May I speak to your Manager?
"He was supposed to be dead!"
The pimply-faced boy recoils in fear.
"Would you take him back, please? I can't have a live human. Not so close to the full moon."
"Yes, sir. So sorry, sir," squeaks the pimply-faced waiter. With a rather audible grunt, he lifts the human, all oily and dressed like a Thanksgiving turkey, over his shoulder and makes his way to the kitchen.
The "Homme Brulant" is a difficult dish for any chef to master. You have to pay close attention to the hair tips and the smell of the flesh. But whatever chef they have in the kitchen tonight didn't even bother to kill the man before cooking him. I am a patient werewolf, but even I have limits.
While I wait, a mediocre blood wine, of 1987 vintage with a low iron count, oozes down my throat. It's fine for the price I suppose, but I expect a little more from a 3-Crufix restaurant. I pick at the fried batwings, soggy and bland. Did they just dip them in the oil and microwave them afterwards? Ridiculous.
I'll say this for the Crone's Nest, what it lacks in culinary finesse, it more than makes up for in artisinal charm. Everything is handmade, or rather, made to look handmade: from the unicorn horn lamps to the Yeti fur curtains, no expense has been spared. Wish I could say the same for the food.
My glass is empty and the bottle is half full. I stare a little too long at the crimson liquid and I can feel the effects of it coursing through my veins. Couple that with the melancholy violin of the house band, and I find myself becoming a little nostalgic. At 260, I'm not exactly a young pup anymore. Not that you could, of course. My skin, white as porcelain and just as flawless, bares no hint of my true age. I've allowed a slight streak of gray to otherwise grace my raven locks; it adds a hint of wisdom and mystique, you see. My eyes, still the vibrant emeralds of my youth, are somewhat dulled by the glasses I am forced to wear. Who ever heard of a wolf with glasses? I detest them. But Dr. Alucard insists. I can never resist that---
The scent is immediately sobering. I turn to face the waiter, startling him in the process.
"H-here you are, sir. I hope he's more to your liking."
Smoke still lingers on the charred flesh. I can taste the saffron and lime...
"Much better."
I don't wait for him to struggle with the platter. Effortlessly, I grab the platter from the cart and place it before me. It's been ages since I've had a human. What little embarrassment I have about drooling all over the mantle is gone as I bite into a supple thigh.
"Hurk!"
It is a miracle I spit out the rancid fat unto the table and not the waiter's face.
"Sir?"
"Gangrene. The man had gangrene and your stupid chef didn't even notice! Where is your manager, boy?"
I can almost hear his knees rattle.
"S-She is in the kitchen, sir. Would you---?"
"Yes, I would. Fetch her. Now."
All eyes are on me as the boy flees to the kitchen. My hair stands on end, my fangs protude from my fat-soaked lips. I might just kill someone tonight.
I spot the boy and the manager. They are in a heated conversation which I easily eavesdrop on.
"Again?! But, I don't understand it."
"Don't understand what, ma'am?"
"He's supposed to be DEAD!"