Michelin Starre, the most renowned, feared food critic of the century, looks up at the neon sign blinking in between intervals. It reads: Shrimp Fried Rice! Along with a shrimp donning a little chef hat, holding a wok in one of its many little legs and a spatula in another. 

 

A pen click echoes in the night air. “Restaurant exterior design: Silly—slightly unprofessional—however charming and welcoming.”

 

From across the street, there’s already a crowd of people lined up. Promising, but clout is far from telling of a good restaurant with good food. Such is the poor effect of food reviewers that only chase the trends and hefty price tags. The lady shakes her head and sighs before making her way toward neon lights and the fragrance of food in the air. Rhythmic clacks of her heels against the pavement catches the attention of those that stand in the line. She feels their gazes on her. 

 

The waiter at the front greets her with a smile. “May I have your name if you booked a reservation with us?”

 

“Karen…” She pauses, realizing the utter stupidity of the situation she’s in. “Karen.”

 

The man looks at her slightly funny. “Your… first and last name is Karen?” She holds her breath with a slow nod. He copies her gesture before searching and tracing name after name to find Karen’s. (“Note: Front of house service is pleasant. They do not make fun of customers, even though they are probably in the rights to.”) A barking thought eats at the back of her mind: Why does she let a random name generator pick her fake names again?

 

He gives her a confirming nod—perhaps a minute showing of utter confusion of how such a name exists—once he finds her reservation. The waiter picks up a menu on the table before welcoming her inside. 

 

As he leads her through the packed restaurant, Michelin is enthralled by the… unique design of the restaurant. To put it simply, well, they definitely doubled down on the shrimp theme. Little shrimp ceramics, shrimp paintings, even the bathroom signs had a shrimp with a moustache in one, and a shrimp in a dress in another. The restaurant isn’t too big. Despite the strange choice of decor, Michelin notes it to have a very lovely and authentic feeling. She always loves visiting family-owned restaurants. They always seem to feel more genuine and soulful than many fine dining places. 

 

The waiter takes his leave once she’s seated, and Michelin is left to scan the menu on her own. What draws people to Shrimp Fried Rice! is its fascinating food choices. Whereas many restaurants pride themselves on variety, and others pride themselves on specializing in one specific item. Somehow, this restaurant does neither and both at the same time.

 

This place only sells fried rice.

 

Many kinds of it.

 

Yet who could complain? It’s certainly one of Michelin’s favorite dishes of all time. It’s extremely versatile, filling, and can serve as a meal alone unlike white rice which you’d normally have to pair with other dishes. And, no two places would cook their fried rice the same way, so what exactly gives this restaurant the bolstering confidence that their entire menu would be built around it? Michelin hopes she’ll have the opportunity to speak with the owners regarding this interesting decision. It will be a good addition to her review of the place.

 

Egg fried rice, Thai-style fried rice, kimchi fried rice, and of course how could she forgive herself if she didn’t try the one and only Shrimp Fried Rice Special, the head chef’s recommendation.

 

The aromas from each dish blends with one another once they arrive. A spoon in one hand, and a pen in the other. She starts with the egg fried rice. Simple. Delicious. Comforting. 

 

She moves on. The Thai-style fried rice is sweeter and more packed with aromatics. Extremely different from the kimchi fried rice, which is slightly spicy and packed with delicious bits of flavor with cut up pieces of spam and fresh kimchi.

 

Lastly, the Special. Michelin takes a bite and freezes. She chews slowly, trying to find that specific texture, but she doesn’t. Her spoon picks around in the plate, and there is one very big problem.

 

There’s no shrimp. It tastes almost exactly like standard egg fried rice.

 

She calls for a waiter, and the waiter does little more than shrug and tell her that’s just how the dish is. Michelin sits there, dumbfounded. How could a whole restaurant themed after shrimp not have shrimp in its shrimp fried rice?!

 

“The head chef does not like using shrimp in the menu.”

 

“This is a scam! If it’s not in the dish, then why call it the Shrimp Fried Rice Special?! It makes no sense!”

 

“Ma’am, I assure you, but it’s really difficult to explain…” The waiter smiles at some staring patrons before turning back to the critic. 

 

“Are you related to the owners of the family business?”

 

“Yes, my name is Justin. I’m one of their sons, but—”

 

“Young man, you need to tell your parents that this could be charged as a crime! This is a fantastic restaurant, and it’d be a shame if it were to suffer losses because of this.” Michelin shakes her head. “How did no food reviewer write about this prior, oh I’ll be needing to work overtime in the next article.”

