Mountie Python's Flying Circus

by Locomotion

Story 7: Fancypants and the Dirty Fork

Today was business as usual for Canterlot's fashionable Restaurant Row. It was already noon, and chefs and waiters alike were diligently going about their work as patrons gathered in the eateries of their choice for a nice, hearty meal out. In one restaurant, the Cuisine du Grand, Fancypants and his wife Fleur-de-Lis had just taken their seats and were quietly chatting as they perused the menus they had been given.

“Quite a nice atmosphere, isn't it, dearest?” commented Fleur.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Fancypants. “None of that plain and uninspiring décor that Zesty Gourmand so strongly insists on; and that's saying nothing of the food. Do you know, I once visited this place with Sealed Scroll and his entourage...”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” Fleur observed. “Only a few months before our wedding – he was seeking funds for the new library extension, wasn't he?”

“Indeed he was; and believe you me, Fleur, I couldn't be happier that he chose for us to dine at this establishment. I've even been given to understand that Culinary Delight gave it a four-star rating.”

“I'm not surprised,” observed Fleur.

Just then, one of the waiters came over. He was a finely dressed unicorn with a neatly combed silver mane, and bowed respectfully as he addressed the couple. “Good evening, sir. Good evening, madam,” he greeted them in a refined Prench tone, “and may I say what a pleasure it is to see you here again, sir.”

“The pleasure's mine, good sir,” smiled Fancypants pleasantly.

“Is everything to your liking, sir?”

“Oh, yes, perfectly. Alas, we haven't decided what we would like to eat yet,” said Fancypants, glancing questioningly across to Fleur who only shrugged in response, “but we would like a bottle of House Red, please.”

“Of course, sir,” replied the waiter. “I shall fetch you a bottle straight away.” He quickly scribbled their order down on his notepad and sauntered briskly away to the kitchen.

Fleur pondered for a moment. “Anything you would recommend, Fancy?” she asked.

“Well, the last time I was here, I had the pleasure of sampling the courgette a la reine. And let me tell you, darling, it was absolutely divine,” remarked Fancypants. “But other than that, I suppose any of these dishes would be worth sampling.” He returned his attention to his own menu, murmuring under his breath as he read through it. “Let's see, what else do we have here – ratatouille au gratin,épi de maïs normand, consomme au pommes d'amour...” It was then that something odd caught his eye. “...lemon curry?!” he repeated incredulously.

“What was that, Fancy?” Fleur looked up from her menu again, mildly perplexed; but before her husband could reply, the waiter came trotting back with their wine.

“Voila, sir, madam,” he said as he set down two glasses, uncorked the bottle and poured some out for them to sample. “Are you enjoying your evening?”

“Oh, yes, very much so,” answered Fancypants, mentally shaking off the confusion from earlier. “Just...trying to make a decision on our main course, that's all.”

“If I may suggest, sir,” offered the waiter, “the chou-fleur du Percheron; the sauce is one of the chef's most famous creations.”

“Hmm...sounds quite enticing,” mused Fancypants. Then his mind turned to a small detail he had noticed out of the corner of his eye whilst studying the menu; “Oh, by the way, I've, er...I've got a bit of a dirty fork. Could I trouble you for another one, please?”

The waiter looked a little taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh...nothing major – fork's just a bit dirty. Could you get me another one?”

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the waiter, a look of sheer dismay on his face, “I do apologise!”

Fancypants blithely brushed it off. “No need to apologise, it's only a small...”

“No, no, no, I do apologise.” The way the waiter was talking, one would've thought he had just spilled a full bowl of soup down somepony's finest dinner jacket. “I will fetch the head waiter immediatement.”

“Oh...you needn't do that...” began Fancypants, unsure what to make of the situation.

“No, really, I'm sure the head waiter will want to apologise to you in person. I will fetch him at once,” and the waiter ambled away without waiting for a reply.

