Canterbury Tails: Baroness
No doubt it was fate that put the Food Network's Herbert Frayling, who was scouting restaurants to appear on Guy Fieri's Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, at a table in that State Street eatery, directly across from the one where Bradley Sandwell was sitting. When Frayling overheard what the rotund man ordered for lunch, he was amazed.
Surely, he's not going to eat all that food himself! he thought and kept glancing in the young man's direction to observe his progress.
After three orders of wings as appetizers, Bradley devoured four turkey pot pies, three baked potatoes that were swimming in sour cream and five buttered ears of corn. He then washed everything down with six large Cokes. Just when Herbert thought the man's stomach would burst at the seams, the waitress came back and took his dessert order: two whole apple pies.
"And don't forget the ice cream on top," the customer said with a smile. "I like my pie à la mode."
After the server left the table, Bradley caught Herbert staring at him. He was not offended or embarrassed. A man his size often draws the attention of others. He simply nodded his head in greeting and smiled.
"You ought to try the apple pie," he said. "It's the best in Chicago."
"Oh? Are you familiar with most of the restaurants in the city?"
"How do you think I got this big?" Bradley laughed.
"Maybe you can help me out. I'm a location scout for the Food Network," Herbert explained and briefly described what his job entailed.
"You work with Guy Fieri? I watch him all the time! I know a few good places he can feature on his show. I also know some excellent cooks who would love to be on his Grocery Games show."
"I'll be in the city all week," Herbert said, believing the young man would shortly have to get back to his job. "Perhaps some evening when you're done with work, we can meet somewhere and talk."
"Why not right now? I work as a telemarketer. The job sucks, but I can set my own hours."
When the waitress brought Bradley his check, Herbert insisted on paying it.
"I can't let you do that. I ate quite a bit."
"Don't worry. I'll put it on my expense account."
In the days that followed that fortuitous meeting, the two men toured the Windy City, visiting bistros, cafés, pizzerias, trattorias, diners and pubs. Along the way, Herbert amassed a collection of complimentary menus that he would study more closely when he returned to New York. Since Bradley refused payment for his services, the location scout insisted on taking him out to dinner on his last evening in town.
"You might be sorry," the young man laughed. "I worked up quite an appetite doing all that running around. Are you sure your expense account can handle it?"
Again, Herbert had the remarkable experience of watching his dinner guest consume an amount of food that would easily feed a family of six with scraps left over for the family pets.
Amazing! he thought. Where does he put it all?
* * *
Once Herbert was back in the Big Apple, he came up with not only suggestions for Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives but also a concept for a new show.
"I'm telling you," he exclaimed when he met with Franco Conti, one of the network's producers, "you should have seen this guy eat! It was like watching an artist at work, like seeing Michelangelo on his back painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I figure if it fascinated me, it might do the same for a TV audience."
"You think Americans will want to come home from work, sit down in their recliners and tune into a show to watch an obese guy feed his face?"
"Are you kidding? Have you ever seen what the American public watches? It's like the freak shows have left the carnivals and found new homes on cable television."
Franco bristled at this comment since he was directly responsible for some of those programs.
"But it's not as though I'm proposing we simply sit him down at a table and turn the cameras on," Herbert continued. "No, I envision it more like a weekly competition."
"Competitions cost too much money. We don't have five or ten thousand dollars to throw away on every episode."
"It won't be that kind of competition. When I was a kid back in Jersey, there was an ice cream place that sold a giant sundae in a bucket. They put a dozen scoops of ice cream in it along with several different toppings and a mountain of whipped cream. Those who could eat the whole thing, not only got it for free but had their name put on the wall."
"I've known of a few places like that. There were damn few names on those walls."
"I'm willing to bet Bradley Sandwell could eat two of those sundaes."
"I don't suppose it would do any harm for me to meet him," the producer said, warming up to Frayling's idea. "Why don't you fly him in next week, and we'll talk?"
When the network's prospective star arrived at LaGuardia Airport seven days later, Herbert was there to meet his plane.
"How was your flight?"
