THE DINNER
A short story by Daniel Bensusan
...
I never understood the mystique behind Russian roulette. One bullet. Six chambers. A one-in-six chance of dying.
Why would anyone gamble with their life like that? Just for the thrill of surviving? For the adrenaline rush? For the feeling of total lack of control?
They say the closer you are to dying, the more you feel alive. Maybe that’s why.
I never understood it… Until I met Vincent.
My name is Ezequiel, and right now, I’ve already pulled the trigger. I’m just waiting to see if the full weight of my body will end up sprawled across this dining room floor. Or if I’ll walk out that door, light as air, completely reborn.
In the meantime, I’m savoring dessert. The best chocolate mousse I’ve ever had in my life. Americans have this expression for something so good it defies reason: “To die for.” I think Vincent took that literally.
Sorry, you probably have no idea what I’m talking about. Let me back up a bit and explain.
There are a few different versions of how this story begins. I’m going to tell the one I like the most. Maybe next time, if I’m still alive, I’ll share the others.
Vincent was a promising culinary student at a university in Eastern Europe. He had a gift: he could make the bland unforgettable. Transform nothing into art. Make food… Well… To die for. His talent caught the eye of one of the most powerful men in the world. A man known simply as King.
King hired him as his chef and brought in world-renowned culinary masters to perfect Vincent and teach him everything they knew. Over the years, Vincent became exceptional. Beyond exceptional. King couldn’t stop eating. Every second of the day.
He ballooned to nearly 1,100 pounds before dying of a massive heart attack, with a dirty spoon still clutched in his left hand.
I know. It sounds like a tale. But I love that story, and I choose to believe it.
In his will, King left Vincent a mansion with a palace-sized kitchen, a fortune that could fund five more generations, and a letter. In it, he told Vincent never to charge for his food. Said it was priceless. That every dish had brought him more joy than anything else in life. And then he wrote, word for word, the sentence that would bring us all here today:
“If you ever served me a dish laced with poison, I’d eat it and die the happiest man alive.”
Vincent read the letter, smiled, and cried. The kind of expression only madmen or geniuses wear. And that’s when the idea came to him.
That’s how The Dinner was born.
The Dinner is a once-a-month tasting menu. A gastronomic journey through every skill and secret Vincent has mastered. It’s impossible to describe. It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever experienced, and I’m not even done with dessert yet.
Each plate is a burst of joy. Of hope. Of power. It’s beyond words. All I know is I’ve never felt so alive. And I hope that feeling lasts.
Every month, seven people from around the world are invited to The Dinner. They say the waitlist now spans over two decades.
One dish, at one random seat, is seasoned with a lethal poison. It takes three hours to act. The food is placed on a massive table. No servers. No guidance. You choose your plate. Your fate is in your own hands. It’s culinary Russian roulette.
One of us is already dead and doesn’t know it yet. And even so, no one looks frightened. No one looks sad. We’re radiant. Joyful. Weightless. Everyone here agrees it was the best experience of their lives. We are all ready to die for this experience. And I can say it without hesitation: It was worth it. What a dinner. What a chef. What a glorious madness. Vincent, your talent is truly to die for. King was right.
I heard about The Dinner from a friend who attended the 23rd edition. He was the one who convinced me to come. Thank you, Jerry. You were right about everything.
We finish our dessert, and Vincent invites us to the lounge for coffee. They say this is when the poison starts working.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t even thinking about it. I was sipping my coffee and wondering: How is this possible? Even the coffee is divine. The best I've ever had. What kind of sorcery is this?
The conversation meandered. We started opening up, getting personal. I caught myself thinking: Paul seems like a really great guy. I hope it’s not him. Bella… She’s brilliant, beautiful, fascinating… I want to know her better. Will I have the chance? Damn it, Ezequiel. Don’t get attached.
Time passed. Every sudden movement, every deep cough, made my stomach clench. But nothing happened. And still, everyone laughed. Everyone was alive in a way most people never get to be. Even Vincent, who had been quiet the entire evening, was now warm and animated, joining the conversation.
Oh, right, I forgot to mention: as a true host, Vincent dines with his guests every time. Some say he knows exactly where the poison is and avoids it. Others say he’s insane enough to play the same game we do. Maybe one day, we’ll find out. The day he collapses at the table. I hope that day never comes. Honestly, I hope he lives forever. The world deserves to taste his food for as long as it can.
While I’m lost in that thought, dreaming of returning here in twenty years, I hear a crash. A heavy thud. I turn my head and see a body on the floor.
Mr. Gianni Volkov. He insisted on being called by his full name. An obnoxious, arrogant, impolite man. Forty-eight years old. Lawyer. Heir to the Volkov empire. I’ll admit it, I felt a certain relief. I never liked him. I think nobody did.
Rumor had it his family was behind some of the most scandalous government corruption in history. They bribed judges, laundered cartel money, and always got away with it. After his father died, Gianni took the reins and kept the machine running.
Everyone knew what he was doing. No one had a hair's breadth of evidence. He was one of those people everybody wanted to catch but couldn’t.
I look around the room. A mix of emotions. Relief it wasn’t any of us. Grief that someone had just died. All of us shocked. Except Vincent.
He was smiling. Smiling like he hadn’t all night. He stood slightly off to the side, unnoticed by the others. But I saw it. That expression. The look of a man who had just completed a mission.
That’s when it hit me. It was never about chance. Never about luck or fate. Vincent knew. He chose who would die.
Of course. It makes perfect sense.
He was King’s confidant. He knew who the real villains were. He knew who deserved to go.
Vincent is using food to cleanse the world. To eliminate the rot. And the brilliance of it all? No one can stop him.
The dinner is a secret. Everyone who comes does so willingly. Families don’t ask questions later. They were warned of the risks.
It’s the perfect plan.
Vincent, you are a genius.
As we say our goodbyes, Vincent shakes hands with each guest. When he reaches me, I look him dead in the eye. I let him know that I understand. He smiles, reading my expression perfectly.
He places a hand on my shoulder and asks:
“Satisfied?”
I smile back.
“Very. Very satisfied.”