Ryan Vance’s collection of short stories, One Man’s Trash, offers fictional gems that are a little bit weird and wonderful, a little bit sensual and spiky, and a whole lot enticing and entertaining. Here, we share one of his stories, ‘Mouthfeel’, where a dreaded evening out becomes something else, something entirely unexpected.

One Man’s Trash
By Ryan Vance
Published by Lethe Press

Mouthfeel

Nathan located the restaurant on the corner of Kent Road and Berkeley Street: another hasty pop-up in the race to gentrify Finnieston, it bore no signage, no menu board. The only guarantee of a hot dinner was Lizzie, standing by a blank door in her favourite red polka dot dress. She waved at him across the street, and pointed to her watch. As Nathan waited for a gap in the traffic, a sharp sensation of chives appeared unbidden in his mouth—serving as an early warning of the Stilton, which arrived more blue than cheese. He slipped a bottle of mouthwash from his coat pocket, swilled a quick mouthful and spat into the gutter.

‘I saw that,’ Lizzie said as he approached. He kissed her on the cheek as a greeting. ‘Minty fresh, as always.’ She looked him over, touching her pearl earring to make sure he hadn’t dislodged it. ‘Oh Nate, trainers? What did I tell you about looking smart?’

‘This isn’t smart?’ he said, tucking his wrinkled shirt into his jeans.

‘Surprised you asked me along, to be honest. Not my sort of thing.’

‘I wasn’t about to show up to a tasting night solo, was I? Anyway, I’ve been worried about you. Man cannot live on Soylent alone.’

‘Actually,’ said Nathan, ‘I think that’s the point.’

‘Humour me, will you?’ She squeezed his shoulder. ‘Just for tonight, leave your curious condition at the door?’

This was Nathan’s condition: his mouth had forever been haunted by the ghosts of meals he hadn’t eaten. Foods he didn’t even like—liquorice, coffee, anything with strawberry flavouring—made frequent appearances, despite attempts to avoid them in person. Some flavours went through phases. A week of high-grade sushi. A month of hospital food, aggressively beige. His twenties had been characterised by the bubbled saltiness of caviar manifesting each Hogmanay, though it wasn’t until his thirtieth birthday Nathan got the chance to connect the taste to its real-world counterpart, at a restaurant not unlike this one. Other times, the phantom flavours interrupted meals he was already eating, muddying the entire experience. Christmas in particular was unpleasant, like sucking on a chocolate-covered stock cube.

He had a theory. His mouth, somehow, was connected to another. Telepathy of the tongue. He’d shared this theory once with Lizzie, who’d called him organic, free-range bonkers and refused to entertain the idea any further. Yet other sensations could not originate from food. A frequent probing warm wetness, for example, begun at sixteen, bloomed at night into a sticky, salty suddenness. He knew what that was. Unmistakable. Personally, Nathan preferred to spit, but to each their own.

Going down, stairs led to a basement, the decor sitting somewhere between a New York speakeasy and a half-finished public restroom. Typical for the area. A young man showed them to their table. Once seated, Nathan was hit by another imaginary wave of Stilton, this time accompanied by a light mouthfeel of something melting on his tongue.

Mouthwash was one of his coping methods, the intensity of peppermint enough to banish even the most stubborn spirits. The invention of Soylent—a lab-brewed dust-flavoured meal-in-a-sachet— had been something of a blessing, as it cut out all interference. But as their waitress provided a small wooden board laid with four canapes: blue stilton and chives on a buttermilk wafer, Nathan realised, there would be no interference tonight.

By the bar, a wine glass and teaspoon commanded attention. A large man in a three piece suit beamed at his guests, paired with a round-shouldered chef, her height almost matching his, if you included her toque. Together they delivered some guff about pushing boundaries and contributing to the neighbourhood’s legacy for experimental dining. Nathan didn’t hear a word. He was too dumbfounded by the serendipity of canapes.

‘He’s here,’ breathed Nathan.

