They were traveling in a part of the country they had vacationed in for years, but they’d never been down this road before. The town was tiny, only two tourist-trap stores, but it had three restaurants and an ice cream stand on the beach. So they parked, got out of the rental Tesla, and wandered down the main street.
Harry was the first to look twice at the sign. Yes, it said Iguana Linguini. Was that the name of the restaurant? No, that was the name of a dish they were serving. The sign also advertised Big Burgers, Breaded Chicken, and Boiled Chicken.
He pointed. “Never had iguana. Whatcha think?”
“What? Oh.” His wife stopped walking. She looked back and tilted her head, considering.
The sign looked very old: black plastic, with yellow letters that slid into channels to make words. The restaurant looked fairly new, though.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Sure.” She opened the screen door and led the way went inside.
They waited a bit. There were four tables, but they were the only people in the place. Harry looked around at the unfinished wood-paneled walls, the two tasteful paintings of farm scenes, the lantern-ish lights hanging from roof beams. Then a waitress appeared in the blue tiled arch of the alcove that presumably led to the kitchen. She seated them near the front window.
“Like my inorganic trousers?” The waitress spun around, showing off her pants. She was a tall brunette, her curly hair piled high on her head. Her pants were brown; they looked like normal pants, the kind you could get at Walmart.
“Inorganic?”
“Everything here is supposed to be organic—not just the food. The floors, the counters, everything. The tables and chairs are organic wood—even the tablecloths, the curtains, they’re all organic. But my trousers? Polyester. Now he wants me to buy new ones.” She glanced back toward the kitchen.
What does that really mean? Harry wondered. Organic. Inorganic.
“Oh,” she continued, “and all the food is locally sourced. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Just water for me,” Harry replied.
His wife agreed. “Me, too.”
The waitress smiled. “And, of course, menus.”
“Well, we saw a sign for, um, iguana linguini?” his wife asked.
“Oh. That. I don’t think . . . I mean, we have it! But . . .”
“But . . . ?”
“Well, okay.” The waitress paused. “It’s on the menu. But the iguana is . . . Well, it’s . . .”
“It’s not fresh?”
“Oh, it’s fresh, I guess, but you won’t like it. It’s kind of a thing.”
“So it’s a local specialty?” his wife continued.
“Not really. I don’t think so. And I’ve lived here, like, forever. It’s more . . . It’s the chef’s specialty, prepared tableside? But we’ve got great big burgers. And chicken stuff. Lots of chicken stuff, like . . . breaded or boiled chicken.”
“Could we try the iguana?”
The waitress’s eyes grew wide. “I— I’ll ask.” She turned quickly and bolted into the kitchen.
After a few minutes, the chef came out. He wore a dirty white apron, and he looked very tired. He sat down at the table next to theirs and gazed at the wood floor. Without looking up, he asked, “Iguana linguini?”
“If it’s no trouble,” Harry answered. His wife nodded.
“If it’s no trouble,” the chef repeated. “He says, if it’s no trouble. Well, all right then.”
The chef abruptly stood and returned to the kitchen.
The waitress brought out glasses of water. She didn’t say a word, but after setting down the glasses, she looked at Harry and his wife, frowned, and shook her head.
She returned with napkins, plates, utensils.
Twenty minutes passed. Harry kept looking at his watch. “Maybe we should have ordered appetizers.”
“I’m fine,” his wife assured him. “I wonder how they’ll prepare it. Does it come in one big piece, like a grilled octopus on a bowl of pasta? Or maybe they cut it small and bread it and fry it? I’m looking forward to trying something new.”
Finally, the waitress came from the alcove balancing two plates of golden linguini. She set them down on the table and turned to go back to the kitchen.
Harry looked at his naked pasta. No sauce, no butter, no iguana . . . just pasta. He raised his voice. “The iguana?”
She said over her shoulder, “It’s coming.” Then she was gone again.
“Okay.” He looked at his wife.
She whispered, “Waitress is kind of rude, no?”
Suddenly something crashed to the floor behind the kitchen alcove, a sound like metal pans banging against wood. The chef came running into the dining room holding the tail of a flailing iguana and began bashing the animal’s head into the table and then into Harry’s and his wife’s linguini. Strands of pasta flew in the air, onto Harry’s shirt, his wife’s blouse. The iguana was screeching, first a high-pitched wail, then a high keening, and Harry could hear its bones breaking as the chef just kept bashing the iguana over and over against the table and plates until the reptile quieted.
Breathing hard, he released the dead iguana. “Iguana linguini. Enjoy.” He walked back to the kitchen.
Harry sat stunned. The iguana oozed a greenish ichor. It was about a foot and a half long, smashed across the center of the table.
His wife asked, “Are we supposed to put that on our pasta?” She poked it with a fork. “It’s not even cooked. Is it like sashimi?”
The waitress appeared with a pepper grinder in one hand and a bowl of grated Parmesan cheese cuddled in her elbow. “Would you like pepper on that? Cheese?”
Harry shook his head. His wife seemed absorbed in examining the iguana.
“Well, I’m going to try it.” She stabbed an area of the creature’s back that might be muscle, then used her knife, which turned out to be pretty sharp, to saw off a chunk. The iguana’s left back leg twitched, then settled.
She spent several minutes chewing iguana. It looked like it took an effort to swallow. “It’s kind of tough,” she said. “But you know, I could see a place like this getting into Bon Appetit. Or The Sunday Times. Or Gastro Obscura. It’s unusual.”
She carved out another chunk and held it impaled on the end of her fork. “Try some. Go ahead.”
“I’ll pass.”
She giggled. “Food coward.”
Harry took a few more mouthfuls of bland overcooked linguini. He thought it might be rude not to try the iguana, but his stomach felt off-center, unbalanced, ready to tilt over.
The waitress reappeared at his side. “Everything okay? Can I get you folks more water?”
“I think we’re okay,” his wife replied. “Although, this iguana is a bit tough.”
The waitress huffed. “That chef’s a fucking psycho.”
Harry had to agree. There was something wrong with this restaurant. He twirled more linguini onto his fork.
His wife was making little headway eating the dead iguana. It seemed to involve a whole lot of sawing, and then a great deal of chewing, and her throat bulged every time she swallowed. He wondered, do I really know this woman? She had barely tasted the linguini, but it wasn’t worth tasting anyhow.
Finally, she put down her fork and knife. “I don’t know. It’s not that good.”
“One-star review?”
“Oh, I’d give it three. It’s . . . unique.”
The waitress eventually returned. “Coffee? Dessert?”
Harry looked up. “Not for me.”
“What’ve you got?” his wife asked.
“We have a fine tiramisu, ma’am, a lemon tart, and a sweet chipmunk mousse prepared tableside.”
Just as his wife said, “I’ll try the mousse,” Harry had a vision of live chipmunks being slowly puréed in a mixer, and his stomach tilted all the way over and emptied onto the wood floor.