Nobody spares you a second glance as you’re lead toward the basement. They’re all too intent on their own peculiar meals.
The proprietor leads you to a small table in the centre of the dimly lit room. As promised, there are yellowed sheets hanging from the walls and somebody has stretched a tarpaulin across the ceiling.
“I’m going to close the door when I leave. The food will arrive through that hatch,” he points. “You’ve got about thirty seconds to eat the Potato Mine, I guess. Good luck. I mean, GOOD EATIN’.”
He runs out of the room, slamming the door beind him. You hear a bolt sliding into place.
A few minutes later, the hatch opens and you retrieve your meal. It looks delicious – the thick, creamy sauce forms a dill-peppered moat around the central feature, the Potato Mine itself. Wrapped in cloth, like a compressed cranium, it seems to be snoring.
Hesitantly, you take the tray and place it on the table, careful not to disturb the slumbering potato. And then you strike, pushing the covering aside with a sweep of the knife, and then slicing off a mouthful of sweet potato flesh. It’s in your mouth within seconds and, sweet mercy, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever tasted. Swallowing, you scoop up another slice, trailing it through the dressing and ignoring the way the remainder fidgets and fusses on the plate.
“I have never known joy until this moment,” you mutter spraying fragments of spud that have become white hot morsels even as you chew them. “Potato, be mine.”
And then your head explodes, like in Scanners.