The Magic Garden: ‘The name isn’t whimsy, there’s a garden, the cooking promises, and delivers, magic.’ - Restaurant Review
A Flash Fiction by Anne Howkins
Finalist: 2025 Hermit Crab Prize
Normally I ignore restaurant email invitations, especially those offering culinary gimmicks, but curiosity got the better of me this time.
The bar area is a carnival of tropical colour; impossible foliage covers the walls and ceiling. Tiny hummingbirds dip their beaks into lurid flowers, huge butterflies fly so close to me, their fluttering could be a caress. I’m not sure if I’m in a gastropub or a zoo.
The friendly, yet unobtrusive, waiter leads me outside, into another giddy explosion of psychedelic horticulture. She explains the Magic Garden ethos – no menu, the kitchen and bar serve what each diner needs. That sometimes the taste may not be pleasant, but I must eat everything.
My dudgeon at being told what to eat, a grim reminder of school dinners, dissolves as I sip an unnamed aperitif. It greets with a salty kiss, the alcohol, possibly tequila, maybe not, hugs so deep it softens my bones…
and I’m eleven, in my mother’s bedroom, watching her spray Chanel on her throat. A butterfly lands on her shoulder, hardens into the sapphire and ruby brooch reserved for special occasions. This one is my birthday treat, dinner at the Savoy.
My starter materializes, served in a paper cup complete with bendy straw. The renewed thought of gimmickry vanishes at the first taste. The fluid thunders hot, cools to ice. Coats my tongue, spills down my throat. Fizzes, whispers. Saccharine, sour, bitter, umami, the taste of everything I’ve ever drunk is in my mouth…
and I’m with my school mates, queuing at the new McDonalds, hungry for the taste of America, desperate to be cool in front of the girls. I’m watching Joanna - the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Butterflies swirl my stomach as she returns my gaze. Her smile is the promise of something.
My main is a simple platter of grilled tuna, salad, a hunk of bread. It’s everything I’ve eaten before - the ocean, the earth, the air. It sets me free, holds me safe. I want to savour every morsel, cram everything into my mouth…
and I’m lying on a Greek beach, watching Jo’s body bronzing carelessly, thinking she sates every hunger I’ve ever felt.
Next is a palate cleanser, a medicinal sorbet, so green it could be radioactive. I force myself to eat it…
and we’re outside our front door, and Jo’s saying she’s done with broken promises and self-destruction. And she’s driving away and there’s nothing I can do.
Dessert is served in a small velvet box, the kind usually proffered from a bended knee. Inside lies a single cube of Turkish Delight, pale pink dusted. A ravenous need overpowers me, I’m so empty I could consume the world. Sinking my teeth into the soft gel, I taste regret, contrition, forgiveness, something new that might be hope…
and Jo slides into the chair beside me. Takes my hand, brushes it with her lips. Says she’s starving, shall we eat?
The verdict – go, do go, it really could be magic.
Author: Anne loves the challenge of telling stories in very few words. Her stories have appeared in print and online. When not writing, Anne looks after the finances of a charity, walks a lot and spends as much time as possible with her adored grandson.
Loved this, Anna. 👏
wow