 

Then, a realization hits the boy. “You’re Michelin Starre…”

 

“Indeed I am.”

 

Justin glances down, thinking. He takes a deep breath. “Please wait here, Ma’am.” Some time later, Justin comes back, and she’s told that if she wants an explanation, she’ll have to wait until closing. What a waste of time! Michelin could just go home and write this review and move on to the next restaurant, but still, this whole situation leaves her curious. So she waits.

 

And waits… 

 

And waits…

 

And once the last table has left, Michelin is led into the kitchen by Justin. It’s eerily quiet now, and it feels like time stops once the kitchen doors swing open. Her jaw would’ve dropped down to the floor if it could detach itself. 

 

She finds a kitchen in the process of tidying up for the night… with 3 human chefs in it and… what even is that?

 

Her eyes inspect it up and down. It’s a… mechanical… thing. There’s multiple arms, like an octopus, connected with wires and bolts and other scraps. It looks like it’s crudely built. It moves around the kitchen with wheels. She watches as one of the arms carries a chopping board onto the prep table. At the center base of the machine rests a… small fish tank with a chef hat taped on the top. 

 

There’s a shrimp inside the tank, and it seems to be controlling the whole machine.

 

What.

 

“Miss Starre, we’re the owners of the restaurant.” Two of the chefs approach, a big man with bits of grey in his hair and a lady juxtaposing his size. 

 

“Sir, what is the meaning of this?!” Michelin tries vaguely gesturing to the makeshift shrimp transformer thing still working away chopping ingredients for the next day’s food rush. 

 

The woman laughs a little. “That’s our head chef. Say hi, Shrimpy.”

 

The machine turns and one of the arms waves around before returning to work. 

 

Michelin looks over to Justin for help, who’s leaning by the door with a large smirk on his face. He shrugs. “One day we bought some live shrimp, this one escaped and started flopping around on a keyboard and it somehow typed out a full recipe for fried rice on a computer we had out on the counter. We tried it out because why not, and next thing you know, we got a restaurant open. Every recipe we have was made by Shrimpy. I genuinely can’t answer you why this shrimp knows what fried rice is or why it’s the only thing it knows.”

 

His sister peaks over from the storage room. “It’s probably traumatized knowing we would’ve used it for the fried rice that day.” 

 

Justin turns back to Michelin. “Well anyway, we’re all vegetarian now… but only for shrimp.”

 

“You really need to find the word for that! Shrimpatarian?” calls his sister again, muffled. 

 

“No, that makes it sound like shrimp is the only thing we eat?”

 

“Okay, okay!” Michelin takes a deep breath through gritted teeth while massaging at her temples. The shrimp went off to fire up the grill, controlling the wok with more precision than some professional chefs she’s seen before. “Where did the machine come from?”

“My older brother and grandpa are engineers. They worked together to build it when we realized Shrimpy could actually help more in the kitchen besides recipes. I don’t know how it works. Probably motion sensors or something.” Justin walks over to tap on the tank. “It’s like the rat in Ratatouille but cooler.”

 

Michelin is still dumbfounded by the situation. Ratatouille is one of her favorite movies… it’s just… 

 

A rat is one thing, but a shrimp? “You really mean to tell me a shrimp fried the rice?”

 

“Yes, so technically it’s still shrimp fried rice,” the man says. The rest of the family laughs out loud.

 

Michelin’s head is in her hand. This is just so painfully absurd, she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Just then, as if to answer her struggle, Shrimpy comes over with a freshly prepared plate of fried rice. The aroma is absolutely divine, and Michelin stares at the shrimp and its big black, round eyeballs.

 

“Never seen that recipe before,” Justin comments from behind. 

 

The first bite, if she may exaggerate a little, tasted like heaven. Such a simple dish with its flavors evokes comfort. Memories of simple home cooking from family. The dish is passed around, and by the end of it, there’s unanimous agreement to add it into the menu. 

 

When Michelin goes home that night, she spends a good hour or so in bed, staring up at the ceiling. She thinks and thinks about what to write. She promised to keep the whole shrimp debacle a secret despite her telling the family that it would attract far more attention for business. But they like what they have going on, so she respects their wishes.

 

Michelin writes nothing but praise in her review of the restaurant. From its quaint atmosphere, to the delicious food, and to the interesting group of people that make up its staff. 

The excerpt of her ending line is particularly praised by the media: Just like the great movie Ratatouille has told us, “anyone can cook”. And, a shrimp… certainly did fry this rice.