"Not too bad," the four-hundred-plus-pound man answered. "A little cramped, even with two seats, but I survived."
As they sat in stop-and-go traffic (which was more stop than go), rather than talk about food, the two men took the opportunity to get to know one another. Herbert spoke of his husband and their adopted son.
"He's a real character, that little guy!" he said, glowing with pride. "He keeps us on our toes. What about you? Do you have any family?"
"Just my widowed mother. I live with her. Oh, I know what people think when they hear a twenty-eight-year-old man still lives at home, but she needs me. She's a very high-strung, nervous woman, always has been as far as I can remember. My father was a successful businessman. He made a lot of money, but he was never around. He left it to my mother to raise me by herself."
"That's too bad."
"There are times I miss not getting to know him. I would have liked to do some father-son things together. When I see kids going to ballgames with their dads, I .... Anyway, I had my mom. We used to spend hours together in the kitchen, baking cakes, cookies, pies—you name it. For a while, I considered becoming a baker because of her, but then I decided against it. I didn't want to eat up all my profits."
"Sounds like your mother is a wonderful woman."
"She is. My father didn't deserve her."
Herbert, believing he had opened up the proverbial can of worms, quickly changed the subject.
"I'm getting hungry. Do you like Mexican food?" he asked.
"I like all kinds of food, except low."
"Low?"
"Yeah, low calorie, low fat, low sodium."
"Not into health food, huh?"
"No. And I don't like these plant-based and gluten-free products they're always coming out with. Give me real, honest-to-goodness food, GMOs and all!"
As Herbert slowly ate his two tacos, he watched Bradley savor a large platter of nacho chips with pico de gallo, guacamole and sour cream, followed by an assortment of burritos, fajitas, quesadillas, empanadas and enchiladas. As usual, he topped the colossal meal off with dessert: churros, flan with caramel sauce, two slices of tres leches cake and three servings of fried cinnamon ice cream.
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
"The answer is yes; I always eat like this."
"That's not my question. Please don't be offended, but how can you afford to eat so much? Telemarketers usually don't get paid well."
"That's true," Bradley laughed. "I make peanuts. I told you my dad was a successful businessman. Well, when he died, Mom and I inherited millions. So, technically, I don't even have to work. But that was one thing my father did for me; he instilled in me the good old Yankee work ethic."
Realizing his dinner companion probably had more disposable income than he did, Herbert did not object when Bradley offered to pick up the check.
* * *
"You're right. That guy is amazing!" Franco Conti agreed after meeting with Sandwell. "I never saw anyone eat so much! By the end of the meal, I thought sure we would have to roll him out of the restaurant."
"What did I tell you? He's like the Picasso of eating." Herbert laughed.
"Yeah, but I'm wondering when the best time would be to premiere his show. In the summer, we run our grilling and barbecuing shows and the food truck competitions. After that, we start with our Halloween programs and then it's right into our Christmas shows."
"Rather than jump into a series, we can begin with a special. People love our holiday programs, so they're bound to watch. We can pick a restaurant with a creepy theme, and we can run the show on a Sunday night after Halloween Wars."
Franco slowly nodded his head, warming to the concept.
"Sounds good. Find an appropriate location and run the numbers by me when you have them. If the price is right, I'll give you my blessing."
Herbert went to his office, turned on his computer and opened his database of restaurants. In the search field, he typed in THEMED. The results yielded pirate-themed seafood restaurants, cat cafés, medieval banquets, Colonial American taverns and even a Bonnie and Clyde Pub and Grill in Lehighton, Pennsylvania.
We might want to visit that one if the series is picked up, he thought but continued to search for a horror theme.
After compiling a shortlist that included the Jekyll and Hyde Club and Tim Burton-themed Beetle House (both in New York City), Old Devil Moon in San Francisco, The Lovecraft Bar in Portland, Vampire Lounge in Los Angeles, Poe's Tavern in Charleston and one of Iowa's Zombie Burger & Shake Labs, he chose The Witching Hour in Salem. The owner of the recently opened restaurant, eager for national exposure, was willing to provide an extravagant, supersized meal on the house, chalking the expense up to advertising.
