I was sound asleep in bed when I heard a loud foot stomp, so I jumped up and put my glasses on and Téodor's standing there, holding a flashlight under his chin in one hand and a bowl of risotto in the other. He didn't say anything, he just slowly put the bowl on my night table and backed out of the room, staring at me the whole time. He closed the door with a careful, deliberate click. A practiced click, it seemed.
I turned the lamp on and took a look at the steaming stuff. It was a really small serving, just a few tablespoons heaped inside an oyster shell, which rested on a bed of salt. From what I could see and smell it was a tarragon, jalapeño and foie gras risotto with a plump, delicate raw oyster on top, garnished with a pea of caviar and crème fraîche.
At this point his vengeance is as frightening as it is ingenious, so I'm just going to wait it out.