Greetings and welcome to Victual, an old-time public house and purveyor of fine provisions that has been foisted upon you by someone who lives in the West Village. Before you ask, yes, this Gingham shirt and denim apron are sewn directly into my skin to save time.
Here is tonight’s Bill of Fare, inscribed on distressed parchment and encased in a leather book fashioned from the boots of old blacksmiths. Please note that the Bill of Fare changes every twenty minutes. (checks pocket watch, laughs) In all seriousness, our chef is quite mercurial, and the Bill of Fare does change.
Oh, you can’t discern the Bill of Fare because it’s hilariously dark in here? I’ll just light another lantern. How’s that? Almost completely imperceptible? Perfect.
May I get you begun with some hydration? Ah, already inquiring about the potables, are we! Indeed. If you turn to the Libations portion of the Bill of Fare, you will find Drams, Elixirs, Tinctures, Tonics, Concoctions, Potions, Antidotes, and of course Ambrosias. No matter what you order, it is sure to arrive in a vessel that embarrasses you.
Fine selections! Let me just jot them down with my quill. Might I also entice you with one of our Preambles? Perhaps a litter of linened piglets? Or a trio of Franco-fried Russet potatoes, dusted with maritime sodium and nestled in a pine basket repurposed from a tiny but historically significant ship? Fantastic; I’ll put that order interior and return post-haste with your libations.
Here we are: a goblet for you, sir; a decanter for this fine fellow; and for the lady, some sort of old-timey test tube in a wobbly wooden rack. All of our elixirs are absinthe-based, except of course for the port, which is port-based. Prost! Now, (folds hands) may I share with you this eve’s particulars?
We have a hamburger sandwich malingering on reclaimed hunks of cottage loaf; that’s cooked fairly uncommon. We have an artisanal-baked macaroni pasta ravaged with Camembert and humiliated with savory trimmings. And we have millet. Just a small pile of raw millet, unwinding in a clay bowl hand-blasted right here in our pottery. That’s market price, which is 49 doubloons.
Marvelous! Now, pardon the inquisition, but could I possibly coax you, like a lost fawn, in the direction of the Embellishments? Oh, “sides” is such a filthy little word, as gauche as “food” or “drink” or “hi.” (shudders) We don’t serve food; we purvey provisions. Speaking of whence, I shall now venture not-ungently into that good back area and fetch your comestibles.
Ah, you are so enamored with your rations that you would like to commend the chef! Alas, he must decline for legal reasons.
Due to a string of unseemly harassment claims, our chef is no longer permitted within fifty feet of our patrons, or even the wait staff. He actually conveyed all of your victuals tonight via a system of pulleys hand-pulled right here in our pullery. Rest assured, he will still receive a mighty portion of tonight’s profits, and every other night’s, as he is still somehow the majority owner.
So! Who left room for Confections?