to look into the restaurant. Given the fact that the door had been closed and the chef had to come out of the kitchen to open it, it was quite a stupid question.
"No, we don't open until four," Vincent said, annoyed and worried about the pasta dough that was missing three to four spoons of cold water.
"Could we perhaps eat earlier? My wife is very concerned, you know, the rats."
"No, I'm sorry. The staff isn't here yet and we just started with the preparations, which you are interrupting."
"I told you so," said a man in a dark blue T-shirt, sitting on the curb. Vincent hadn't seen him since the fat man was blocking the view.
"Are you waiting to eat here?" Vincent said to the man on the curb.
"Yes, but it wasn't my idea to knock on the door."
"But you know that we don't' open until four o'clock?"
"Yes, I got time."
It happened once in a while that the first guests arrived before the opening time, and if at least one of the waiters was there, Vincent let them in.
"We don't have a waiter yet, so you can't order anything, but if you prefer to sit in a chair, come in," Vincent said and tried to address that invitation directly at the man on the curb and not the fat man and his wife who would definitely continue to bother him and Michael.
"But at least a starter," said the fat man, and proved Vincent's suspicion.
"Of course, no problem, just go down the road, four or five blocks, there's a McFunnel's that is already open. Choose anything you want, and then please never come back here." Vincent enjoyed the sight of the two faces staring at him completely dazed before turning bitter.
"I think we should go to another restaurant, the food here isn't that good anyway," said the man, pulling his wife by the arm.
"Welcome," Vincent said to the man in the blue shirt. "Why are you here so early?"
"Because, well ..." the man scratched his head sheepishly, "you don't know how this whole rat thing is going to turn out, and this is my favorite restaurant, my wife and I eat here three times a week, she'll be here as soon as she's done working."
"Thank you," Vincent said. "I'm sorry that I don't know you, but as the chef I rarely see the guests."
"I understand. So I can sit here somewhere?"
"Sure, make yourself comfortable, maybe later someone can take drink orders, but I really have to get back into the kitchen and work on the dough."
"Okay, thank you very much."

Vincent rushed back into the kitchen, where Michael was preparing the ravioli filling, ricotta with fresh peppercorns and Parmesan.
"What was going on out there?" He asked Vincent.
"The first guests arrived. I let one guy in and set two others to hell, they would have bothered us."
"Not bad. So people are less afraid of rats than they want good food."
"Let's wait and see. The one guy sure arrived early, but he said he is one of our most regular customers. Maybe it's only the tough ones coming out now and early, but the majority of people will stay home."

As it soon turned out, Vincent was wrong. At half past two the kitchen door opened and a man in a nice suite inquired whether he could order directly from the chef. Much to Vincent's surprise, almost every table was occupied. The jazz music had drowned out the noise from outside. He should have locked the door, he thought, but now it was too late.
"We haven't opened yet, technically," Vincent addressed the hungry crowd, "and our waiters aren't here yet. I'm sorry, but we can't take any orders."
The people showed no reaction, no one stood up.
"Okay, we'll wait," said an elderly man with glasses, and seemed to speak for everybody, since no one had anything to add to that. Vincent shrugged and turned back to the kitchen.
"The restaurant is full of guests," he said to Michael.
"Yes. Very funny."
"No, seriously, every table is occupied. I'll make some calls, maybe someone can come in earlier."

It wasn't an easy decision, but Vincent made Lenny the provisional waiter to serve drinks. He urged him not to load too many cups and glasses on the tray, and that he should always put the tray on the table before unloading, and always hold it with both hands. Nevertheless, Vincent knew that Lenny would raise his right hand to greet when the staff arrived and he could only hope that Lenny at that moment wasn't carrying a tray with hot coffee.
Ramona and Lennard, the two waiters, agreed to come right away, but neither of them would manage to make it in less than half an hour. Of his cooks he could only reach two, Gustav and Sue, but his saucier Albert didn't pick up his phone. That meant Gustav had to take care of the sauces while everyone else worked a bit faster.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

About the author: From riches to ragz: The story of a gambling nomad

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