‘Who?’

‘My other taster.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it, Nathan. Look, here comes our food.’

Matched with a slim glass of Chardonnay boasting notes of pineapple over buttered toast, the first course was a bisque of langoustine with white chocolate and garlic. Nathan pushed it around with his spoon.

‘They know what they’re doing,’ said Lizzie. Nathan pinched his nose in preparation. Lizzie reached across the table and slapped his hand. ‘Stop embarassing me. Just try it. Please.’

So he did. The crustacean wash gave way to a sweet cream on the way down, at once seaside and farmyard, sending his brain into a strange pinching pleasure.

‘See?’ Lizzie said, as his eyes grew wide. ‘You’re missing out.’

The sensation of hot, smooth bisque filled Nathan’s mouth again. Not an after-taste. First contact, twice. Then came the wine. At least, he assumed it was the wine, though his palate wasn’t refined enough to identify anything as exact as pineapple. But he’d not touched his Chardonnay, the fine glass as yet unsmudged by fingerprints.

As they ate and chatted about their days, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone he’d never been sure existed, but had known intimately throughout his life, was now here with them, hidden among strangers.

‘Recognise anyone?’ he asked Lizzie.

‘Oh, the usual crowd. Press and foodies.’ She looked at him with a sigh. ‘Can’t we play Guess Who later? I’m right here, Nate. I haven’t seen you in months. Since you started on that liquid goop you don’t eat like normal people.’

‘You’ve got it the wrong way round. I don’t eat like normal people, that’s why I’m on that liquid goop in the first place—you know that.’

Their second course arrived. The venison haunch was obvious enough, sitting medium-rare at one end of the bamboo board, but the sweet potato puree, caramelised chestnuts, gingerbread crumble and spiced roast plum were abstracted in dots and blobs, closer to modern art than food. Nathan hovered his fork first over one element, then the other, unsure of where to start. Lizzie rolled her eyes. As they ate, Nathan peered at the other diners. Was anyone shocked when he took a fluffy mouthful of crumble, or a rich cut of venison? Every flavour on the board blended with its neighbours. The puree gifted the plum a constancy of texture, its sweetness taking centre-stage when paired with the woody chestnuts. The crumble stole the venison’s juice, the plums returned the moistness. Nathan found if he alternated medleyed mouthfuls with his invisible dining companion, he could create a constant, shifting gradient of tastes and textures, as if he’d bitten out a chunk out of the Northern Lights.

‘I have to meet them,’ he said, half-standing to look around the dim-lit restaurant. Was there a flicker of interest from the thin, eagle-faced man alone in the corner by the door? Or the two elderly women sitting near the bar? What about the table of young party animals whose shiny helium birthday balloon bobbed against the ceiling? Did any of them seem curious?

‘Good grief.’ Lizzie downed her wine. ‘You should’ve stood me up, at least then I’d get double portions.’

Nathan slumped back into his seat. Double portions. Triple portions. Centuple portions. His telepathic tongue could be linked to every mouth in the room and he’d never know Eve from Adam, all of them eating the same apple.

Unless he went off-menu.

‘Don’t judge, okay?’ He lifted Lizzie’s empty wine glass. ‘This is a test.’

‘This whole night is a fucking test, if you ask me.’

Under the table, Nathan took his bottle of mouthwash and sloshed some into the glass. The chemical scent was alarming, out of place.

‘Nate. I told you, put it away.’

He tipped the whole lot into his mouth—

‘Nathan!’

—and held it there. Two round cheekfuls of dental cleaning fluid. Their waitress approached, concerned. ‘Sir, are you okay?’

Nathan nodded, and tried to smile without dribbling. Lizzie, less courteous, waved the waitress away, mortified. His eyes watered, his sinuses flamed, the menthol tingle flayed his taste buds in waves. But he didn’t desist.

‘Augh!’