I hope he knows what he's getting himself into, the location scout thought with amusement. After Bradley is done eating, the poor guy may have to declare bankruptcy!
It was nearly a month later when Herbert, Bradley and a camera crew flew to Boston and then drove to Salem's Hawthorne Hotel. Despite the fact that they would film the special that afternoon, the show's star went out for breakfast and amazed the waitress by ordering a dozen eggs, a large stack of pancakes, two Belgian waffles with fruit and whipped cream, three orders of French toast, an omelet, bacon, sausage and fried potatoes. Surprisingly, consuming this feast did not stop him from living up to his reputation during the filming of his Halloween special.
"That young man can eat!" the Salem restaurant owner exclaimed with wonder when he placed another rack of ribs in front of his guest.
When the show premiered in October, it was an instant hit, and not due solely to the star's enormous appetite. With a good sense of humor and a humble personality, Bradley Sandwell proved to be an excellent host as well.
"People like him," Franco said when he gave the okay for the series. "I predict he'll be as popular as Duff Goldman and Guy Fieri."
By the end of the first season of Mega Meals, the producer's prophecy came true.
* * *
Despite a new episode of Mega Meals being aired every Friday night (and mini-marathons of past episodes running all day on Wednesdays), Franco still gave the popular host his own Halloween special each October.
While en route to Massachusetts to tape an episode for the fifth season of the show, Bradley turned to Herbert and suggested, "Why don't we kill two birds with one stone and shoot the Halloween special while we're in New England?"
"We're not filming the special there this year," the former location scout and now associate producer said with a cryptic smile. "I wasn't going to tell you this just yet, but I've been working on a deal that will take Mega Meals international."
"Where will it be shot, in Dracula's castle in Transylvania?" Bradley laughed.
"No. I had in mind a place called The World Famous Frankenstein & Bier Keller, located in Edinburgh, Scotland. It's primarily a bar, but they serve stone-baked pizza, too."
"I love pizza, and I'd enjoy seeing something of Scotland. My only request is that we take a boat there."
"Are you kidding? It takes at least a week to sail from New York to the U.K. and only five or six hours to fly."
"I don't think you realize exactly how uncomfortable it is for a man my size to sit in an airplane for hours at a time. Either I go by boat or I don't go at all!"
As the show and its host had grown in popularity over the past five years, so, too, did the host's waistline and his ego. Eating increasingly larger meals, his weight went from being slightly over four hundred pounds to well over seven hundred. At some point when he crossed the five-hundred-pound milestone, he ceased to be the jolly, amiable fat man and became a diva. Still, as the show's associate producer, it was number one on Herbert's to-do list to placate its host.
"I'll see what I can do. I'm pretty sure most of the cruise lines offer transatlantic sailings."
Bradley would no doubt insist on the largest, most expensive stateroom available. Adding that expense to the cost of staying at a five-star hotel in Edinburgh and being chauffeured around the city in a limo, the budget for the Halloween special would be one of the largest for any single show on the network.
And to think, when I was scouting locations for Guy, I traveled around the country in a Prius and stayed in budget hotels. Now, I get to live like a king. Not to mention that I get to spend more time with my husband and son. Speaking of which ....
"On the way to Plymouth, I'd like to take a detour and pick up an anniversary present for my husband," Herbert announced when their plane landed at Logan.
"Your anniversary isn't until next week. Can't it wait until you get back to the city?"
"There's a used and rare bookstore up here that has titles you can't find anywhere else, not even on eBay."
"All right," Bradley agreed with a sigh of annoyance, "but make it quick."
Nearly an hour later, they entered the small town of Canterbury. Other than the bookstore, there was little else except colonial-style homes, a white-steepled church and the Canterbury Inn, across the street from the bookseller.
"I should only be a few minutes," Herbert said, leaving Bradley in the car, which was parked directly in front of the shop.
"See if they have any snacks while you're there."
