White
Rhino Stew
by Zach Smith
I stumbled on this strange
bistro at 105 Sherwood St. Warsop, Mansfield. The
restaurant is called “The Prince of
Neverland All-You-Can-Eat Cafe.” Though the
name is deceiving and should read: “Anything-You-Can-Eat.”
A sign in the window reads: “If you order
something we don’t have, we will give you a
million quid.”
Of course, I had to see.
The restaurant had no menu, and the waiter
affirmed the sign.
Smugly, I gave him my first order.
“I would like a bowl of White Rhino Stew.”
“Very Good Sir,” he said.
Soon, he returned with a steaming hot bowl of
vegetables, potatoes, and some kind of meat
cooked in a fine stout. It was warm and hearty,
though a bit gamey.
I don’t have proof that it was White
Rhinoceros, but the bill indicated it was a rare
meat indeed.
The next day, I was back with another order to
stump them.
“What will it be today, Sir?” asked the
same waiter.
“I would like a Dodo Bird Egg French Omelet
with Mammoth Milk Cheese and a side of Auroch
Bacon.”
The waiter looked at me.
“You do serve breakfast all day?”
“Would you like Seasoned Potatoes or Fruit
Cocktail with that?”
“Both,” I said, a little discouraged
but more surprised.
The Omelet came out. To be honest, it didn’t
taste very good. But it was very big, and so was
the bill. I ended up eating it for several days.
The bacon was good, though.
“What will it be today, sir?” Asked the
waiter when I returned a week later.
“I want a fortune cookie, and on the fortune,
I want either the proof or disproof of the
Riemann Hypothesis.”
“It would be very inappropriate to give you
a fortune without a meal,” said the waiter.
“So, would you care for an egg roll first?”
“Sounds lovely,” I said.
The egg roll was lovely.
The fortune cookie was the size of a crown roast.
Sure enough, it contained a scroll with a whole
lot of mathematical symbols on it that I didn’t
understand, though I did have a friend at
Cambridge who would. We could published a paper
together, and if other mathematicians validated
it, we could split the prize of one million
dollars American. It wasn’t quite the
million quid that was advertised in the window of
the Prince of Neverland, but it was something,
and that was good because the restaurant had been
cleaning me out.
At least, that was my plan.
I handed over my credit card to pay the tab.
Soon, the waiter returned, somewhat embarrassed.
“Sir,” he said. “It would appear
your credit card has been declined.”
So now I’m stuck here washing dishes at the
Prince of Neverland, and at the rate of three
quid per hour, it will be months before my tab is
paid. But they did say if I can get ten people to
visit the Cafe, they will let me go.
So please visit the Prince of Neverland, and tell
them I sent you. I don’t particularly like
working here. You wouldn’t believe the stuff
people order.
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