Dinner At Nestrosa's

by Faye Levine

Copyright (c)1989

Seated alone at his table in the restaurant, Fleet Captain Quarq sipped at his water as his eyes scanned the menu. Nestrosa's was a classy place, with all-real, classy food and classy patrons, but although being a senior War Council member earned him the right to dine there, Quarq did not feel the part of a classy guy.

He was not sure why he had come that evening. True, he loved the pure, culinary enjoyment and almost primitive appeal that could only come from attacking a juicy, fleshy steak of real meat from some poor dead herd animal slaughtered somewhere on the wide ranges of Planet Druusca, but tonight he for some reason found himself yearning to be dressed in his battered fatigues with his feet up on the table, enjoying a huge malt in a greasy fast food joint.

``Would you care to order now, sir?'' said a cultured voice at his side. Coming out of his thoughts, he saw one of the waiters standing patiently at his table, pen and order pad at the ready.

``Sure,'' he replied. ``I'll have the steak.''

``And would you like anything to drink, sir?''

The captain was tempted to ask for a malt, just to see what the waiter's reaction would be, then changed his mind and replied, ``Give me a twelve-year, straight up, no ice.''

``Very good, sir,'' said the waiter. He picked up the menu and headed for the kitchen.

Quarq leaned back in his chair and stared out one of Nestrosa's huge view windows. It overlooked the surrounding area of the Capitol District, an area filled with subtly-lit theaters, hotels, business towers, and government offices. Off to one side, the evening lights sparkled on the waters of the local reservoir.

Gazing a little farther, the captain's eyes skirted the fringes of the wealthy sector, where the moderately affluent, including himself, made their homes. He lived in a moderately-sized, comfortable building, in the least elaborate, most standard apartment he could find, which was still too large and too done up for his tastes. His eyes traveled still farther into the distance, where he could make out the shrinking band of middle class neighborhoods he had come from. He would have rather lived there, among familiar faces and places, but his rank forced him to remain within a specified radius of the Imperial Grounds. He would have even almost preferred standard officer's quarters on the local Space Navy base to his current residence, but such uncouth behavior was simply not permitted from a Fleet Captain.

His peers never could quite grasp his discomfort with high society; they wondered why a man with his size paycheck was living in such ``humble'' accommodations and eating standard synthetic food when he could very easily afford much more. As far as they were concerned, they, as well as he, had earned the right to the good life and all of its privileges.

What it all amounted to in the end was that Quarq did not care for frivolity. He saw no need to invest in twenty- year-old fashion model girlfriends, art he had no appreciation for, fancy stocks, top-level credit cards, designer clothes, and ultra-luxury hovercars (his own was a standard ten-year-old with a peeling paint job and distressed landing gear; his superior made him park it out of sight in order to avoid terminal embarrassment). There was only one frivolous activity he partook in, and that was the upkeep of his smoking habit.

He would without a second thought spend a minimum of 12,000 firas for a dozen smoke sticks, imported from one of the other planets in the Empire. That was for merchandise of the lowest standard of quality, considered ordinary cigarettes on their world of origin. His real passion, however, was found in the fragrant leaves of ``his'' brand, one of superior taste and quality, hand rolled and extra long. For this rarely-imported pleasure he would pay anywhere from 5000 to 10,000 firas a shot, depending on whether he obtained them on the market, by special order, or by somewhat more unorthodox means. He was rarely short on supply; he had good connections. Everyone else he knew thought he was crazy for continuing with a habit the general populace had considered too expensive and unhealthy to keep up decades ago. His peers found the smoke sticks nothing but a waste of money; it was not a liquid asset like a car or a piece of art, and once you used it, it was gone forever. Quarq would merely reply that smoking gave him a unique satisfaction, while fancy apartments full of material wealth did not, and what made him happy, not them happy, was what mattered to him.

Despite the frivolity of his habit, he was not frivolous in its use. A dozen smoke sticks would normally last him for months; he was a disciplined man who stuck to his self- imposed ``one-at-the-end-of-the-week-only'' rule exceptionally well.

The waiter returned with his drink and set it down on the table. As Quarq sipped at it, he saw a large group of young men, accompanied by a girl who seemed rather uncomfortable in her high heels and sequined dress, arrive at the reception desk and announce that they were the Sarq Artists and Art Appreciation Club. The headwaiter located their name in his reservation book and escorted them to a large table set off to one side. Quarq watched as the group was led across the restaurant floor. It was led by two people in particular: one, an effeminately handsome man of indeterminate age; the other was the tallest drinking straw the captain had ever seen. He snorted and took another mouthful of his drink. Artists.

