The restaurant is alive with clinking glasses and the sizzle of pans. Aromas of roasted vegetables and fresh bread waft through the air as servers weave between tables, balancing trays laden with gourmet dishes. In the open kitchen, Chef Hamlet Pig, a stout pig with a pristine apron and a laser focus, orchestrates his team with precise, impassioned movements. Near the entry, Barnaby Pig, his brother, stands in a well-fitted waistcoat, his easy smile and quick wit charming a group of regulars.
"More thyme! The risotto must sing, not whisper," Chef Hamlet Pig commands, swirling a copper pan with flair. His eyes dart to a server who hesitates, and he offers a brief, encouraging nod.
"And how is everything this evening, dear friends? Our chef outdoes himself—would you care for another bottle of the house red?" Barnaby Pig glides from table to table, his laughter easy and infectious. The guests beam at his attention, their plates nearly licked clean.
Patrons fall silent for a heartbeat as Mr. Lupin Wolf steps inside, his coat immaculate and his smile a touch too sly. He scans the room, savoring the ripple of unease his presence causes. Barnaby Pig's eyes flick to the kitchen, where Chef Hamlet Pig meets his gaze—one raised brow, then a subtle, knowing nod passes between them.
"Welcome, monsieur! What an honor to have you at our humble establishment," Barnaby Pig declares, bowing with a flourish. "Such a warm greeting for a lone wolf—how could I resist your famed hospitality?" Mr. Lupin Wolf responds, his tone velvet-smooth but edged. Chef Hamlet Pig signals his sous-chefs with a flick of the wrist, his jaw set.
Barnaby Pig personally leads Mr. Lupin Wolf to his seat, pulling out the chair with theatrical grace. The wolf settles in, his eyes never leaving the brothers. Course after course arrives—towering soufflés, shimmering aspic, a roast with glistening crackling—all presented with exaggerated ceremony.
"For you, monsieur, only the most exquisite delicacies. May your hunger be vanquished, your senses dazzled," Barnaby Pig intones, bowing deeply. Chef Hamlet Pig hovers near the kitchen window, wiping his brow and shooting sidelong glances at his brother. "You pigs outdo yourselves. Such generosity—almost suspicious," Mr. Lupin Wolf quips, licking his lips. The pigs exchange a quick, silent glance—a dance of anticipation and caution.
Mr. Lupin Wolf's eyelids grow heavy, his speech slurred as he compliments the cuisine. Barnaby Pig refills his glass with a flourish, while Chef Hamlet Pig emerges from the kitchen, a napkin draped over one forearm, his smile too wide.
"Such a meal... I may never... need to eat again," the wolf murmurs, swaying slightly. "Rest, honored guest. We insist," purrs Chef Hamlet Pig, his tone honeyed and just a bit too eager. The restaurant's pianist shifts into a somber melody—a slow, unmistakable funeral march. Patrons hum along, their faces a blend of merriment and morbid delight.
Barnaby Pig takes the wolf’s feet, Chef Hamlet Pig his shoulders; together, they parade their guest past the kitchen, the wolf snoring softly. The staff part respectfully, some bowing, others stifling giggles. The air thickens with suspense as the brothers disappear behind the doors, the light in the dining room dimming.
The final note of the piano lingers as the doors swing shut. Patrons exchange gleeful, nervous glances—some toast to the pigs’ cunning, others watch the kitchen with wide eyes. The restaurant’s warmth gives way to something darker; celebration mutates into ominous anticipation, and the fate of Mr. Lupin Wolf hangs in the charged silence.
