The sign appeared one fog-drowned evening, hung above an old brick building at the end of Birch Street:
ALL YOU CAN EAT — ONE NIGHT ONLY
The lettering shimmered gold beneath the flickering gas lamps, though the restaurant had been shuttered for years. The locals whispered it used to be La Belle Maison, a supper club where the rich and wicked came to dine before the war. No one remembered it reopening.
But in 1947, hunger did strange things to people.
Evelyn Dane pressed a gloved hand to the glass door, her reflection thin and hungry-looking beneath the brim of her hat. The wind carried a tune from the nearby jazz club — I’ll Be Seeing You — and it made her throat ache. She hadn’t eaten properly in days. The war had left ration stamps and ghosts, but no comfort.
Inside, the restaurant glowed like memory itself. Red velvet booths. Chandeliers gleaming as if they’d never gone dark. A band played softly in the corner, though she couldn’t quite make out the faces of the musicians.
“Table for one, miss?” asked the maître d’, tall and skeletal in a tuxedo that might’ve been stitched from smoke. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Yes,” Evelyn said, fumbling with her purse. “How much?”
“Tonight’s meal,” he replied, “is paid in confession.”
Before she could ask, he guided her to a table draped in white linen. The silverware gleamed like polished moonlight. The first course appeared without a waiter: a small porcelain bowl filled with something golden and thick.
She hesitated. “I didn’t order—”
“It’s what you’ve been craving,” said the maître d’ behind her.
She lifted the spoon. The taste was butter and honey, soft and rich — like her mother’s kitchen before the Great Depression took everything. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“I haven’t had this in years,” she whispered.
He inclined his head. “That’s the beauty of our menu. Each dish knows your hunger.”
When the second course arrived, it shimmered with cream and smoke — roast chicken with herbs, the way her husband used to make before he shipped out and never came home. She devoured it, the band’s tune swelling around her like warm fog.
But after the third course, she began to feel… heavy. Her reflection in the silver teapot showed a flush in her cheeks, her eyes bright and fevered.
“This is marvelous,” she gasped, her fork clattering onto the plate. “What is it?”
“Regret,” said the maître d’. “Seasoned with remembrance.”
Evelyn stared at the remains of the meal. The sauce was darker now, almost red. A chill crept through her gloves. “You’re joking.”
He smiled — not kindly. “Our patrons always say that.”
Around her, the other diners had stopped talking. Their faces were pale, too pale, mouths smeared with what looked like jam or blood. One woman sobbed softly into her napkin, whispering names between bites. The man across from her laughed through tears, chewing and chewing though nothing remained on his plate.
Evelyn tried to stand, but the maître d’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder. Cold as marble.
“You haven’t finished,” he said.
The final dish slid before her: a slice of pie. Perfect crust, glistening berries. She could smell cinnamon and sugar, the scent of home.
And she knew, somehow, it would taste like everything she’d lost — the nights waiting by the radio, the telegram that never came, the baby she never got to hold.
Her stomach twisted, but she lifted the fork.
The first bite burned like fire. The sweetness curdled to iron and salt. Her body trembled as memories surged up — laughter, ashes, a promise broken under gray skies. When she opened her eyes, the restaurant had gone silent.
“Was it worth it?” the maître d’ asked gently.
Evelyn’s voice cracked. “What happens now?”
He leaned close. His breath smelled faintly of smoke and rosewater.
“Now,” he said, “you belong to your appetite.”
Her reflection in the silver teapot smiled back — but the eyes were no longer hers.
Outside, the fog deepened. The band struck up another tune, something mournful and sweet. And when the next customer pushed open the door, the sign above the restaurant flickered again:
ALL YOU CAN EAT — ONE NIGHT ONLY
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