Fleur was equally puzzled, but also impressed with the waiter's show of courtesy. “Well, you certainly get good service here,” she remarked.

“Yes, they do look after you very well indeed.” Perhaps a little too well, thought Fancypants. Sure, the staff here had done their utmost to provide a comfortable environ and the finest food they could cook, but to obsess so much over something as small and inconsequential as a dirty fork seemed a little over the top. He looked on as the head waiter, a dark blue Pegasus stallion with a slicked back raven mane, approached their table and took the fork in one wing, examining it carefully. The other waiter cowered behind him as though he was about to face a firing squad.

The head waiter sneered as he spotted the blemish on the fork. “It's filthy!” he snapped. “Flambé, find out who washed this up and give them their cards immediately!”

Fancypants tried to interrupt; “Well, really, I don't...”

“No, no, no,” continued the waiter, ignoring him completely, “better still, can't afford to take any chances – sack the entire washing-up staff!”

“Look, I don't want to cause any trouble,” objected Fancypants.

“Oh, no, please,” replied the head waiter apologetically, “it's no trouble. It's quite right that you should point these things out.” He spun round again; “Flambé,” he ordered sharply, “find the manager and tell him what's happened immediately!”

Flambé nodded timidly and shot off like a jack rabbit.

“Seriously,” insisted Fancypants, “I don't mean to make a fuss over nothing, it's just...”

“Please, it's no fuss,” the Pegasus assured him with the most ingratiating and apologetic smile he could manage. “All we want is to ensure that nothing, absolutely nothing, interferes with your complete enjoyment of your meal.”

“Which it hasn't. It was only a dirty fork.”

“I know – and I'm sorry, bitterly sorry – but that still doesn't alter the fact that, in our restaurant,” the head waiter held up the fork, gazing at it with a look of disgust and remorse, “we have been given a dirty, filthy, smelly piece of cutlery!!!”

“It wasn't smelly!” Even in his confused state, Fancypants managed to exercise just enough decorum not to add that the staff were being oversensitive about the whole issue.

“But it was!!” ranted the head waiter. “It was smelly and obscene and disgusting, and I hate it! I hate it! Nasty, grubby, dirty, mangy, scruffy little...”

“Alright, Croûton, that'll do.” Another unicorn, much more smartly dressed than the others, approached their table in good time to stifle the head waiter's tirade. “Go and see to the other customers; I'll deal with this.”

Still raging under his breath, the head waiter scuttled away as the unicorn addressed Fancypants and Fleur. “Good evening, sir, good evening, madam,” he said. “I am the manager, and I have only just learned about your trouble from Flambé. May I sit down?”

“Oh, of course.” Fancypants magically pulled out a chair, which the manager duly accepted.

“I would like to apologise, humbly, deeply, and sincerely, about the fork...”

“Oh, please,” Fancypants tried to assure him, “it was only a tiny speck. I didn't even notice it at first it was so hard to spot.”

But again, his reassurance fell on deaf ears as the manager gave them a crestfallen look of remorse. “Oh, you're good, kind, fine ponies for saying that,” he continued, “but I can see it.” He took the fork in his aura. “To me, it's like a mountain – a vast bowl of pus! It gets me here!” he stated, emotionally clapping a hoof to his chest.

By now, Fancypants was beginning to wonder if this farce might be a little bit beyond even his own diplomacy. “It...wasn't as bad as that,” he stuttered lamely.

“I can't give you any excuses for it,” the manager went on, trying to maintain his composure even as tears began to prick at his eyes. “There are no excuses. I've been meaning to spend more time in the restaurant recently, to try and ensure things go smoothly and customers get the perfect dining experience, but I haven't been very well and...things haven't been exactly been sunshine and rainbows in the kitchen either.” No matter how hard he tried, however, he could hardly hold back the tremor in his voice, and Fancypants and Fleur couldn't help heeling sorry for him. “The poor chef's son has been put away again; and poor Mrs Tarragon, who prepares the salad, can hardly grip a spoon properly with her poor, withered hooves anymore. And then there's Croûton's head wound from when he punished himself for forgetting to place the napkins one one of the tables a few months back...”

