Charles was rewashing his hands when he was caught completely off guard. It was his unsanitary sous chef Brandt — the ruffian gripped him by his apron straps and choked him to death with fistfulls of unsauced vermicelli.

Charles had been a simple man, with simple needs: good food, clean fingers, and a sense of closure, for the love of God.

From day one, the two were mortal enemies. No one actually expected it would come to this, of course, but the most lethal dishes are made from the most benign ingredients. A half tablespoon of obsessive compulsion combined with two cups of who-the-hell-cares; stir in employment by affirmative action as desired and simmer. Tres méchant mon ami, bon appétit!

When they found the chef’s body in the morning, Monsieur Dupuis was more heartbroken that his patrons would not be served than that the conductor of his kitchen was lying in a pile of noodles on the floor. But such is life, you dine with tragedy, wipe your mouth, and leave a fat tip for the waiter when you’re done.