Warren Murphy - Feast or Famine

"You could be blonder," he said, trying to change the subject.

"What?"

"Your hair. It could be blonder."

"The next-lighter shade is platinum. Platinum blond went out with Jean Harlow."

"Blonder."

"Look. I've been ash blond, champagne blond, honey blond-all the way down to summer blond. I'm stopping here. My follicles can't take all this dying and rinsing."

"Image is everything. Especially in our business."

"If we don't imagine up a name for this latest wild hair of yours, our image will be guacamole."

"I got just the thing."

And from a shelf of New Age books-a relic of their failed macrobiotic plunge-Perry pulled down a red paperback, and opened it.

"What's that?"

"Thesaurus."

"My question stands."

"It's like a dictionary, except it shows you every possible variant on a word. Right now I'm looking up 'food.' "

"You're on the wrong page. Try 'bugs.'"

"Shh."

Suddenly, Perry Noto's eyes flew wide. They became two white grapes under pressure with their seeds squeezed out.

"I got it! I got it!"

"What?"

"Grubs!"

"Grubs!"

"It's perfect. 'Grub' is a synonym for 'food.' And a lot of perfectly scrumptious insects start off as grubs. We're serving them up before they get out of the larval stage."

"Why not just call it McMaggots?" Heather asked bitingly.

"Will you cut the shit?"

"Who in their right mind would pay forty dollars an entree to eat in an eatery that calls itself Grubs?"

"It's cute."

"It's death." And with that, Heather Noto went to her own office bookshelf and took down a yellow book with a plastic cover.

"What's that?" Perry asked suspiciously.

"French dictionary."

"We're not opening a French fucking restaurant."

"And we are not opening a goddamn Grubs. Maybe a French name will take the sting out of the concept."

"Sting. Good choice of words. What's French for 'grubs'?"

"Give me a sec, will you, please?"

Heather flipped though the pocket dictionary with peach-nailed fingers. "Damn. I mean maudit."

"What?"

"A grub in French is larve. Too close to 'larva.'"

Perry brightened. "I like it."

"You would." She turned her back on his curious face.

"Try 'bugs,'" Perry prompted.

"I am."

"Well?"

"'Bug' in French is insecte. Wait, there are synonyms galore."

"I didn't known the French had synonyms."

"Shh. Bacille. No, sounds too much like 'bacilli.' Oh, here's something interesting."

Perry got in front of her and tried to read the page upside down. He got an immediate headache.

"There's a French phrase for 'big bug.' La grosse legume."

"I like the 'gross' part."

"La grosse legume. It sounds like that stuff the French are forever putting in their consomme, legumes."

"Are those bugs?"

"No, beans."

"Let me see that." He scanned the page. "Hey, here's a perfectly good word. Punaise. What do you think?"

"Well, it rhymes with 'mayonnaise'.

Perry Noto shifted his gaze to an imaginary spot on the ceiling. "I can see it now. La Maison Punaise..."

"House of Bugs! Are you crazy?"

"Hey, who's going to know?"

"Everyone, once the menu falls open and they see poached dung beetle," Heather said archly.

"La Maison Punaise. That's what we'll call it."

"I like La Grosse Legume much better."

"If La Maison Punaise bites the big one, that will be our fallback name when we relocate."

"If this thing fails, we're not relocating. We're reconcepting. Retro concepting."

"If La Maison Punaise doesn't go over, we're maggot meat."

"That better not be on the menu."

Perry Noto smiled. "I'm crazy, but I'm not that crazy."

LA MAISON PUNAISE OPENED to an A-list crowd of invitees only. The press was there. The stars were there. Most important of all, the food was going down their throats without coming back up again.

"How are the chocolate-covered ants, Arnold?" Heather asked.

A Germanic voice rumbled, "Scrumptious. I can hardly taste the ants."

"What are these?" a famous actress asked Perry, holding up a toothpick on which was speared a blackened morsel.

"That? Let me see, I think it's Japanese beetle, Cajun style."

"I love Japanese food."

"How does it taste?"

"Crunchy."

A ditzy blonde sauntered up and, with a serious face, asked, "I'm a strict vegan except for seafood. What can I eat?"

"Seafood. Seafood," Perry repeated, his success-dazzled gaze wandering the room.

"Silverfish cakes are coming up in a minute," Heather called over.

"Oh, thanks so much."

"Bon appetit, " said Heather, steering Perry aside. "I take back every bad thing I said," she whispered.

"How's the kitchen?"

"Busy as a beehive."

"We're golden."

"Don't count your honey until it's in the jar," Heather said archly.

The insects and champagne flowed freely, washing down swarms of cinnamon chiggers and grubs in duck sauce. There was only one problem, and that was when the LA. Times restaurant critic complimented Perry on the popcorn shrimp and Perry had, not thinking, corrected him.

"Those are locust larvae."

"Larvae..."

"Grubs. You know, you're eating grubs. Your grub is grubs. Hee-hee," he added, giggling at his own joke.

The critic turned avocado and cured his suddenly active stomach by chugalugging a bottle of Chateau Sauterelle '61.

"Let him go," Heather urged.

"It's three hundred bucks a bottle."

"It's a million dollars in free publicity if he's spiflicated when he writes his stupid review."

In the end, the grand opening was a smashing success. The petty problems, liquor-license troubles and health-examiner payoffs were forgotten by the time the last guest left just after midnight.

Perry turned to Heather, beaming. "We pulled it off. Admit it."

"Okay, we pulled it off. Let's see if it lasts."

"Are you kidding me? Insects are forever. They'll outlive us all."

At that point, a weird humming came from the kitchen.

"What's that?"

Perry smiled broadly. "Tomorrow's profits exercising."

They went to the vault door and through the traditional swinging doors into the kitchen. The building had formerly been a major bank. Instantly, their noses were assaulted by a plethora of odors. They had learned not to retch. Bugs tasted okay if they were sauced or simmered correctly. But they sure stank during preparation. Hence the vault door to protect the clientele's delicate sensibilities.

The house chef was stooping over a wooden crate. It was buzzing.

"What's this?" Perry demanded.

"Did you order bees?" he asked, frowning.

"I don't remember ordering bees."

"This box is filled with bees-if I know the sound of bees."

"Bees aren't on the menu," Perry insisted. Heather concurred. Bee bodies contained venom that was impossible to clear out. They were worse than Japanese blowfish, which could kill if the wrong portions were ingested.

"Perhaps someone is making a suggestion."

"No," said the chef of La Maison Punaise, who was, of course, French. Just in case they had to reconcept overnight.

"Well, let's open it."

Remy the chef took a short pry bar off a shelf and attacked the crate. It was held together with black metal strapping. It wouldn't budge.

Perry found a pair of wire cutters and went snipsnip. The strapping spanged apart and coiled back, snapping at him. A piece of strapping caught him on the cheek, producing blood.

"Be careful."

Remy attacked the crate with the pry bar. The lid came off with a sharp screech of nails and the groaning of stressed wood.

When they got the box open, they all saw that it was empty.

But it was still buzzing.

"What the hell is making it buzz like that?" Perry wondered aloud.