That would explain a lot, thought Fancypants gravely.

“...but they're good creatures,” stammered the manager, “and they're kind creatures. Together, we were beginning to get over this dark patch. There was light at the end of the tunnel...” He held up the fork again, unable to bottle in his emotions any longer as he melted down into tears. “...when this...WHEN THIS...HAPPENED!!” he sobbed in anguish, burying his face in his front hooves.

Baffled, Fancypants looked across to Fleur for help. Fleur responded by laying a tentative hoof on the manager's shoulder. “Could we, uh...can we get you a glass of water?” she offered anxiously.

Her words went unheeded by the inconsolable stallion, who only continued to bawl his eyes out. “It's the end of the road!” he lamented. Both husband and wife shook their heads in dismay, trying to work out how to diffuse the situation before someone else got involved.

“You monsters!!!” snarled a voice. “You vicious, heartless MONSTERS!!

Fancypants and Fleur looked up, startled, and chuckled nervously at the sight of none other than Gustave le Grand standing at their table. He glowered upon the couple with pure rage in his eyes. It was the sort of anger that they had never seen from him before, the sort that belonged to a psychopath seeking to avenge the death of a loved one.

“Look what you've done to him!” bellowed Gustave. “He's worked his hooves to the bone to help me make this place what it is, and you come in here with your petty, feeble quibbling – and you grind him into the dirt!” He choked back a furious sob of his own. “This fine, honourable stallion whose horseshoes you are not worthy to kiss! Oh, it makes me mad! Mad!” To the couple's further shock, he lifted up a cleaver they didn't know he had brought with him and slammed it down onto their table, creating a deep gash through the middle.

“Easy, Gustave, easy!” Croûton, who had seen what had just happened, came rushing over to try and restrain him before he went on the warpath; but hardly had he grabbed hold of Gustave's shoulders when suddenly he began to grimace in pain. “OW! THE WOUND! THE WOUND!” he shrieked, clutching his temples. Gustave, momentarily distracted from his rant, began wailing in distress.

It was most unfortunate that at that very same moment, the manager stood up from his seat, hovering the fork in front of his chest and crying out loud, “IT'S THE END!!!”

“AAAGH, THEY'VE DESTROYED HIM!” screamed Gustave.

“THE END!! AAAAARGH!!!” Right before their eyes, the manager drove the fork straight towards himself and collapsed onto the floor. He didn't actually stab himself (what Fancypants and Fleur didn't know was that it was just a World Comedy Day prank), but the way Gustave reacted, the two unicorn elitists genuinely thought he had committed suicide.

“He's dead! They've killed him!” sobbed Gustave in a hysterical manner, and yanked the cleaver out of the table as if to attack Fancypants with it. “REVENGE!! REVENGE!!!!”

“NO, NO, GUSTAVE!!” Croûton grabbed hold of him again and pulled him back from the table. “Never kill a customer,” he began; only to be gripped by another “twinge” from his “head wound”. Howling in agony, he collapsed onto the floor, at which point Gustave lost control again and raised his cleaver – but he was promptly tackled from behind by Flambé, just in time to prevent him from seemingly slicing Fancypants in half. Both pony and griffin tumbled right over the table, knocking Gustave out cold and filling Flambé with such relief that he promptly fainted.

All the while, Fancypants and Fleur could only watch on in sheer bafflement as the over-the-top display unfolded. They gazed down at Gustave and Flambé lying unconscious on the floor, completely lost for words; they had been through some interesting dining experiences in their time, but this had to be the craziest and most horrific of them all. So crazy, in fact, that when Fancypants eventually broke the silence, he could only think of one thing to say;

“Thank goodness I never mentioned the dirty knife!”