Work Text:
The facts were these:
Ned the Piemaker, who was twenty-six years, eight months, four days, and twelve hours old, was in debt. Not the cute, movie kind of debt where the intrepid hero still manages to pay for leather-bound journals and fedoras while pursuing a career in his chosen field, but the soul-crushing kind, the kind that caused people in casinos to throw themselves from the balcony onto an unsuspecting blackjack table thirteen feet below. Between the mounting interest on his culinary school loans and paying rent and utilities for a historic landmark with a stucco crust roof, Ned was not exactly raking it in as a comfort food entrepreneur. The business had been flourishing, sure, but Ned’s bank account took a major hit when he began renting, and after taxes and the abysmally high cost of fruit, there wasn’t much left over for Ned to look after himself.
He’d promised himself that he’d take care of Digby first. Dog food ran cheaply, but even a couple dollars sometimes pinched at his belt. Good thing Digby isn’t picky, Ned thought as he walked hopelessly through the grocery store aisles, gazing longingly at fresh vegetables and blocks of tofu before loading his basket with crackers and Top Ramen. In the two years since he’d opened the Pie Hole, Ned subsisted on canned corn and peanut butter by the jar, pouring every spare penny into his beloved business. His devotion led to a well-run and comfortable environment for his customers, but also to a much skinnier Ned. The weight he’d gained during culinary school had all but fallen off him, leaving his hips and collarbones protruding from under his button-ups and jeans. He had to wrap the ties of his apron around his waist twice to keep them from dragging, and he often found himself gasping for air after lifting bags of flour, his head spinning.
The worst part about this fast, however, was at night. He’d judiciously scarf down whatever he could find in his barren fridge at one am before collapsing into bed, knowing he had to wake up in four hours to start the whole process of baking and cleaning and serving again. He had phone calls to make, paperwork to fill out, and yet as he lay in bed, the only thing he could think of was his stomach. It pulled at him, aching, whining for pasta and bread and protein. All he could do was run his hands over his skin, trying to rub away the pain, but it persisted from morning until night, moaning feed me feed me feed me.
A reprieve came in the form of a telephone call at two o’clock on a Sunday. Ned had spent the last month and a half trying to convince investors into taking note of his project, and as he picked up the phone, he realized that his ship may have finally come in.
“Hello, Pie Hole, this is Ned speaking.”
“Ned? You were that young man my assistant spoke to last month, weren’t you?”
“Um, yes? I’m not sure, who is this?”
“Georgia Nettipot. I believe you had an investment proposal?”
Ned’s heart leapt. “Yes, uh, yes! I did call about the proposal. For my restaurant. Bakery. Thing.”
“Yes, the Pie Hole. Anyway, I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to contact you personally until now. I’ve just returned from a trip to Nigeria.”
“Nigeria?”
“Just business. One of my right hand men fell ill and I wanted to take care of some things myself. But forget all that. I’d like to speak with you about investing in your company.”
Ned couldn’t tell if it was her words or the nothing he ate for breakfast, but he suddenly felt like throwing up. “Y-yes?”
“I absolutely love little mom and pop places like yours. They’re a dying breed and for someone as young as yourself to be heading one alone? Absolutely marvelous. I’m just dying to speak with you in person. Are you free this evening?”
Ned thought about lying on his couch in the dark, too exhausted to move. “I didn’t have anything planned, no.”
“How about joining me for dinner at Vina tonight around seven?”
Ned’s heart dropped. Vina heralded itself as the best seafood restaurant within one hundred miles, and various critics agreed wholeheartedly. One meal there and he wouldn’t be able to pay rent, or eat anything for three weeks.
“I… um…”
“My treat, of course. I know the head chef personally. He catered my niece’s tenth birthday. Makes a beautiful quiche. Can I expect you?”
“I… thank you. Yes. Definitely.” A pit sank into Ned’s empty stomach. How could he jump on her offer so quickly like that? Now she knew he was desperate.
“Excellent! I’ll see you then.” Ned held the phone to his head long after the dial tone began to ring, not quite processing what had happened until a customer with red hair waved to him, snapping him out of his reverie and back to work.
