The Schnitzel Killer

I see new faces every night. After a while, they all start looking the same.

Last week I over heard two men talking in a café. One told the other a story that inspired this one. It just goes to show inspiration is all around, all you have to do is eavesdrop.

I see new faces every night. After a while, they all start looking the same. But there are a few customers I know better than others. They're the ones I cook for and why I opened in the first place. When one of those faces goes missing, you start flicking through your past conversations to find an explanation. Regulars don’t just stop coming without a word. There’s usually a thoughtful word. Once I had a letter. But never nothing. 

Joe first made an appearance two weeks after I opened. The shop is in a quiet neighbourhood, on a street lined with maple trees. It’s a hell of a place - rigid and cold in winter, lush in spring, cool and covered in summer and ruby red in autumn. I didn’t sign on the dotted line because of the trees, but they helped. I opened in September; the trees were already turning red. 

There he was, having an animated discussion with a woman outside the door; every other word leaked through the window. 

“I just… I mean…he’s… one more,” she seems to be calming down with every sentence. As though each word deflates her.

“Listen…shall we…” he opens the door, and they come in and sit down. 

“Jamie told me about this place,” she pulls out her stool and places her handbag on the counter. 

“He’s always finding new places. I wonder how much he spends going out?” 

“God knows, but he’s only been wrong once.”

“The Taj?” he says, and she giggles. 

“God, that was awful.”

They started with drinks - a whisky soda for him, an IPA for her. It took them a while to order food: the menus were online, and the QR codes kept falling on the floor. It took me another month to realise I needed good old-fashioned menus. 

“I’m a bit tipsy,” she’s had three, he's on his second - same orders each time. It’s one of the jobs of a bartender to keep tabs on people. It’s not always possible. If this place was bigger, I’d have trouble. With a maximum of ten customers, I don’t miss much. 

“Wanna go and get some food?”

“Jamie said they did food. It’s a tapas kind of thing,” she looks around, hunting for some evidence.

“Your friend's right. We do tapas, but it’s central European tapas,” I explain. I’ve caught them at a vulnerable time; tipsy and hungry means they’re bound to over-order. 

“Give us a taste of everything.” 

“Perfect. It’ll be ten minutes.” Sometimes it seems too easy. Although this is my first bar, I have worked in restaurants. I've been a sous-chef, and before that I was a loyal line cook. When I lack conversational banter, I lean on my cooking. When it comes to cooking bar food, two things count. The taste, of course. But equal to that is the speed. Unlike restaurants, people at bars don’t care about fancy presentation - dry ice, tweezered flowers or mirror glaze. 

“To start, garlic cream soup and sourdough.” Their eyes widen. They lean over their small bowls and smile. Now that’s a reaction. 

“Wait, I wanted to take a picture," she’s too late, he’s already lapping it up. They finish their soup with another drink. This time, they both have a whisky soda. 

“Round two is schnitzel and pickled cauliflower," my best dish. Bitesize schnitzels, fried to perfection with big breadcrumbs and sour cauliflower; nothing beats it. They’re practically drooling. 

“Two more, please,” he says, sliding two empty glasses along the counter. Sure, it's a little rude, but they’re drunk, and who doesn’t want to slide a glass across an old wooden bar?

That night, they left leaning on one another. He tipped me something silly. I can’t remember the amount, but it made me feel a twinge of guilt. Not enough to refuse, though. The bar always feels empty when a couple like that leaves. It’s as if they suck out the life with their departure. The customers feel as much as I do - they look at each other for a few uncomfortable minutes, unable to find something to talk about. I saw Joe a week later. He came with another woman. This one was a smidge more attractive - tall, dark and pretty, but she was nervous and got drunk with two fewer drinks.

“Do you still do those schnitzels?” he asks.

“Of course, would you like some?” 

‘Go on then,” he raises his eyebrows as if I'm forcing him to order. I came back out and find him alone.

“She left?” I ask, but he doesn’t look concerned. If anything, he’s happier. 

“More for me, eh?” 

“That’s never a bad thing,” I say, refilling his drink, “...it’s on me.” 

“Thank you. I’m Joe, by the way. I came last Friday.” 