"It's a bookshop, not a convenience store."
"So is Barnes & Noble, but they have a café at their store."
While he waited for Herbert to emerge, the plus-size star examined the building. He laughed when he saw the sign: The Canterbury Tails.
Tails? Really? he thought with amusement.
His eyes then went to the large bay window, where an assortment of books was on display.
"Is that?" he suddenly asked himself. "It can't be!"
With some effort, he hoisted his massive body out of the car and walked to the window.
Antonin Carême gained international fame back in the early nineteenth century by cooking for kings and other important figures. He is considered by many to be the first "celebrity" chef. In addition to pleasing the pallets of nobility and running his own patisserie, he also wrote several cookbooks that introduced French cuisine to the masses. Bradley had heard of those books but never actually saw one. Yet here in this small town in Massachusetts, in a shop with a misspelled sign, was what appeared to be an original English translation of Carême's L'art de la cuisine française (The Art of French Cuisine).
I've got to have it—providing it's not a fake, of course.
The interior of The Canterbury Tails—housed in what had once been a Victorian-era mansion—was a challenge for a man his size to navigate. Not only was the original maze-like floorplan kept mainly intact, but the rooms were filled with books that were too numerous to be contained on shelves. Stacks of dusty hardcovers and paperbacks were everywhere, including on the seats of chairs and in piles on the floor.
As he squeezed through the front door and inched his way inside, past wire racks of cheap romance novels, he heard a voice call to him.
"Hi. My name's Jerusha. Can I help you find something or are you here to browse?"
His eyes followed the sound of her voice to a counter in what had once been the home's immense foyer. A young woman, with short black hair colored with hot pink streaks, sat at a computer. On the counter beside her was an orange tabby cat, who resembled Morris from the Nine Lives commercials.
"I saw a book in your window ...."
Bradley was interrupted by another cat, who decided to rub up against his leg. Never having had a pet as a child, he was not one for cats or dogs.
"Scat!" he cried.
The animal promptly left; however, two more appeared in the doorway.
"Tails!" he exclaimed. "Now I get it. The cats' tails. I thought it was a misspelling."
"Everybody does. I've gotten emails and letters galore telling me to change the sign."
While you're at it, you ought to get rid of these damned cats, he thought.
"You said you were interested in one of the books in the window," Jerusha said, scratching the head of the orange tabby beside her.
"Yes. The one written by Antonin Carême."
"I take it you like French cooking?"
"I like all cooking!" the Food Network star replied.
While the proprietor retrieved the book from the window, the orange tabby narrowed its green eyes and meowed at the customer.
"I wonder if the book has a recipe for le chat au vin," he said with a grimace.
The cat responded with another plaintive meow.
"I see you're making friends with Baroness," Jerusha said, returning with the cookbook.
"Is that the animal's name."
"Yes. She's Baroness. The others are called Duchess, Empress, Sorceress, Enchantress, Princess and Countess."
"Good God! You have that many cats running around the place?"
"It's their home. I could hardly ...."
"Just let me see the book," he rudely interrupted her.
"Certainly."
"It appears authentic," Bradley declared after a cursory examination. "But then I'm no expert."
"It's the real thing. I don't sell fakes here. But if you have any doubts, the shop does offer a money-back guarantee on all purchases."
As he handed the valuable book back to the proprietor, Baroness rubbed her head against his hand and purred.
"She likes you," Jerusha observed.
"I wish I could say the feeling was mutual, but it's not," the TV host said, pulling his arm away.
"Bradley!" Herbert called, having made his way through the maze of rooms with three old books in the crook of his arm. "I expected you to wait in the car. I'm sorry if I took too long."
"You didn't. I came in to buy a book." Then he turned to Jerusha Bromwell and said, "I'll take it."
Once they left Canterbury, they headed to Plymouth to film an episode of Mega Meals at KKatie's Burger Bar—another weird spelling, given the double K. Half an hour before arriving in what has affectionately been called "America's Hometown," Bradley's cell phone rang.