Since it was Sunday, Ned closed the Pie Hole early and spent nearly a quarter hour staring at his face in the bathroom mirror.
“I look horrible,” he kept saying out loud, touching the dark purple circles under his eyes and running his fingers through his unkempt hair. Eventually he dragged himself away from the mirror long enough to shower and shave away the five days of stubble that had begun to spring up haphazardly on his cheeks. He combed his hair this way and that before giving up and digging around in his closet for a tie. Before he knew it, it was a quarter to seven and he headed down the stairs of his apartment building and on the way to Vina.
It was a short walk, and he arrived a little early, feeling grotesquely out of place. He’d managed to find a tie and paired it with a white button down and a vest, but his dress pants were too big for him now, so he’d settled with a pair of clean jeans and loafers. His stomach, which he’d hoped to quiet with a spoonful of peanut butter, churned at the thought of meeting and impressing his potential investor.
“Ned?” A plump woman with silver hair and smile lines around her eyes stood up from a chair next to the hostess’s podium.
“Yes?”
“I’m Georgia. It’s a pleasure.” She held out a ring-adorned hand for him to shake. He felt himself blush.
“I’m sorry, were you waiting long?”
“Not at all, dear. Just stopped in a bit early to chat with Jorge, the sous. Emily, dear, table for two?”
“Of course, Ms. Nettipot.” The hostess picked up two menus and motioned for them to follow her.
“How was your day?” Ms. Nettipot asked once they’d sat down next to an elaborate fish tank.
“My day?” Ned thought about waking up before dawn, about touching soft, fermented fruit back to life to keep himself from wanting to eat it. He thought about how tired he was. “It was fine. Yours?”
“Just dandy. I didn’t expect you to be so thin. They say to never trust a thin chef.” She laughed and Ned felt himself sweating off his deodorant. He tried to laugh along.
“I’m only teasing dear. You young people have such high metabolisms. If I worked in a pie shop, I’d be as fat as a pig.”
“I, uh, don’t eat the pies.”
“Not at all? Not even the leftovers?” She put one hand over her mouth in mock horror. He smiled and shrugged in a last-ditch attempt to seem normal.
“I mean, I try not to.”
“You do a good job of it. Baking is such hard work. How long have you been in business?”
“Almost three years.”
“Three years without an investor? How did you do it?”
“A lot of work. Loans,” he said sheepishly.
“You poor dear. No wonder you look so haggard. Why don’t you try to relax yourself? After all, we’re just two people having a nice dinner together. Have you ever been to Vina before?”
Ned shook his head. “It’s a little out of my price range.”
Ms. Nettipot laughed again. “Isn’t it? But it’s lovely. Do you drink?”
Ned hoped he didn’t nod his head too vigorously. He hadn’t had anything notable to drink since opening the Pie Hole, when he sat on his kitchen floor and drank a bottle of cheap champagne to celebrate. It hadn’t tasted as good coming back up the next morning.
“I’ll get a bottle of the white to start us off. And don’t even bother looking at the menu, I know exactly what you’ll like.”
“Um…”
“Yes?”
“I’m a vegetarian. I’m sorry, I should have told you before.” His face went hot.
The smile didn’t even leave her face. “All right, now I know exactly what you’ll like! You don’t mind cheese, do you?”
Ned’s stomach rumbled longingly. “I love it.”
“I suppose you don’t make meat pies then, do you?”
Ned imagined flaccid chicken breasts wiggling across his kitchen counter. “No, not usually.”
“Well, I suppose we all have our preferences.” Ms. Nettipot raised a hand and a waiter appeared at her side almost immediately. “Gregory! How are you?”
“Excellent as always in your company, Georgia.” The waiter nodded. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Give us a bottle of the white and one broccoli cheddar, one clam. And throw in a few Caesar salads too.” She looked over at Ned as if to gauge his reaction. “I hope you have a big appetite.”
Ned nodded, but when Gregory returned with the wine and soup, he found himself tense again. What if she thinks I’m a glutton? What if she thinks I’m unprofessional? He took tiny spoonfuls of soup, even though his stomach was screaming for him to gulp the whole thing down in one swallow, until Georgia spoke up.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked, glancing at him over the rim of her wine glass. His back stiffened.
