Excerpt: The Pigeon Racer

Errol Sprüng was Belgium’s finest chef. He could flip a pancake like a pro, make a mean veal cordon bleur and the most succulent lobster known to anyone who had been to the restaurant he worked at. Errol didn’t own a restaurant of his own, he worked for a rather strange and isolated fellow by the name of Jasper. He wasn’t sure of the boss’ surname, it was some weird French name that was impossible to remember and impossible to pronounce. For Errol, anyway. He worked at a restaurant that was very appropriately named ‘Jasper’s Fine Restaurant’, located in the reasonably small town that he lived in. The town may have been pretty small, but he was still Belgium-famous and people often travelled from fair distances just to eat there.

Errol was short and chubby, with incredibly small legs. In fact, his legs were so tiny that it appeared if one were to simply poke him with their pinkie finger, he might topple over. If this ever did happen, it might not have been possible for Errol to right himself without assistance, as his legs would have been of little use. Luckily, no one had ever put this theory to the test, although many had been tempted. Errol had a very round face with big, green eyes and puffy cheeks. His nose was lost, if one didn’t look closely, but if they took the time to inspect properly, would see that it was definitely there in the middle of his face. He also had exceptionally straight, white teeth. It would hardly be unexpected for them to glow in pitch blackness and the most amazing part is that they grew like this, he had never had any major work done to them – shockingly, Errol had to have a filling three years ago, he had never been the same since. His hair was a mop of muddy blonde curls, he was a bit careless when taking care of himself and rarely brushed or combed his hair, so it was always a little matted. Very stereotypically, Errol always wore traditional chef’s apparel. This was because he spent most of his life chef-ing and not doing very much else at all. Often he would wear a pair of bright green gumboots with his chef gear when he was off duty because he had been told they brought out his eyes. Whoever had told Errol this was severely wrong, but this narrator certainly never corrected the situation.

Anyone would have loved to employ Errol. They were always attempting to poach him in various ways. Some were actually very sneaky and subtle, casually strolling in to the kitchen and inconspicuously wandering past the busy kitchen hands and assistant chefs to seek out the famous Errol Sprüng, who was also very famous for being small and round with tiny legs. He was impossible to miss, bouncing around the kitchen, precariously balancing a number of different things in his hands at once at the same time as working with a flaming wok, or something of that nature. Errol was usually too busy to even speak with them, and when a man of that stature comes shuffling past you with a hot pan and a few knives, it can be very daunting, so most of them left without having even said his name fully. Because of this, Errol was blissfully unaware of how popular he was. Of course, he had some idea of his popularity, he had always read reviews of his foods and was looking to better his recipes. There really wasn’t much improvement needed, it was always ‘Errol the Great’, ‘Errol does it again!’ and ‘Sprüng for Errol’. The last one didn’t even make any sense. It didn’t bother him.

He was very satisfied with his job. And who wouldn’t be? He was the head chef in a successful restaurant, a well-known name in Belgium, and receiving rave reviews in all the papers. There was even a weekly podcast, which was all about Errol. Errol this, Errol that, it was even called ‘Errol’. If Errol was at all interested in the internet, which he wasn’t because he was obsessed with being a chef and never did anything else but work (he knew about the podcast because one of his assistant chefs had told him about it), he would have known that there was even an Errol Sprüng fan club. The fan club was really just a forum of about five Errol obsessed people who regularly dined at the restaurant. Lately, however, he had felt that there was something missing.

He had tried many different ways to fill this gap. All of them had involved changing menu items, or adding whole new dishes. He had crisped up the strudel, spiced up the sauerkraut and introduced yearling beef, which took two days to make. Still, Errol felt that he needed something more. It was one fine, spring day that Errol realised what he needed to do. Let’s start from the beginning, though. Errol had started the day in the usual way – he woke up at 4.30am and cooked himself a full continental breakfast (bacon, eggs, sausages, grilled tomato) and had toast with Dijon mustard… he really liked Dijon mustard on toast. Then, he brushed his teeth, quickly changed in to his work clothing and left home. Errol had a little motorised scooter that he rode to work, it was very odd for passersby to see this man with such a large body and tiny legs standing on an electric, motorised scooter. The scooter also moved incredibly slowly, at about the same speed as a slightly faster than average walking pace. Errol was pretty oblivious to the whispers that followed him as he very slowly scooted past. The sun was already starting to blare down on to the road, it was going to be a particularly hot day. Not a cloud in the sky, it would be a good day to go the beach, but this wasn’t something that interested him at all. A few birds soared overhead - Errol didn’t even notice them. It was too glary and he was busy navigating the streets and avoiding obstacles – people.

He arrived at the restaurant at 8am, the usual time. Parking his motorised scooter out the back and chaining it to the wire fence, he entered the restaurant and picked up his chef hat off the shelf. Errol had found that he could not wear his chef hat when he was not at work, because it would simply blow off his head when he was on his slow moving scooter. So, he had taken to leaving it on a particular shelf at work at the end of the day. The first few times he had done this, his hat had disappeared the next morning and had turned up next to the sink in the bathroom. He was unsure of why this had occurred, so after the third time it happened, he placed a little cardboard sign next to it which read ‘Errol Sprüng’s hat, please do not move’ and it had not been moved since.

He was going to cook chicken schnitzel as the special for that day – the whole day. He liked to have one special that started at lunchtime and went right through until dinner. A large order of fresh chickens had arrived and one of the assistant chefs was already placing the large box in to the fridge. Errol had a funny feeling all of a sudden. It was like a tingling in his fingertips and a squeamishness in his stomach. Was he upset by the thought of dead chickens? Of dead birds? Surely not, he loved cooking fine cuisine and he had never had any sort of issue about it before. But something was now in the back of his mind, he wasn’t sure what. Errol had stopped, dead in his tracks, when the weird sensations started and when his brain went in to some kind of ‘wait a minute here, there’s just something about birds that’s very important for you to know right now, but I’m not actually sure what it is, so you better stop right there so I can figure it out for you.’

Then, it kind of hit him. All of a sudden, Errol remembered that when he was five years old he had wanted to race pigeons. When he was six years old, he had been convinced that racing pigeons was not the way to go, that he should become a chef instead. And that’s what he’d done. He’d become a chef and he’d forgotten all about racing pigeons – until now.