"It's Miss Attridge, my mother's housekeeper," he announced after looking at the screen. "I don't know why she'd be calling me."
"Answer it and find out," Herbert suggested.
"Yes? What is it?" the son asked, getting right to the point.
"It's your mother."
"Of course, it is! I didn't think you were calling to ask me out to dinner!"
"She's been to the doctor."
"And? Goddamn it, woman! Getting anything out of you is like pulling teeth!"
Herbert winced at hearing the way Bradley spoke to the woman. He hoped she was well paid to take such verbal abuse.
"She's been diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer," the housekeeper announced. "As you can imagine, it's upset her quite a bit."
"All right. I'll make arrangements to fly out and see her after I leave here."
He then ended the call without further word.
"It's not bad news, I hope," Herbert said since he was not privy to the entire conversation.
"My mother's got cancer."
There was no sign of emotion.
Perhaps he's in shock, the associate producer thought, giving his star the benefit of the doubt.
"If you want to go see her now, I can reschedule filming ...."
"No. Let's continue on to Plymouth. It's not like she's gonna die anytime in the next few days. Besides, I'm eager to try KKatie's Big KKMac, not to mention the truffle fries."
It was clear that his mother's illness in no way affected the star's colossal appetite.
* * *
When Bradley walked into his old home, he felt no sense of nostalgia, only a longing to leave and return to the life he created for himself in New York. Miss Attridge, the housekeeper, met him at the door with a whispered greeting as though the house was already in mourning.
"How's she doing?" he asked, more out of obligation than true concern for his parent.
"I'm afraid she's going downhill fast."
"I'll look into having her sent to a hospice."
"That won't be necessary. I don't mind staying with her until ... until the end comes."
I'm sure you don't, he thought unkindly. Because if I send her to a hospice, you'll be out of a job.
"Is she in her bedroom?"
"Yes. While you're visiting her, would you mind if I run down to the market on the corner? We're out of milk."
"Go ahead, and while you're there," he said, reaching for his wallet, "will you stop at the deli and buy me half a dozen Italian hoagies and two pounds each of potato and macaroni salad?"
Once Miss Attridge left, Bradley headed toward the master bedroom, steeling himself for the ordeal that lay ahead. When he opened the door, he immediately noticed the change in décor. His mother had never been a devout woman, yet now there was religious paraphernalia everywhere, including a giant crucifix that hung on the wall above her bed.
"Since when are you a Catholic?" he asked when he saw the rosary beads clutched in his mother's skeletal-like hand.
"Since I was a child," she replied, closing her bible and laying it beside her on the bed. "I had a confirmation and first communion and went to catechism every week. It was only after I married your father that I neglected my spiritual needs."
"How are you feeling?"
"Not too bad—considering. The medication helps with the pain," she explained, nodding her head in the direction of the pill bottles on her night table.
"That's good. At least you're not suffering."
What else was there for him to say?
"Father Carrigan came to the house to hear my confession," the dying woman said, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm afraid I couldn't keep your secret any longer."
A shiver of fear ran down Bradley's spine, feeling like ice water in his veins.
"What are you talking about? I don't have any secrets."
"Your father ...."
"We agreed never to speak of him again."
"His death wasn't an accident."
"Shut up!"
But, believing her immortal soul was in peril, the old woman refused to be silent.
"I know you killed him. I've known all along. You killed him because he wanted to send you away to summer camp."
"It wasn't a summer camp, Mother! It was a fat camp, a place where parents send fat kids to slim them down. You see, my dear father was embarrassed to have a son my size."
"You were an unusually large child."
On impulse, Bradley raised his arm as though to strike her but then wisely lowered it.
"So, you told Father Carrigan I committed patricide?"
"Yes, but you have nothing to worry about. He can't divulge anything he hears in confession."
"Who else have you told?"
"No one."
But what if, in the time left ahead of her, she should tell someone else—Miss Attridge, for instance. He would not put it past the housekeeper to blackmail him with the knowledge. If a word was leaked to the press, the resulting scandal would end his career. Worst case scenario, he might be convicted of murder and have to spend the rest of his life behind bars.