The eagle-faced man in the corner leapt to his feet, knocking his chair to the wooden floor. He pushed his way to the bathroom, a hand over his mouth. Nathan spat the mouthwash back into Lizzie’s glass and took a strong gulp of white wine from his own. Under the soothing grape twisted sour by the mint, he felt tap water bubbling against the back of his throat, a cleansing gargle.

‘Give me that.’ Lizzie snatched her glass away and marched to the ladies’ room, returning to the table empty-handed. Nathan began to apologise, but stopped. Lizzie was looking at him funny.

‘That’s Eugene Richmond,’ she said. ‘You know Margot Richmond? Three Star Michelin Matriarch of Paris? I guess not. Rumour has it, she’s written him out of her will. He’s incompetent, she’s tried to teach him everything she knows, but it just won’t stick. She doesn’t want him near her empire. So of course he became a critic. But he couldn’t even get that right. His reviews were unusual, sometimes perfect but sometimes flat out wrong. Nobody took him seriously until…’ Lizzie leaned back in her chair and covered her mouth. ‘When did you start using Soylent?’

‘About two years ago? Two and a half?’

‘And it tastes of…?’

‘Nothing, really.’

‘Aye. That’s when Eugene got his book deal. Everyone assumed he’d hired a ghost-writer.’

Chatter rose around them as Eugene Richmond exited the men’s room and began collecting his belongings.

‘Don’t just sit there,’ hissed Lizzie. ‘Go talk to him! Butter him up! Get us an invitation to his mum’s flagship!’

She didn’t have to tell Nathan twice. He dodged his way to the stairwell through a flurry of servers carrying plates of star fruit coconut cheesecake, its layers de-constructed into poetry. He brushed past the doorman. Eugene was almost out on the street, almost gone.

Words came to Nathan in a rush:

‘What do you taste like?’

Eugene Richmond paused on the top stair, facing out into the night, one step from disconnection.

‘Excuse me?’

‘That came out wrong. I mean…’

Nathan wondered if at this moment Eugene’s mouth was also dry.

‘What is taste like, for you?’

Nathan tasted vomit. Eugene braced himself against the door frame.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’

One hallucinogenic dessert later, the kitchen was closed, but Eugene had bribed the round-shouldered chef to knock up a feast of small plates, promising his first ever five-star review. Lizzie stayed behind also, to make amends to the staff with some very expensive champagne, which she had for no good reason started calling ‘bubbly’, something she’d never done before.

Over this private banquet, Eugene and Nathan came to understand some of their more unusual, unexplained experiences. A soggy scuttling sensation in Eugene’s childhood, the memory of which gave him nightmares to this day, had come from when Nathan, under a dare, had placed a beetle inside his mouth, panicked, and bit down. Meanwhile, a year of burnt pepperoni had, in fact, been the taste of Eugene’s chainsmoking ex-boyfriend, kissing.

‘Allow me to try something?’ said Eugene. He was quite handsome when he smiled, the severity of his birdlike nose softened by a lopsided pair of dimples. ‘Close your eyes.’

Nathan did so, and felt a cool lightness on his tongue, a woodsy caramel flavour that melted down the sides, tart and savoury and sweet at once.

‘Parsnip?’ Nathan guessed. ‘But charred and runny. The frothy stuff.’

‘The mousse, exactement!’

When Nathan opened his eyes, Eugene had lifted his glass of champagne, and motioned for Nathan to do the same. They both sipped, then smiled. It was impossible to tell where one man’s experience came to a close, and the other began anew.

‘Not once did I ever enjoy a meal the way I knew I was meant to,’ said Eugene, ‘Until tonight. It feels less… lonely, no?’

Decades running parallel to each other, but connected, two paths meeting in an impossible space. Now here they were, feeling altogether more-ish, umami for the soul. Nathan laughed. Eugene was right.

Exactement.

He scooped up the last remaining mouthful of cheesecake, and shared it with him.

One Man’s Trash by Ryan Vance is published by Lethe Press, priced £12.00.