The Cocktail Fork Killer

It was the diagram that did it, he said, lighting another cigarette. It was just dinner. It was just Dave and Jenny — nothing special.

            He leaned forward, and hid his face in his hands. You have no idea, he said haltingly, his voice muffled. She pointed to a diagram, for Heaven’s sake. There were so many circles showing where everything had to be. She was insistent.

            He sat up, tipped his ash. His eyes were red.

            Monogrammed napkins. Candles. We were out of candles. I don’t even know what a cocktail fork is.

            Do you know what a cocktail fork is? he asked the detective. Me neither, he reiterated, getting no reply.

            He paused.

            She was all about precision. She followed those books by the letter. The recipes. She didn’t start out that way. We wouldn’t be here if she’d been like that all along. Never would’ve married her. I don’t know what happened.

            He sighed.

            So here we are, the detective said.

            So here we are. The man looked at his blood-spattered sleeve. I couldn’t take it any more, he said. I just snapped.

Poor bastard, the Chief said, watching from behind the glass. The Cocktail Fork Killer. Whatever’s next. At least there’s no kids.

           

Rumford Common Sense Cook Book, The Department of Home Economics of The Rumford Company, 1930

Soliloquy

A Formal Dinner Party At The Boss’s House

To use this or that fork: that is the question.

Whether ‘tis better for the guest to suffer

The tines and blades of an outrageous table setting,

Or take up a glass of wine against a host of troubles,

And by not choosing, end them? To dine — to sip

No more; and by “sip” I mean to end

The embarrassment and the thousand faux-pas

With which a formal service trips you, ‘tis a tipple

Devoutly to be wish’d. To dine, to sip;

To sip, perchance to get drunk: ay, there’s the trouble;

For in that sip of drink what bliss may come

When we have shuffled off this suit and tie,

Must give me pause. There’s the politesse

That makes calamity of so long a dinner;

For who would bear the whipped corn and thyme,

The hostess’s frown, the host’s raised brow,

The pangs of an empty stomach, the dessert’s delay,

The workplace chatter, and the queasiness

Wrought from an ignorance of silverware,

When I might my hunger assuage

With a Big Mac? Who would salad forks bear,

To poke and prod about the lettuce,

But that the dread of something hidden underneath,

The undiscover’d condiment from whose taste

No tongue recovers, hurts the brain

And makes us rather eat leftovers at home

Than partake of fine dining among strangers?

Thus do manners makes idiots of us all;

And thus the resolve to have a good time nonetheless

Is shadowed over with the cold sweat of failure,

And all your plans to wow the boss

With your social graces reveal a buffoon,

And lose you that promotion. — Good Lord!

Whose stockinged foot is that?

Now I’m done for.  

The Settlement Cook Book, Simon and Schuster, 1901 (1965 edition)

Also from this book: Zen and the Art of Washing Dishes

Three Courses (Of Course)

— Derek, Yo — pour me a cold one, yeah?

Hey Bro! How’s it hanging?

— Not bad, not bad. Say — d’you remember that really odd-shaped object that landed in my backyard a few years ago?

Sure. Why?

— Well, you know how it came with that golden record attached?

Yeah. Man, was that weird.

— We had to search for ages to find a record player to listen to that damn thing. And for what? A bunch of people saying hello? And some classical music? And some godawful squeaking.

The stuff by that Chuck Berry dude was OK. I could have listened to that a second time. “Go, go go Johnny Go.” Good stuff, that.

— I would have preferred a bit of classic rock, myself. But that’s just me.

Did you ever figure out what all those engravings were?

— Nope. And then there was that plaque on the side of that object with those nudie drawings.

They weren’t very good. You could see his pecker, but she didn’t have any bits at all.

— Yeah, that was odd. Normally, you know, you give that area a bit more detail. Like you see on the wall of the men’s room. Not that I’ve ever looked.

Yeah, right.

— Who does that though? Who leaves that bit out? It doesn’t make any sense.

So what’s your point, Jim-Bob? I haven’t got all day.

— You’ll never guess.

Try me.

— It happened again: went out this morning and there was another of those wretched smoking heaps of metal in my damn driveway.

No way!

— Seriously. Someone’s messing with me, and I’d like to know who.

Who’d do that? What if they’re coming from outer space? Like some alien race was sending them out as messages, you know, like the way you do with a bottle?

— And landing at my house? Yeah, Derek, that’s plausible. Pour me another, will you?

You never know; just sayin’.

— This one has another diagram on it, and for the life of me I can’t figure it out.

Let’s see. Toss it over here.

— Go on. Tell me if that makes any sense.

WTF? What’s that supposed to be? What’s that big black blob?

— Haven’t the first clue.

Is it a — blimey, I have no idea. A ransom note maybe? A treasure map? Did it come with another LP?

— No. Somebody’s taking the mickey, though, right? Pulling my leg?

Maybe it’s a woman thing. Let’s ask Doris. Oi! Doris!

— What? I’m busy.

Jim-Bob here has something he wants you to take a look at.

— If you think I’m falling for that one again, you’re mistaken.

— No, really, come over here. See if you can make head nor tail of this.

Are you two buffoons kidding me. You can’t figure this out? And I suppose this “dropped from the sky” again, did it, Jim-Bob?

— Yeah!

— Try turning it the other way up, knuckleheads.

— Oh. Yeah. Right. Huh.

Happy Living! A Guidebook for Brides, American Bride Publications, 1965

Also from this book: A Connubial Breakfast, Creamed Eggs In A Corned Beef Crust, All For One And One For All!