I can't live on prison food! I'd rather die!
"I won't tell anyone else. I promise," his mother said, taking hold of his hand. "But I must urge you to see to your own soul. I was remiss in not having raised you in the Church, but it's not too late to join. You have to save yourself."
Bradley's eyes went to the bottle of painkillers on the night table. Maybe he should do exactly as his mother advised: save himself.
* * *
Later that week, back in New York, Herbert Frayling entered Franco Conti's office for a production meeting.
"I was sorry to hear about Bradley's mother," the producer said. "Cancer, wasn't it?"
"She did have cancer," Herbert replied, "but—and let's keep this between the two of us—she took an overdose of her painkillers. Doctors say she didn't have much longer to live anyway."
"How's Bradley taking her death?"
"As good as can be expected."
"I hate to add to his troubles at such a tragic time, but ...."
The look on the producer's face was grim.
"What is it?"
"The network is canceling Mega Meals."
"Why? It's one of the most popular shows we have!"
"Because Bradley's weight is now past the eight-hundred-pound mark. In fact, it's close to nine hundred. The man is a ticking timebomb. He's got high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes and heart disease. Hell, he can't walk more than three feet without huffing and puffing. If he suddenly drops dead, the network might be held responsible."
"That's ridiculous! He was already obese when I met him."
"And he has doubled in size since then."
"Can't we get him to sign a waiver or something that would let us off the hook in case of his death?"
"Possibly," Franco admitted, "but our vice president in charge of programming has come up with a better solution."
"What is it?" Herbert asked suspiciously.
"We give Bradley a different show with a whole new format. You're familiar with TLC's My 600-lb Life?"
"Of course."
"Our parent network, which also owns TLC, wants to have Dr. Nowzaradan help Bradley lose weight. This won't be a two-hour show, but a continuing series, one that is part reality show and part food show. We'll feature restaurants that offer lighter fare and home recipes that will fit into a twelve-hundred-calorie-per-day diet. And, since the show will only be available for streaming on discovery+, they're willing to increase the budget considerably."
"I don't know how Bradley will feel about it. The man lives to eat."
"I just want to make sure you're on board for this. If you are, I'll talk to Sandwell myself."
"What choice do I have?"
"None, I'm afraid. It's either the new show or go back to scouting restaurants for Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives."
* * *
The day after his mother's funeral, Bradley met with a realtor to arrange for the sale of her house. He agreed to pay Miss Attridge a flat fee of ten thousand dollars to box up all the old woman's belongings and ship them off to the Salvation Army.
"If there's anything you want, go ahead and keep it."
"Thank you, Mr. Sandwell. I would like to keep the cat. She was so fond of it," the housekeeper said, shedding genuine tears of grief.
"Cat? What cat? My mother didn't have any pets."
"Not a real one. The porcelain one over there."
Bradley looked in the direction of her pointing finger and saw a life-size collectible cat placed inside a curio cabinet. The green eyes seemed to stare directly at him, accusing him of ....
"I don't know why you'd want that damned thing," he said, turning away. "It's ugly. It's enough to give someone nightmares."
He did not tell Miss Attridge that it reminded him of the orange tabby cat from the bookstore in Canterbury, Massachusetts. In fact, he said very little to the woman who had faithfully served his mother after he left home. He did not even offer a single word of thanks.
"Call me when you're done cleaning out the place, and I'll send you a check," he mumbled, and with one last glance at the porcelain tabby cat, he left his childhood home for the last time.
That evening, a limo was waiting for him when his plane landed at LaGuardia. Rather than stop at a restaurant, which he usually did after a flight, he went directly home. Once there, he raided his refrigerator and kitchen cabinets, eating everything from Ben & Jerry's ice cream and Wise potato chips to Reese's peanut butter cups and Oreo sandwich cookies. He was just tearing open a package of Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets when his doorbell rang.
"Herbert," he said with surprise when he opened the door. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"What's the matter? Isn't your phone working?"