As he watched the unusual bunch assemble, he smiled faintly (it was indeed a smile; one had to be careful when interpreting Quarq's facial expressions, as a scar, partially obscured by his moustache and running parallel to his upper lip, pulled at the right corner of his mouth, often making it appear as if he were sneering). Goddamn rich brats, he thought, I don't see you getting drafted. Indeed, he assumed, these were privileged children. He wondered how often the family servants put non-synthetic or prime synthetic food on their tables, while the majority of the populace was reared on overpriced, standard synthetic foodstuffs.

His personal waiter returned, set a steak down in front of him, and, after being told that no, Quarq did not care for anything more, thank you, left without a word. The captain stared at the steak and began to feel guilty. Guilty and ashamed for thinking hypocritical thoughts and taking advantage of the privileged life. His appetite vanished. He sat staring at his dinner for a long time. He began to think of the war in Thy, and the food shortages it had caused here in the Capitol District. He recalled that another member of the War Council had joked earlier in the day that perhaps if they waited long enough, the local revolutionaries would starve themselves out of existence.

As he continued to stare at the steak he sneered (this time it was quite obviously a sneer, one quite frightfully enhanced by the very same scar which had skewed his smile) in disgust, both at himself and at the state of things in general. He decided he would eat the steak, but only because in this day and age it was a sin to waste food. He would force himself to eat his meal, to swallow his hypocrisy. And when he had choked down the last detestable bite he would vow never to come to this or any privilege-class restaurant, and never to eat real food again.

He started on his dinner, eating it slowly, looking at it as little as possible. He ordered several more drinks. He also continued to observe the artists' club.

He noticed that, over the course of a couple of hours, they had ordered just about everything on the menu; the multi-course meals, the fresh breads and hot soups, salads tossed with fresh greens and other vegetables (a rare and expensive treat), the finest wines in the house. Then, just when it seemed they had finally gorged themselves, they asked for the dessert menu.

This is some club banquet, Quarq thought, and chuckled. Wait til their parents get their credit card bills.

As the group worked their way through a multitude of desserts, various club members began to deliver speeches. Although no one else in Nestrosa's paid them any heed, Quarq struggled to listen. Oddly, he found that most of the orations were seemingly nonsensical, almost ridiculous. And now, was he imagining things, or was that queer-looking fellow telling the human straw and several others about the relationship between hovercar mechanics and interior design?

Quarq frowned, finished off his drink, and surveyed the array of empty glasses on both his and the artists' tables. He came to three conclusions. Either he did not know a meaningful conversation on modern art when he heard it, the kids were drunk, or he was drunk. Probably more than one of the above.

After a while, one of the waiters approached the artists' table and inquired if they were done. The effeminate replied that they were. ``And how would you care to pay?'' the waiter then asked.

``Well, gosh, sir,'' the walking straw replied, ``I seem to have forgotten my wallet.''

``Me too,'' chimed in several of the others.

The waiter looked annoyed. ``How would you care to pay?'' he repeated.

``We wouldn't,'' said the effeminate artist, and pulled a gun on the man. At his table, Quarq arched his eyebrows and tried to hold back a laugh. His mouth curved into a crooked, tight-lipped smile. For some reason he found the idea of a prissy queer holding up a waiter quite amusing.

``I say, sir!'' yelped the poor waiter as his antagonist gripped him in a headlock. The drinking straw pulled a compact laser sub-machine gun from his jacket and fired off several shots at the ceiling. A large crystal chandelier plummeted down into the seafood tank. The patrons screamed.

``Whoops,'' said the straw, looking a bit sheepish.

Unable to hold back any longer, Captain Quarq doubled over and began to laugh.

``NOBODY MOVE!'' the straw bellowed as he recovered from his embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the ``club members'' pulled weapons from beneath their jackets. The young lady reached into her dress and produced a small handgun from the cleft between her breasts.

When Quarq saw this his eyes began to water. He nearly fell off of his chair.

Several of the young men ran into the kitchen and shooed out the cooks. When they, along with the waiters and the manager, had been gathered together at the center of the floor, the tall, skinny youth spoke up again.

``Alright... take-out crew: kitchenward... march!'' he snapped. Half a dozen of his fellows disappeared into the kitchen.

``W-wait a minute--'' began the manager.

``Shut up! All of you, shut up!'' (Somehow, Quarq managed to contain himself.) ``Now listen: we don't want to hurt anyone, so don't try anything. While my friends are busy in the kitchen, the rest of us will relieve you of your jewelry, watches, credit cards, money--hic!--size sixteen- and-a-half narrow shoes, and your firstborn children. You will be generous. Is that clear?''

A small, nervous-looking fellow leaned close to the straw. ``You never said anything about robbing them!'' he hissed.

