Teppic reached over with the little wooden fork and skewered a paper-thin sliver of white fish. The squishi chef was scrutinising him with the air of one watching a toddler on his first birthday. So, he realised, was the rest of the restaurant.
He chewed it carefully. It was salty and faintly rubbery, with a hint of sewage outfall.
'Nice?' said Chidder anxiously. Several nearby diners started to clap.
'Different,' Teppic conceded, chewing. 'What is it?'
'Deep sea blowfish,' said Chidder.
'It's all right,' he said hastily as Teppic laid down his fork meaningfully, 'it's perfectly safe
provided every bit of stomach, liver and digestive tract is removed, that's why it cost so
much, there's no such thing as a second-best blowfish chef, it's the most expensive food in the world, people write poems about it-'
'Could be a taste explosion,' muttered Teppic, getting a grip on himself. Still, it must have
been done properly, otherwise the place would now be wearing him as wallpaper.