Ouroboros: A Taste of Self-Discovery
By A. Boudin Noir
I’m tired.
A deep, soul-level weariness that comes from eating at too many restaurants that serve “experiences” instead of food. I’ve had deconstructed water, aerosolized nostalgia, and foams of things that should never be foamed. I’ve choked down the W Corporation’s Uni-Patty™ in a hundred different star systems, each one tasting of the same perfectly engineered, soul-crushing mediocrity. The galaxy, it seems, is drowning in a sea of corporate sludge, where every meal is a focus-grouped commodity and every bite a reminder of the bland dystopia we call progress.
In a universe this cynical, authenticity is the only currency that matters. You hear whispers of it in the dark corners of spaceports, rumors passed between smugglers and disgraced chefs. A name, spoken with a mix of fear and reverence: Ouroboros. A place where the food is so local, so authentic, so intimately known, that it transcends the very idea of cuisine. They say it’s the last real meal in the galaxy.
So you go. You bribe an information broker for coordinates that don’t exist on any official map. You take a mag-lift down into the sump of Sector 12, a place where the glittering arcologies above cast perpetual shadows. You walk through alleys slick with acid rain and machine-oil, past noodle stalls and back-alley cybernetic clinics, until you find it: a single, featureless steel hatch. Above it, a faint, flickering projection of a serpent eating its own tail. No sign, no welcome. Just an invitation to complete the circle.
The hatch opens into silence. The contrast is immediate and shocking. You leave the grime and chaos of the sump behind and step into a realm of impossible, decadent quiet. The dining room is a cavern of polished black marble and subtle gold trim. The floors are so dark they reflect the low, recessed lighting like a placid, subterranean lake. Tables are draped in heavy white linen, spaced in long lines in a sea of opulent shadow. The only sound is the whisper of the air system and the distant, imagined clink of fine cutlery. It’s the kind of formal, funereal elegance that screams “old money,” or in this case, something far older.
The Donation
There’s no menu to start. First, there’s the “consultation.” You’re led not to a clinical room, but to a small, private study off the main hall, paneled in dark, ancient wood and furnished with plush velvet armchairs. A man introduces himself as Marius, the “curator.” He has the unnervingly steady hands of a surgeon and the placid, untroubled eyes of a true believer.
He explains the philosophy: ultimate sustainability, radical intimacy, a closed loop of consumption. He doesn’t use words like “cannibalism.” He uses words like “self-knowledge” and “reintegration.” He slides a data-slate across a polished obsidian table. It’s a waiver. The legal jargon is dense enough to suffocate a black hole, but the gist is simple: you are agreeing to be both diner and dinner. My hand hesitates over the signature line. Is this the ultimate act of self-love or self-loathing? In this universe, I suspect there’s little difference. I sign.
After, a culinary technician in a sharp, tailored uniform enters. The process is swift, sterile, and bizarrely formal in this luxurious setting. A painless biopsy from the thigh. A vial of blood drawn from the arm. A single, perfect shaving of fingernail, collected in a gold-inlaid dish. You feel a brief, sharp sting. A strange sense of loss. You are escorted back to the dining room, lighter in some small, immeasurable way. You have no idea which part of your “donation” will end up on the plate. That, Marius explains, is up to the chef’s inspiration.
The Menu
The menu they hand you now is a single sheet of heavy, vellum-like paper. There are no prices. The cost was settled when you booked the appointment—a price that could clear a lifetime of debt for a sump-dweller. The descriptions are suggestive, poetic, and utterly horrifying.
Tonight’s Selections
FIRST EXPRESSIONS
A Fleeting Thought, Served Chilled
Echoes of Yesterday’s Laughter
A Memory of Touch, Lightly Seared
MAIN INTROSPECTIONS
The Weight of Ambition, Braised for Six Hours
A Study in Strength and Sinew
The Foundation of Self, Reduced to its Essence
FINAL RESOLUTIONS
The Sweetness of Youth, Caramelized
A Promise, Crystallized
I chose “The Weight of Ambition.” My server, a severe woman who never quite met my gaze, simply nodded and drifted away across the marble floor.
The Meal
The plate that arrived was a masterpiece of composition. A small, perfectly cooked medallion of pink, rich meat, glistening under a complex sauce, resting on a bed of something that looked like root vegetables but probably wasn’t.
And the taste.
How do I describe it? It was not like pork. It was not like beef. It was not like any animal I have ever eaten. It was… familiar. It tasted like a half-forgotten memory, like the feeling of home after a long, painful journey. There was a deep, resonant richness, a hint of iron, a subtle sweetness that felt uniquely, terrifyingly personal. Every bite was an act of profound narcissism and self-destruction. It was the best thing I have ever eaten. I hated myself for it. I ordered another.
The Aftermath
There is no bill at the end of the night. It’s already been paid. You are simply escorted to the exit. Marius was there to see me out. He placed a heavy, gold-plated token in my hand—a serpent eating its own tail.
“A memento of your journey,” he said, his voice a low hum. “We trust your experience was fulfilling.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
He smiled a thin, closed-lip smile. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Noir.” He paused, his eyes finally meeting mine with a look of ancient, placid certainty.
“I’ll see you later.”
I walked out into the acid rain, the weight of the token in my pocket feeling heavier than a star. My footsteps echoed in the empty alley. The usual sump-level chaos seemed muted, distant. The universe had been re-calibrated.
The horror of his final words didn’t hit me then. It came later, as I sat in my sterile apartment overlooking the city’s indifferent lights. I’ll see you later. Was it a simple pleasantry? Or a statement of fact?
The meal I ate, the flesh so perfectly prepared… was it from the donation I made an hour ago? Or was it from the donation I will make, a month from now, when the memory of this taste becomes so unbearable I have no choice but to return? Am I now trapped in a causal loop, a reservation booked in my own future, my body just inventory waiting to be harvested for a meal I’ve already enjoyed?
I look at my arm, the site of the blood donation now just a tiny, faded mark. I see it not as a part of my body, but as an ingredient. A future course. The serpent eats its tail, and the cycle, I realize with a dawning, sickening dread, has only just begun.