Chef Antoni in Space

by Charles C. Cole

Our humble freighter traveled through the galaxy like the little train that could. We weren’t the fastest interplanetary hauler, but we had a reputation for reasonable rates, not asking questions, always finishing our runs, and delivering our payload intact.

Originally, we had a ship’s complement of 6, plus Captain Nelson. Between takeoff and arrival, our waking hours amounted to “duct-tape duty,” attending to minor system malfunctions before they became life-threatening or mission terminal. “The Bouncing Betty” had survived a rough former life with Exospheric Rescue and Relocation. We responded to alarms, slept, jogged, and responded to alarms. Suffice it to say, the pay was worth the excitement.

If you’ve never been aboard the classic commercial-class deep-space transport, picture a submarine where an unending engine hum permeated every bulkhead. There were no windows, and there was no contact with the outside world for days, sometimes weeks. There was no talking computer, no interactions with exotic aliens.

Our small collection of introverts adapted; ironically, being confined in an isolated tin can with a handful of workmates on whom our lives depended “encouraged” our declining most unnecessary social interactions. We weren’t paid to make friends. Work required few words.

The only part of the journey that wasn’t a slog was eating, twice a day, self-serve style, simple pre-made things from boxes and jars. The Corporation allowed this one nicety because the captain had justified it as a “working meal,” scheduled time to debrief on the day ahead or behind, share tips, monitor progress.

But after thirty quiet missions of not eating right, adding significant weight to his bulk and stress to his heart, Captain Hilo Nelson had been ordered by a company doctor to make a change. He did. He found a retired chef at a terrestrial high-end resort who wanted just once to experience interstellar travel before he died.

Chef Antoni Paolini, mid-80s, compact and ageless, always wore a white apron and a beaming smile, always served us personally and cleaned up after us like a lowly busboy, and always talked with his busy expressive hands.

I can still remember his first meal, with Chef standing at the captain’s right shoulder, eyes as big as a child’s on Christmas morning, waiting for our reactions to our first bite. Poor overwhelmed Nelson had expected to talk shop, but was interrupted again and again by an explosive sigh and involuntary “Wow!” from the crew, followed immediately by Chef’s enthusiastic applause at his own success. Even now, I chuckle as I remember it.

Overnight, the once utilitarian mess hall evolved into an inviting dining room. Not that I’m any kind of expert, but the food was amazing! The meats, the sauces, the pasta, even salads! I found myself with more energy and a drive to start the day. Work became lighter, tasks easier. The captain was spotted on the treadmill in the gym!

One night after the meal had ended, I lingered and offered to help Chef clean up.

“You? No! You are tired from working so much!” said Chef. “Your hands need to rest. I work only twice a day, while you rest only twice a day.”

“My great-grandfather was a long-haul trucker on earth, long before the automation fad took over the industry. I feel I’m continuing the family business. How about you? You come from a long line of kitchen magicians?”

“No, my great-grandfather was a bricklayer, my grandfather paved roads, and my father built houses. While not as manly, I went a different way.” He seemed sad, perhaps remembering personal decisions and family reactions.

“Into space!” I added.

“Yes! Can you believe it?” he asked. “In only two more months, I’ll see a new-to-me planet, providing I live that long.”

“You’ll live. Unless we run out of duct tape.”

Chef smiled. “Will there be aliens?” he asked, suddenly serious.

It was hard not to laugh. “Yes and no. Humans, similar to you and me, but born on another planet so, culturally, a little ‘out there’ by some standards. Many of them have never been to earth! You should tell them about it.”

“You should give them a ride back! For money, of course.”

“We’re not licensed for passenger travel, present company excepted. The corporation will have the return trip arranged. They always do.”

Chef looked behind me and whispered mischievously, “Take me outside! I want to see and feel outer space!”

“It’s dangerous out there, Chef. No air and frigid. I’ve only been outside a half-dozen times, tethered and nervous as hell. Better to be in here and romanticize about the vast cosmos and its twinkling stars. The Big Dark, as the captain calls it, has no love for wee trespassers.”

“The captain must have a favorite meal. If I whipped together a yummy potion and put him in a generous suggestible trance, maybe he’d come around to spoiling an old landlubber.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, “but no promises.”

The next morning we were startled by a smoke alarm from the kitchen. Chef was slumped over in a chair. He was cold, unresponsive, gray, and waxy.

Nelson was last to arrive, shouting joyously down the hall: “Chef Antoni, what did I tell you about playing with matches?” Then he saw. “Damn! Chef was going to make eggs Benedict for me. I even dreamed about eating the stuff. Hell’s bells! Somebody move him to the walk-in pantry while I get through my morning coffee.”

“Sir,” I said, “he wanted to go in space.”

“And he got his wish.”

I knocked on the reinforced hull for unneeded emphasis. “Out there! We can stand him in the emergency docking portal and just open the hatch.”

“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”

“I know, sir.”

“The man was a freakish culinary wizard!”

“That he was.”

“Say a prayer for him. And don’t get sucked out; we can’t afford to be short another man.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And, Mobley, say something lovely about the man as he sails away. He deserved it.”