``Shuddup, Flarax. Go cover those tables over there.'' The other reluctantly did as he was told.

As the Sarq's Artists and Art Appreciation Club proceeded to collect the patrons' valuables (as well their unfinished bottles of champagne and wine), Quarq began to take more careful notice of the youths' appearances. With the exception of the girl and the effeminate man, most of them seemed gaunt and tired. His smirk momentarily faded as he recalled for a second time what his comrade had said: if we wait long enough, the revolutionaries will starve themselves out of existence.

The captain's weathered face softened. The poor kids. They may be on the wrong track but they've got guts and spunk. I'll at least give them credit for that.

Meanwhile, the young man who had been called Flarax, not so much nervous as ticked off now, sighed as he slowly paced the floor. As he passed Quarq's table for a third time, he halted, turned, and took keen notice of the man. He stared at the captain, his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed in thought. There was something intriguing about this person, something about the face which might have been handsome if it were not so weathered, something about the narrow moustache broken up by so many scars it seemed scraggly.

The captain stared back. Flarax did not like this. The older man's gaze chilled him. His right eye was a deep golden hue, sharp with intelligence, but the left... The young man shuddered. The iris was slightly misshapen, pale yellow about the edges, the color fading to nearly white in the center. The pupil was askew, fixed to a small, hazy opening.

``Yes?'' Quarq asked slowly, smiling a bit (although to Flarax it was an evil sneer which perfectly complimented the eye). The captain studied the boy. So this is one of those local terrorists, eh? He certainly did not seem like a subversive killer. Then again, Quarq did not believe most of the revolutionaries to be subversive, bloodthirsty killers to begin with. The youth was small, a little on the scrawny side, with a pleading expression and a baby face topped with unruly curls. He seemed to be the sort of young man high school girls would deem ``So-o-o-o-o cute!''

``Uh ... '' Flarax began. Not knowing what else to say, he replied, ``Have--have we met?''

The captain blinked slowly. ``I don't think so,'' he responded blandly.

``Oh.'' A pause. ``Uh ... got any, you know, valuables?''

``Nope.''

``Money?''

``Credit card, but it's got an unauthorized user code. If I call it in to the credit company, and then you try to use it in the store, the register alarms'll go off, and your ass'll be fried.'' Quarq paused, then added, ``Besides, I have to pay for my meal, kid.''

``Yeah, okay,'' Flarax replied distantly, and sighed again. He stood silently, his weapon at the ready.

Presently the young men who had invaded the kitchen emerged, carrying sackloads of food over their shoulders.

``No, no ... ,'' the manager groaned.

``Yes, yes,'' the human straw replied. ``Alright, people!'' he cried, speaking up to the patrons again, ``Thank you very, very much for the lovely meals, the cash, and all your little baubles.'' He stopped to take a swig from a bottle of wine. ``Anyway,'' he went on, returning his attention to the crowd, ``We'd love to stay and chat, but we really must be going. We have art to appreciate, you know. I don't recommend you following us.'' He waved his arm and the other revolutionaries gathered at the exit, covering the crowd. ``Goodnight, folks--it's been lovely.'' He headed toward the door with the effeminate man, who paused to pinch the cheek of the headwaiter on his way out.

Once they were gone, the manager sprang into action. ``You there!'' he snapped, ``Call the police! And you lot--go look out the windows and see if you can spot their vehicles!'' His eyes pinpointed Quarq at the far end of the room. Being familiar with most of the military officers who frequented Nestrosa's, he quickly approached the captain. ``Captain Quarq, sir!'' he snapped, ``Those were those revolutionary scoundrels, were they not?''

Quarq nodded. ``I believe they were.''

``Then why the hell didn't you do something, man!''

``Do what?'' the captain replied coolly, ``I'm unarmed at the moment. Not to mention, of course, that there were at least twenty of them and only one of me.''

The manager exhaled sharply, calmed himself, but remained curt. ``I see. I'm sorry. Would you please notify the Elite Police immediately? You may use the reception desk phone. This way, sir.'' He hurried off toward the entrance.

Quarq sighed, smiled, and shook his head. At length he got up from his seat and followed the man. He was not in a hurry.

Faye Levine is an Art/Design Freshman at Carnegie Mellon University. She hails from Plymouth, Minnesota (land of 10,000 lakes, 10,000,000 mosquitoes, 10,000,000,000 potholes, and one season: Road Construction), where she lives with her demented family and killer rabbit. Her hobbies include, among other things, Elvis hunting. ``Dinner At Nestrosa's'' is a slightly revised excerpt from her first novel, ``Revolution'', which she will be submitting for publication in the near future.

She can be reached at fl0m+@andrew.cmu.edu