“Yes, of course! I just…”
“Oh, come on now, let’s not play any more games, shall we? What’s the matter? Am I making you nervous?”
“I’m just… I just don’t want to be impolite.”
“How could you be impolite? It’s so rare to find someone who appreciates good food. Go ahead and enjoy yourself. I don’t bite.”
“I guess not.” Ned plucked a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the table and dipped it in his soup. “I’m just not used to this kind of company.”
“Ned, there’s no need to be nervous. Would you like another glass of wine?” she gestured to the bottle and he nodded. The first glass already hovered in his head like fog, but a few more sips wouldn’t hurt.
“There. It’ll loosen the both of us up.” Ms. Nettipot said, pouring out a sizeable glass for Ned. “Hopefully it won’t make me too sleepy. I don’t drink much, but this is special occasion, isn’t it? You’ll finally have an investor for the Pie Hole.”
Ned choked on his wine, pain shooting through his nose. “Ex-excuse me?”
“I want to invest in your business. This dinner is just a formality. So don’t you worry a bit about impressing me. Just enjoy yourself. I made the decision as soon as I read your proposal.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Don’t get sentimental, darling. You deserve a bit of a break. Eat.”
The knot in Ned’s stomach loosened and he dug into his soup with renewed vigor. As the evening progressed, Gregory brought out two enormous Caesar salads and another bottle of wine, and Ned was so absorbed in conversation that he didn’t realize how much he was eating. The wine made him feel warm and fuzzy inside, and the aching hunger that had been gnawing at his belly for so long had finally quieted. By the time the entrees arrived, Ned had polished off a basket and a half of bread with tomato bruschetta in addition to the soup and salad. Ms. Nettipot, insistent that seafood wasn’t the only thing Vina could provide, ordered Ned a massive plate of Portobello ravioli in a thick alfredo sauce. Once the food arrived, however, Ned realized how quickly he’d filled himself up. The wine filled his stomach with little air bubbles and he hiccupped into his napkin, trying to make more room. After all those weeks of noodles, he was dying to fill himself with something resembling nutrition, stomach capacity be damned.
His stomach capacity was not the only problem, however. As he dug in, the buttons of his vest dug into the space above his belly button, forcing a loud burp out of him.
“Oh god.” He covered his mouth with his napkin. “I’m so sorry. Excuse me.”
“In Japan, belching is considered polite. It shows an appreciation for the food,” she said, cracking the shell of the fat ruby lobster in front of her in one deft motion. “Don’t be embarrassed.”
“Sorry.” Ned wiggled in his chair, trying to adjust his belt into a more comfortable position and released another burp in the process. His stomach, which had shrunk considerably since his culinary school days, felt warm and tight, as if he’d swallowed a balloon. He could’ve stopped then, he realized later, and been perfectly fine, but who knew when he’d get a good meal like this again?
A few bites later, Ned’s vest was putting up a valiant fight against his slowly bloating belly, but the ravioli tasted too good for him to stop. Unbuttoning his vest sounded like the best idea or even unbuckling his belt, but it would be too obvious. Maybe he could excuse himself to the bathroom for a couple seconds of relief.
“Is everything all right?” Ned snapped out of his own head to see Ms. Nettipot staring at him. “You’ve stopped eating.”
“I’m fine. Just digesting. Trying to appreciate the food.” He leaned back and ran his hands over his abdomen in contentment, working a few fingers surreptitiously under his belt to make some room. To his surprise, the abs he’d developed since opening the Pie Hole were covered in a thin layer of padding. He tried sucking in his stomach, but he was too full to keep it up for long.
“I’m not used to eating so much.” He didn’t know why he was telling Ms. Nettipot this. Maybe it was the wine. He felt looser somehow, and he trusted her. “I haven’t eaten much since opening the Pie Hole.”
“What do you mean?” She drizzled melted butter over the exposed lobster.
“I’ve been too busy. Not enough money. All the profits go back into the Pie Hole.” He took another bite of ravioli.
“You poor thing! No wonder you’re so thin.”
“Thank you for having me. Really. You have no idea much how much it helps.” Another bite, then another. He licked his fork, then hiccupped like a child. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You don’t have to finish if you’re full.”
