Culinary Chaos: Day 12

Double trouble (12,408 / 1,000,000)

Glasses clinked. “Happy anniversary, muffin,” the man said with a smile. One hand clutched a raised glass, the other he rested on top of his wife’s. The woman smiled back at him over her own raised glass. “Happy anniversary, honey. It’s nice to get out for a change,” she replied. The man’s genial expression curdled into a frown and he pulled his hand back from hers. “Why do you always have to say some offhand comment like that?” he questioned. The woman tilted her head quizzically and replied, “What offhand comment? I just said it was nice to get out”. The man shook his head and sighed. “Look, I know our schedules have been out of sync lately, but that doesn’t give you the excuse to start something at our anniversary dinner,” he said. This was his first mistake.

“Start something?” the woman asked, her expression now darkened to match his. She set her bubbling glass of champagne down and leaned forward. “I can start something if you want,” she hissed, reaching across the table and jabbing a finger into his shoulder. He swatted her hand away in annoyance, knocking over her glass in the process. The amber liquid spread across the table, and into her lap. This was his second mistake.

All was still for a few moments as her gaze lingered on the spreading stain in her lap. She raised her head slowly and locked her smoldering eyes onto his. Her hand blurred as she snatched the man’s glass from his hand and dashed its contents directly into his face. “You’ve gone too far!” the man roared, jumping out of his seat. He grabbed the edge of the table and heaved it onto its side, a pile of warm bread rolls scattering across the floor. Voices gasped around them, and the lilting notes of the ambient piano music cut off. The woman was still perched coolly in her chair, toppled table and spilled drinks on the floor before her.

Her eyes never left his as she reached to her side where a bottle of champagne sat sweating in a metal bucket. She grabbed the bottle by the neck and smashed it into the ground. More amber liquid and broken glass filled the floor between them. Still clutching the broken bottle neck, she stood up. “You fucked up this time,” she growled, and leaped at him. The man barely had time to take a step back before the broken glass bottle whizzed by the front of his face. Glancing around desperately, the man kicked at his overturned chair and retrieved a single leg. He brandished it between them, falling into a defensive stance. With his free hand, he gave her a little beckon that said “bring it on”.

She charged again, raising the bottle high in a great overhand slash. The man lifted the chair leg defensively, but her blow never fell. Using the bottle as a feint, the woman kicked the side of the man’s knee - hard. Not one to give up an advantage, she followed up with a spartan kick to the abdomen, knocking the wind out of the man and sending him sprawling onto his back. A waiter rushed over to the woman, sputtering, “Ma’am please, you must leave! You can’t just do this, we will call the po-”. The waiter’s sentence was cut short as the woman grabbed his wrist and twisted, casually flipping him onto his back.

The poor waiter’s sacrifice had not been in vain, from the man’s perspective, as it had bought him plenty of time. By the time the woman’s gaze honed back onto the man, he had just finished tying another chair leg to the one he already wielded - a strip of table cloth holding them together. He stood, a manic grin twisting his lips, and began to perform a series of complex maneuvers, whirling and twisting the linked pieces of wood around his body. Two more waiters rushed over in an attempt to prevent any further damage to the establishment. With a whoosh and a blur, the improvised nunchaku swept the waiters’ feet out from under them, and they joined their colleague on their backs.

The man charged the woman, swarming her with a series of sweeping strikes. Tossing the broken bottle aside, the woman tucked her chin and lifted her fists into a close-quarters stance. She bobbed and weaved amidst the flurry of attacks, gracefully avoiding nearly every blow like a seasoned boxer. Nearly every blow. The frenzied barrage was coming from every direction. Amidst her fluid dodges, one swing caught her forearm - painful but not debilitating. Another strike caught her side, interrupting her flowing motions. Sensing an opening, the man redoubled his efforts. The chair legs tore loudly through the air with the ferocity of his attacks.

Unfortunately for him, the woman was waiting for exactly this moment. The effort of his attacks left him vulnerable, and she stepped in close. Now inside his guard, she peppered his chest and arms with a series of targeted jabs. The man attempted to retaliate, but found his arms less than responsive. They fell to his side, and the chair legs slid from his now limp grasp. He looked down at his improvised weapon, and then back up at his wife, eyes wide. “Babe, wait, we can talk about this,” he started, but didn’t get the chance to finish. The woman stepped in even closer, until her face was millimeters from his. “You owe me another anniversary date,” she breathed into his face. She spun on her heel, circled an arm around his neck, and body slammed him face first into the ground.

The Uber ride home was quiet at first. The man had bloodstained, fancy dinner napkins stuffed into both nostrils. The woman sat awkwardly, favoring her less bruised side. “Did you have to flip the waiter, though?” the man asked, eventually breaking the silence. She glanced over at him, and saw that he was smirking underneath his improvised bandages. Tension temporarily subsided, the woman scooted closer to the man and rested her head on his shoulder. “What name did you give them for the reservation, by the way?” she asked. “We were Mr. and Mrs. Banner for the evening,” he replied, resting his hand on her knee. “Fitting,” she chuckled softly.