“I remember. Jack, nice to meet you,” he wipes his hand on his jeans, then offers it to me. It shines with grease. 

“Nice to meet you, too. Officially, that is,” he says, tightening his grip. “She was a bummer.” 

“That’s a shame. You had fun last time.”

“Yeah. I thought so. But I never saw that one again, and she was a colleague. I must have done something awful for her to disappear completely,” he's chewing on his last mouthful, laughing as much as his tongue allows.  

From then on, Joe came most Fridays - always with a date - and occasionally on a Wednesday. His dates were always the same - a little too pretty and clutching a designer handbag. I didn’t notice that detail straight away. It took me a few months. On Wednesdays, he’d always be alone. But either day, he’d order the same thing - between two to four whiskey sodas and a plate of schnitzel. 

The whole day it’s been raining in thick vertical lines like metallic beams falling from the sky. It explains why the place is empty; it hasn’t been this quiet all summer. But even the tourists have foregone their exploration for an evening. I’m watching the rain wash away the dust spread over my windows. I see a blur of colour before the door opens. 

“Are you open?” It's Joe and his date. For some reason, they look like an impossible couple. I’m trying to figure out if she’s even prettier than his usual or if he looks worse. 

“I’m open, come and sit down.” 

“Thank God.” 

“You’ll probably have the place to yourselves the whole evening.”

“That’s a shame for you.” 

“I’d prefer you two to no one at all. Maybe I can use you as my guinea pigs.” 

“Sounds fun. Give us your best,” he says, watching his young date hang her coat. 

That night unfolded like the first time - loads of drinks, food and loud conversation. It’s a little awkward standing at the bar when there are only two people on the other side. And two people on a date at that. So I make myself busy in the kitchen. Who knows, I might get another big tip. 

“I used to be fitter.” I hear him say. “I work a lot and overeat. You probably think I’m disgusting.” 

“No,” she says unconvincingly, “Besides, Dad-bods are hot.” 

“Yeah? My doctor doesn’t agree. He says I’m killing myself.” 

“My doctor says that to me. But we’re here for a good time, not a long time." I hear their glasses clink. 

Joe came for another two months. His dates got less frequent - even on a Friday, he started coming by himself, sitting at the end of the bar and eating. Now and again, he’d bring a book. But more often than not, he’d strike up a conversation with someone close by. When I wasn’t running around, prepping breadcrumbs, or making drinks, I’d lend him my ear. But he always told the same stories after a few drinks. One is about his trip to Brazil after he got kicked out of the army; its main characters are an angry taxi driver and a prostitute. Two about his father - one good, one really bad. And another about a car crash, the result of which made him a small fortune. 

The leaves were scarlet when I noticed his absence. It hit me in the face when I saw a past date of his come in with another guy. She was smiling more and drinking less. I was reorganising a shelf behind the bar when a group of seven came in and hovered around the door. When you’ve been in a place long enough, you tend to acquire a sixth sense regarding its space. I stood up, knowing someone was waiting for me. They’d let in a lot of cold air, and I felt it immediately. Goosebumps spread from my arms to my back. The oldest woman stepped to the bar, wiping her glasses clean with a tissue.

“Sorry to come barging in... we don’t have a reservation. But…” 

“It’s fine. I don’t take reservations anyway. Take a seat.” They all step forward and hang up their coats. Strange, they’re all wearing black: suits for the four men and dresses for the women. The youngest of the seven - a blond girl no more than twenty - caught me looking. 

“We’ve come from our Dad’s funeral,” she says, looking down the line of black. “He always went on about this place and your schnitzels. So we thought we’d come.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m pleased you came. Hopefully, I can bring some joy to your day..."

"Don't be sorry. He was a dick." 

"Shut up, Jamie!" The young one snaps. 

"So what can I get you?” I ask, and the man sitting on the end smiles. He’s a man with an idea. 

“Seven whiskey-sodas and Schnitzels.” 

“But it’s a Wednesday?” The oldest protests. 

“Come on. He would have liked it.”

“Fine, but just one. I don’t want to end up like him,” the oldest says. They laugh a sad, twisted laugh, and that’s when I realise. 

---

Love, Luke