“No, no, I’m fine. Just comfortable.” He rubbed his stomach again, feeling it rumble again his palm. Probably shouldn’t eat much more, Ned thought, but once the conversation picked up again, he started into the pasta absentmindedly. Before long, his fork scraped through the leftover sauce, searching for another bite that wasn’t there. Ned’s vest buttons cut into him now, and he was sure his belt was cutting off circulation to his legs. If he didn’t excuse himself soon, he would lose a button.
“Excuse me. Do you mind if I use the restroom?” He wobbled as he stood, bloated with bread and pasta and wine, and tried to make his way to the back of the restaurant without stumbling. Once inside, he steadied himself on the countertop with one hand, holding his stomach with the other. It curved out under his vest, straining the buttons to their limit, and he unbuttoned the bottom two to give his belly a little more room. His sides swelled under his white shirt, giving him the impression of having recently eaten a small watermelon, and he rubbed slow circles into his bloated gut to relieve some of the pressure building under his ribs.
“Ohhh…” he hiccupped, then burped again to make more room. His skin felt too hot now, and when he pressed his fingers into his flesh, it yielded very little.
“Shouldn’t have eaten so much,” he said to his reflection, cheeks pink from too much to drink. “Shouldn’t keep her waiting.” He rubbed another circle into his belly, groaned as another burp rose through his chest. “You’re okay, Ned. You’re okay.”
His heart sank, however, once he returned to the table.
“I hope you saved room for dessert,” Ms. Nettipot said, gesturing to the dish of tiramisu in front of his empty chair. Ned forced a smile and sat down.
“More alcohol is just what we need, isn’t it?” She lifted a forkful of brown fluff and placed it delicately in her mouth, and Ned had no choice but to follow suit. Every bite felt like a new lump in his belly, which began to gurgle uncomfortably around the rich food, and by the time he’d finished, he wasn’t sure if he could stand up.
“Gregory, could I get the check please?” Ms. Nettipot asked, and passed the waiter her card without even glancing at the price. “I’ve had such a lovely time with you tonight, Ned. Thank you so much for accompanying me.”
“My pleasure,” Ned replied, trying to stifle the noise emanating from his overstuffed stomach with one hand under the table. “Thank you for having me.”
“I hope I didn’t fill you up too much,” she said, and Ned pushed down another burp.
“Not at all. It’s good to get out.”
“Isn’t it? I’ll speak to you tomorrow about the investment.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Ned said, and it was only after he’d said goodbye and exited out into the cold night air that he let himself relax. The walk home was much harder now that his stomach was sloshing with wine and rich food, and he decided against the stairs in favor of the elevator up to his apartment.
Ned’s worn couch had never looked so enticing in his life. He eased himself onto it with a groan, belching again in an attempt to make himself a little more comfortable. The vest came off first, then his belt, then the buttons on his shirt, and finally the top button of his jeans.
“Oh god,” he sighed, leaning back as his belly tsunamied out of his pants. He used to binge eat back in culinary school, since he’d never had any friends to help polish off his cooking, but this was a whole different animal.
“You pig.” He pinched at his bloated stomach, half guilty, half content. His stomach groaned back, bringing up another burp and a series of uncomfortable hiccups. Digby, who padded into the living room to investigate the strange noises, lay down at a safe distance before looking up sympathetically.
“I’m okay,” Ned said. He’d grown accustomed to talking to Digby in lieu of human company. “Just ate too much.”
Digby snuffled and rested his chin on his paws, and Ned thought about staying up to plot out his new investment, but his stomach twinged at the concept and he decided to give it up and sleep. He was too drunk to do much good anyway.
Ned woke up the next morning not to his growling stomach, as was typical, but to his alarm. He rolled over to hit the snooze button, still groggy, and felt his t-shirt tighten around his middle. How can I still be full? He thought before realizing that he wasn’t. He was comfortable. Most mornings heralded hunger cramps and dizziness and a strong desire to stay in bed, but this morning he felt… good. He felt rested, a little bloated still, but content. He hadn’t felt content in a long time.
It was only now that Ned the Piemaker, twenty-six years, eight months, five days, and five hours old, realized that things were going to be okay.