"This is a conversation I'd rather have in person."
"All right, but keep it brief. I've had a hell of a time these past few days. Honestly, I can't wait for that cruise to Scotland. I need the rest."
"Yeah, well, that's what I want to talk about. There won't be a cruise to Scotland."
"Damn it! I told you I won't fly. I ...."
"Mega Meals has been canceled," Herbert announced. Seeing the look of devastation on his star's face, he quickly continued, "It's for your own good. The network is concerned about your health."
"That's big of them," Bradley said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
The associate producer then described the new series planned for discovery+.
"A diet?" the morbidly obese TV host cried as though the word was anathema to him. "I won't do it!"
"It's for your own good."
"Stop saying that, damn it!"
"All right, forget about your health. Think about your finances. When I first met you, you had the money you inherited from your father, but that's long gone. You've lived an extravagant lifestyle since then. Not only did this condo cost you a fortune, but you had almost everything inside it custom-made for a man your size."
"I'm one of the highest-paid stars on the Food Network," Bradley protested.
"But you spend more than you make. You eat at the most expensive restaurants, you take a limo everywhere you go and your clothes are all tailored. If you walk away from this new show, what will you do, go back to being a telemarketer?"
Having seen several episodes of My 600-lb Life, Bradley knew that many of Dr. Nowzaradan's patients continued to overeat while under his care. Some of them even gained rather than lost weight.
Just because I agree to do the show doesn't mean I have to adhere to the diet, he reasoned.
"All right. I'll do it," he said.
What he did not know at the time was that there was a clause in his contract that stipulated he must follow the doctor's advice. If he failed to show progress on his weight loss journey, he would be fired. Like it or not, Bradley had to give up the one thing in life he loved: food.
* * *
"I can't do it!" the former host of Mega Meals cried when he saw the plate of poached eggs in front of him. "I can't eat another egg."
"Why not?" Herbert asked. "You used to eat them by the dozen."
"Not like this. I always had them fried and served with pancakes, waffles, bacon and sausage. The only time I ever ate them poached was on Eggs Benedict."
"How about a low-fat yogurt then?"
"No. Can't I have a bowl of cereal? That doesn't have many calories."
"No carbs. Doctor's orders."
"The hell with the doctor and the hell with his diet!" Bradley screamed and threw the plate onto the floor where it smashed into several pieces.
"Stop it!" Herbert shouted, losing his patience with the star. "You have to control your diet and your temper. At your last weigh-in, you lost only four pounds."
"I don't care. Go ahead and fire me. I want to eat what I like."
"You need this job. Without it, you won't have an income. Even if you sell your condo, it won't be long before you're broke. How many big meals do you think you can buy with food stamps?"
Bradley's shoulders slumped, and he began to whimper like a frightened child.
"Just stick to the diet. That's all we're asking of you."
"Don't you think I've tried? I can't do it."
"I know. That's why I've decided to get you some help."
"I've been seeing that shrink Dr. Now recommended, but therapy isn't working."
"I'm not talking about a therapist. I hired a sort of babysitter for you, someone who will live here, cook your meals and make sure no forbidden foods are brought into the house."
"A jailer, you mean."
"She'll be here in less than an hour," Herbert announced after glancing at his watch. "Now, I want you to listen to her. And, for God's sake, treat her with some respect."
Forty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it," the associate producer said. "That must be her."
When he returned to the kitchen, Miss Attridge accompanied him.
"What's she doing here?" Bradley demanded to know.
"She did such a remarkable job taking care of your mother, I thought she was the perfect person to watch over you."
* * *
If Bradley thought life on a diet was purgatory, having Miss Attridge as a caretaker was pure hell! No sooner did she move into his house than she searched every nook and cranny to find his hidden stashes of food.
"You're not going to throw that out," he said in a threatening voice as she removed all the carbs from his cabinets.
"No. I'm going to donate everything to a food bank."
"You can't. I won't let you."
"I don't work for you," the former housekeeper pointed out. "Mr. Frayling hired me and pays my salary. I do what he tells me to do."
