ATLAS, LUNA
“For your fourth course, would you like the Alaskan Halibut or the Diver Scallops?”
“The what? And the what?” Quaullast squinted in utter confusion, as if trying to decode an alien language, which he supposed he was. He swiveled his head toward Frumers. “Was Soerru Steakhouse this complex and fancy in Malgeirgam?”
“No, the menu is wildly different. They must have altered it.” Frumers scratched his head, visibly bewildered too as he scrutinized the menu tablet held in front of him by the ever-patient Marsha. But then his expression shifted, gaining a certain sly confidence. “But my nose doesn’t lie. The steak is real. See? It says authentic Soerru steaks for the second — which it says here is the main — course.”
Still mystified, Quaullast turned his attention back to the Terran waitress. “Can you explain the options?”
“Of course,” Marsha beamed, then replied, obviously reading from a prepared script, “The Alaskan halibut is an aquatic animal known for its firm, flaky texture, originally from the Alaska region on Earth. It is lean with a mild sweetness, and flavored with vegetable purée and salt-cured fish eggs. Usually, it is cooked to done, though we can accommodate any serving temperature requests up to raw. As our fish menu is entirely sustainable and cruelty-free, there is no danger of foodborne illnesses associated with consuming—”
“Cruelty-free?” Quaullast interrupted. “What does that mean?”
This seemed to stumble her for a nanosecond, but Marsha regained her stride with professional grace. “Our fish menu has been certified by an independent and reputable auditing organization to have never utilized live animals at any point in its production. The Alaskan halibut fillets are grown fresh from high quality genetic samples in a specialized facility. Would you like to see a picture of the original halibut we use in our restaurant?”
A cocktail of mild revulsion and compelling curiosity swirled within Quaullast. “It’s flesh meat made from grass? Sure, yeah. I’d like to see it.”
“We do not use substandard, soy-based substitutes at our establishment. The meat is real and grown with a flavor, texture, and nutrition profile identical to the original,” Marsha assured him while bringing up a dated picture of a large Terran posing next to an even larger aquatic animal on her tablet.
“Whoa, check this out, Spommu! That aquatic animal is huge! Taller than them!” Quaullast nudged his friend, his eyes widening.
Spommu rolled her eyes as she checked out the display. “Yes, but they’re not serving you that particular specimen. It’s some prey trickery with their grass—”
“I thought you didn’t care about that. It’s just food, right?” Frumers interjected smugly.
Before another argument between the two could erupt, Quaullast pivoted back to Marsha. “It looks interesting, except the grass on the side. What about the other one? Does that one include the grass too?”
Marsha responded with practiced ease, “You can order either without the vegetable purée. The other option is the diver-harvested scallops, which is an aquatic invertebrate with a tender and slightly chewy texture and a mildly sweet and salty taste. It is paired with spice-cured ham and vegetable root purée. The ham is also cruelty-free, but it is a small portion. We can remove the purée for either option if that’s what you’d like?”
“Yes, please,” Quaullast decided. “Are the scallops real meat?”
“Indeed. They are sustainably farmed on Terra and manually harvested by robots that are certified to do zero net damage to their surrounding seafloor environment.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll take that one then.”
“Fantastic. Now for your fifth course, due to your dietary preferences and requirements, we will be forgoing the usual sautéed vegetable dishes and replacing it with our signature chicken roulade, stuffed with maitake mushroom, a large fleshy fungus high in vitamin D, and paired with a side of authentic Malgeir brostros. I believe you should be familiar with…”
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Every snout in the bustling dining hall swiveled toward the kitchen doors as they swung open. A plump Terran chef, adorned in a puffy, comical white hat and a starched apron, confidently navigated her way through the sea of tables. She wielded a large, steaming tray and set it down with flair in the center of their table. With a grandiose flick of her wrist, she lifted the gleaming silver lid, filling the air with a very familiar aroma.
“A5 Soerru Tenderloin Slider!” she announced with pride in her voice. “This dish features A5-grade Malgeir Soerru. It’s carved right from the prime section below the creature’s ribcage: lean, exquisitely tender, and cooked to medium-rare. As for the toppings, it is paired with slices of candied bacon, some maple onion jam, and—”
Her words hung in the air, unfinished, as a flurry of paws and claws emptied the tray in front of her.
“Is there… more?” Spommu asked in half-ecstasy between mouthfuls as she quickly chewed her way through the entire slider: meat, grass, and all.
