Foment

Stir up; instigate (v.)


Shakla Mana's anarchy always came first, before her cooking. Her poilitical views were firmly rooted in an advocacy for chaos--the chef job was completely practical. She wasn't an unreasonable anarchist. She didn't always talk about bringing down the government and corporations in shards of glass, flesh and flames. She did not have any black t-shirts with the red A struck violently through a broken circle. She had tatoos, but they were small and spread throughout her body--sets of three words each, the same concept translated into as many langauges as was possible--"order" it said on her ankle, her shoulder blade, her wrist. Her conversation didn't give her away. She would lead busboys, waiters, managers, customers to her side of things Socratically, asking questions with open eyes and a calm smile that invariably led to some truth about institutional absurdity.
She also liked to play pranks on her staff. She thought it was the third best anarchic activity after protesting and conversation. Whoopee cushions, fake rats, plastic spiders, tops turned off the salt shakers, pressurized ketchup containers were spread throughout her Washington, DC restaurant.

One Wednesday Shakla was stirring a big pot of marinara sauce next to the three line chefs she called Huey, Dewey, and Louie. They all had backwards hats and greasy facial hair, working the grill like a chorus. Huey alerted her to something.
"Special guest in the house tonight," he said.
"Very special," echoed Dewey.
They slapped raw meat on the grill and smoke rose up into their faces.
"Big time," said Louie.
Shakla raised her eyebrows at them.
"Who?" she asked.
They all looked up from the grill, each fisting a flipper.
"Rumsfeld," they said as a chorus.
"You mean--"
"Donald," said Huey.
"H," said Louie.
"Rumsfeld," said Dewey.
"Big time," repeated Louie, after a pause.
The meat sizzled, proteins and blood bubbling and evaporating.
"Is that right," she said, stirring the red sauce.
"Yup," said Dewey.
"And how do we know this?" she asked.
"Busboy Ted said the top of the salt shaker fell off at table nine and, there he was, apologizing to Rummy himself and his old wife for the mishap."
"Yeah," said Dewey, "Ted said there's a group of secret service guys that all ordered the salmon special a few tables away."
"I see," Shakla said.
The possibilities chased through her mind. The memories of protests, burned effigies of this man, conversations in candlelit rooms with tapestries and Metallica playing about splashing blood on the entrance of the Pentagon, the myriad "what-ifs" and "Man-if-I-saw-that-guy-I'ds." She couldn't let this pass her by. It was too good. She looked down into the sauce and thought.
Then it came to her. Shakla knew what she was going to do.
"What'd he order?" she asked the trio.
"Burger and fries," said Huey.
"Land of the brave," said Dewey.
"Big time," said Louie.
"Alright," said Shakla, "I'll be right back. When his burger's ready--I'll take it to him."
She went to her office in the back of the kitchen, grabbed something from a desk drawer and quickly ran out. She grabbed the plate, burger and fries sitting fresh on the white china.
She had a fog of nervous energy in her stomach, but she acted without thought, without consideration. She brought the plate to the table, weaving around the other customers and busboys and waiters. The secret service men waiting for their salmon looked over their shoulders as she approached. One of them on the end of the table noticed a small metal ring around the middle finger of Shakla's left hand. The agent whispered something to the crew, they all turned around to watch.
She arrived, set the burger down and said,
"Hello Mr. Rumsfeld, I'm Shakla Mana, head chef in the kitchen. I just wanted to welcome you and your wife and say that no matter how our politics might differ, which they do, we all have to eat."
"Well, thank you very much for that," he said nodding and smiling at her.
"Enjoy your burger, sir," she said, "it was nice meeting you."
"You, too," Rumsfeld said.
And she reached her hand out to shake his and he grasped it and there was a buzz, his arm tensing and snapping away from her. The secret service men jumped up and grabbed her hand--a gag buzzer folded on the inside of her left palm and a smile reaching across her face.