"Go ahead and get rid of my snacks, if you like. A lot of good it will do you. I'll just order more."
"And I'll take those away from you, too. Get used to it, Mr. Sandwell. I'm in control now."
Like a child throwing a temper tantrum, he picked up the porcelain tabby cat on the end table and threw it against the wall, laughing as hundreds of pieces fell to the floor.
Meow.
"What was that?" he asked.
"What was what?" Miss Attridge replied, heading for the hall closet where the broom and dustpan were kept.
"That meow. Where did it come from?"
"I didn't hear anything."
Meow.
"There it is again. Now don't tell me you didn't hear that!"
"I think all that dieting has gone to your head. You're imagining things now."
"I'm going to go lay down," Bradley announced. "Call me when dinner is ready."
"Good idea. You look a little peaked."
After tossing and turning in his oversized bed for more than an hour, the distraught dieter finally fell into a fitful sleep. Once firmly in the grasp of Morpheus, he found himself back in The Canterbury Tails. Baroness, the shopkeeper's orange tabby cat, was sitting on the counter, staring at him with malevolent green eyes.
"Scat! Get away!"
Jerusha Bromwell suddenly appeared, carrying a stack of books.
"Look what I've got for you," she told him. "Cookbooks. Julia Child. Emeril Lagasse. Wolfgang Puck. Bobby Flay. Paula Dean. Martha Stewart."
"Take them away! I'm on a diet."
"Oh, really? I have something to help."
The books magically vanished, and Jerusha held an amber-colored pill bottle in her hand.
"What's that?"
"It's a bottle of painkillers. The same ones you gave to your mother when you killed her."
"No!" Bradley screamed in denial. "It isn't true."
"You put the pills in her tea and watched her drink it down. You were afraid she could tell someone that you murdered your father."
"That's a lie! My mother committed suicide."
Bradley wanted to run, but the way to the door was blocked by six cats. The seventh, Baroness, remained on the counter.
"Take the pills," the orange tabby said in a human voice.
The six cats behind him echoed in unison, "Take the pills."
"This isn't happening!"
Books began to fall off the shelves onto the floor with a deafening crash. Above the cacophony, he heard Jerusha's commanding voice: "Take the pills."
This is just a dream! Once I wake up, it will all go away!
He valiantly tried to return to the world of the living, but only succeeded in entering a semiconscious state, which resembled that of a sleepwalker. With robotic motions, he reached for the pill bottle beside the bed and swallowed its contents.
* * *
"And we were afraid his overeating was going to kill him," Frayling said as he stood beside Franco at Bradley's funeral.
"I suppose we should have realized someone who ate as much as he did was bound to have emotional and psychological problems," the producer replied.
"But to commit suicide rather than stick to a diet!"
"Don't forget. He recently lost his mother. That had to have been a factor in his decision as well."
"I suppose so."
Once the full toxicology screen was completed, however, the two men were surprised to learn that no harmful substances were found in the dead man's system.
"But what about the empty pill bottle found beside the body?" Herbert asked the detective who investigated Bradley's death.
"It was a prescription for multiple vitamins. People can't overdose on them."
"What killed him then?"
"Who knows? A man his size .... Geez! Imagine the strain all that weight must have put on his heart."
It was not the weight of his body that brought an end to Bradley Sandwell's life, however. It was the weight of guilt that preyed on his mind, made more unbearable by Baroness, the orange tabby from The Canterbury Tails, who haunted his dreams and eventually pushed him over the edge.
While The Witching Hour is not an actual restaurant, the others mentioned in the story do exist (or at least they do at the time of this writing). I had the pleasure of eating at the Jekyll and Hyde Club when I went to see Rock of Ages on Broadway, KKatie's Burger Bar on a trip to Plymouth and the World Famous Frankenstein when I visited Edinburgh, Scotland. [The Bonnie and Clyde Club is on my bucket list of restaurants.]
Salem likes to tell everyone about his appearance on the Food Network. What he doesn't mention is that he was eliminated in the first round of Chopped.