Marsha smoothly stepped in. “Ah, this is just the appetizer. We can prepare a refill, but I would recommend you give the rest of the courses a chance first. Now, if you have any suggestions for our food or service, please make sure to let me know. We’re bringing out your first course as soon as we can.”
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The first course was Lobster Risotto. The butter-dipped grains on the side added an unfamiliar but not unwelcome texture to the whole dish, and his tongue made it perfectly clear to his brain how little it cared that what he put in his mouth was made from seeds and not a live animal. Like every other Malgeir at his table, he’d stopped caring where the meat stopped and where the grass started. The lobster meat itself reminded Quaullast of a Granti aquatic delicacy he had when he was a pup. It peeled right off its red, scorched shell and rolled right into his stomach.
It was already the greatest plate of food Quaullast had tasted in his life to that point. But they were just getting started.
His second course was the Soerru Filet Mignon. The chef explained that the animal’s taste profile is identical to an actual reconstructed Soerru which had been fed olives and was extra rich in certain fatty acids. Frankly, Quaullast didn’t hear much of it over his loud chewing. The portion size was almost as large as a regular pre-war ration meal, and he devoured it all: the meat, the drippings. Hell, even the fine herbs on the side were not spared from his un-discerning appetite.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Quaullast had never eaten anything quite so delicately prepared. And judging by the contented groans and other assorted noises coming from his crewmates beside him, they were equally blown away.
The third course was Roasted Soerru Bone Marrow. The chef seemed cagey about what prey sorcery the bone was actually made of, but it looked and felt perfectly identical to the thighbone of an actual Soerru. Inside its hollowed-out interiors were what they called basil breadcrumbs — a buttery, crunchy filling made of grass combined with other grass — and shredded freshwater eel, yet another aquatic animal with a savory taste. The Terrans certainly had a bottomless variety of aquatic animals and methods of cooking grass, and Quaullast did not blame them one bit.
He noticed that Frumers had bizarrely taken out his datapad and started taking pictures of the food. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I have no idea, but I just feel instinctually compelled to document this experience,” Frumers replied, slightly embarrassed but seemingly unsure why.
“Send it to me when you can,” Spommu said, picking out pieces of her roasted bone marrow from her teeth as she crunched on them. “The guys on the Seuvommae will not believe this.”
“Too bad I can’t record the smell and taste,” Frumers lamented.
Quaullast’s fourth course was the Diver Scallops. It would have been a perfectly delightful dish by itself and would have satisfied him if that was all the Terrans had served for dinner. But from the flavorful aroma from Frumers’ plate, who had gone for the slightly more adventurous, cruelty-free Alaskan Halibut, he was beginning to regret his choice.
He girded himself for rejection and asked Frumers, “Can I trade you a piece of mine for your aquatic—”
Suddenly, Marsha, who had been stealthily hovering nearby, interrupted smoothly, “Would you like to sample the halibut? We can bring out another plate from the kitchen if you’d like.”
Quaullast looked at her like she’d grown a second head, but he was not one to let a caught prey out of his grasp. “Yes, please.”
She paused to speak into a small, metallic implant nestled just under the skin of her cheek, a faint blue light pulsing to indicate it was active.
Frumers perked up, curious, “Hold on a second, is that a wireless data connection?”
“It sure is. It’s so we can talk to the kitchen.”
Frumers furrowed his brow. “That’s odd. If your communicator works, how comes ours don’t?”
“Right. The other table asked about that too,” the Terrain hostess replied. “This is the port transit zone. We’re in a restricted area. Only approved devices are allowed in this area.”
“But why?”
She shrugged. “Some terrorist attack a few years ago. And before you ask me like the other table, I don’t know how they jam the signals either. I just know no unapproved communication devices work on this side of the terminal.”
“Thanks,” Frumers muttered.
Just then, an extra helping of halibut arrived at Quaullast’s place, landing with perfect timing as he gobbled down the last of his scallops. The waitress whisked away his empty plate without missing a beat.
“Hey Spommu,” Frumers, munching on his own flaky fish, called over to Spommu snout-deep in her own plate. “Pretty quiet over there. Are your taste buds ready to be baptized in the church of Soerru Steakhouse?”
Spommu rolled her eyes but said nothing. She was too busy stuffing her face with the buttery, garlicky goodness of her pan-seared scallops, each bite almost audibly singing in her mouth.
