Page 10 of Brutal King

“This looks more like a French bistro than a school cafeteria,” I said.

Tables of four, six and eight were set up with more than enough elbow room. The upholstered chairs looked comfy, and classical music played in the background. Above our heads, instead of super bright ceiling lights, each table had its own pendulum light, adding to the warm atmosphere.”

“Hello,” a young hostess said in greeting. “Choose any table you like and here are your menus.”

“Menu?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “This isn’t the type of cafeteria where people line up to choose a plate from behind the counter. One of our student chefs will tend to you very shortly.”

“Cool,” Layla said.

We found a vacant table for four and quickly opened our menus.

“Lasagna,” Layla said.

“Oh, creamy fettuccini Alfredo.”

“And spaghetti with bolognaise sauce.”

“Or carbonara... with bacon,” I said, licking my lips.

“I have never had Marinara... that’s the one with wine, right.”

“Right. Oh, and arrabbiata... so spicy. Everything looks so good,” I said.

“As hungry as I am, I’d eat just about anything on this menu,” Layla said. “But marinara... that sounds so lovely.”

“And I wouldn’t mind trying their carbonara.”

A student chef came to our table and set a bottle of wine in the center of the table with a wine glass for each of us. “Hello, I’m Hannah and I’ll be making your lunch today,” she said. “Have you made your decision?”

We gave her our choices.

“Superb. Be right back.”

As she walked away, we stared at the bottle of wine.

“Wine?” Layla said. “With lunch? During school hours?”

“Now that is totally unexpected.” I picked up the bottle and poured some into my glass.

As water filled my glass, Layla and I burst out laughing.

“Now, that makes more sense,” Layla said. “Not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed a little sip of wine to calm my nerves.”

I poured water into her wine glass, and we made a small toast. “To a successful year,” I said.

Hannah returned with our dishes. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

“Oh, my God,” I said as the aromas of the dish wafted up to my nostrils. “Do you smell that? That is a perfect carbonara sauce if ever I’ve smelled one.”

“I think I am actually drooling over this plate.”

We both dug in.

“It’s even better than it smelled,” I said.

Layla nodded emphatically as she chewed on her food. “I guess this is what you get at the most prestigious culinary school in the U.S.”