Quaullast chimed in, eyeing his plate suspiciously, “I get the impression that the Soerru Steakhouse back in Malgeirgam is nothing like this. I know for a fact that no Malgeir alive can cook grass this good.”
“Well,” Frumers cleared his throat. “It’s not the exact same, but they got the steak right on the mark.”
Quaullast raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re saying back on Malgeirgam, you can get your Soerru cooked only to halfway?”
Frumers sighed, defensive. “No. But that’s only because they have some strange mechanism here to eliminate the danger of microbes while not fully cooking the meat. I’d never thought you could eat Soerru half-cooked, even if something about the rawness of it does somehow make it taste better. It’s juicier. Or maybe it’s the risk of it. The service and sides here are better, though, no doubt about that,” he conceded.
“Strange how the Terrans are able to replicate so many food items from our home world,” Spommu said, finally coming up from her plate for air. She gestured for the waiting Terran’s attention and asked, “Hey, Marsha. Even if it was replicated, you must have gotten the taste of our food from somewhere. How did you guys do that?”
Looking pleased at the implied praise of their authenticity, the hostess pulled up her tablet with pictures of a crate brimming with frozen meat and showed it to the crew. “After one of the Znosian raids on one of your supply convoys, our military scanned and cataloged the contents of the wreckage, which included a delivery for the restaurant. We filed a Freedom of Information request and got access to the genetic samples. Our chefs did the rest, reconstructing the menu from the convoy manifest and a little creative guesswork. We are so glad you’re enjoying it.”
“Of course,” Marsha added hastily, clearly trying to not sound too callous. “Our hearts go out to your people lost to the unprovoked Znosian war and the inhumane xenocides. Which is why our restaurant is donating fifty percent of all our operating profits to a charity putting together ration donations for war refugees on Malgeiru through the Office of Alien Affairs.”
Quaullast grinned, holding up his cup. “Well, I don’t know if it’s authentic because I’ve never been to the original one, but this is fantastic. Say, can I get some more of your unusual stelgi?”
Throughout the meal, Marsha kept coming around and refilling their cups. The beverage she served was a variation of the stelgi, a familiar Malgeir-inspired drink, except instead of being as alcoholic, there was a sweet carbonation in it, leading to a mysteriously spicy aftertaste.
Supposedly, it was a palette cleanser — a strange concept.
But a welcome one, Quaullast thought as he downed a third of his cup in one gulp.
By the time he finished his halibut, Quaullast was so full he was unsure if he could lift the weight of his stomach with his rear paws and drag himself back to the shuttles.
Then, the desserts came.
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If the dessert menu came at this point after he’d completed the four courses and his extra halibut, Quaullast was sure his full stomach would betray him and decline to pick a dessert. Instead, it came before the meal, and it looked like it had more options than the actual dinner menu. Given the lack of a carnivorous option, Quaullast had ordered a Strawberry Mousse Cake based entirely on the listed calorie count: it had the most. He figured he couldn’t go wrong with that tried-and-true methodology.
Now, he was realizing that he simply couldn’t fit anything more into his stomach.
As Quaullast sat there, staring at his barely touched confection, his logical brain was in a heated debate with his rebellious stomach. He couldn’t just stop: there was still more left to eat in front of him.
Spommu was engrossed in dissecting her Apple Cheesecake. She had picked the first item on the menu, not caring which of the grass-based desserts the Terrans would feed them. Now she was probably regretting not studying all her options before making a choice. But not very much regret, Quaullast noted: it still looked like pretty good apple cheesecake.
Across the table, Frumers had triumphantly polished off his Fresh Lemon Sorbet, yet another daring choice from the hangar bay officer given that the Terran waitress had described it as a completely fruit-based dessert. Of course, that was before the Pesmod crew had come to a new, more enlightened understanding of well-made prey food.
Frumers stared at the elegant cup containing Quaullast’s almost untouched mousse with uncontained avarice. Wiping some excess drool off his snout, he asked, “You going to finish that or what?”
Just as Quaullast was racking his brain for an acceptable way to tell him to go jump out an airlock, Marsha swooped in like a guardian angel. “Actually, we can pack it up for you guys to-go if you’d like.”
Every pair of eyes at the table pivoted in unison to focus on her, including Quaullast’s now-widened orbs.
“To— to go?”