[ WP ] Food Court is an actual court with judge and jury

With bated breath, the spectators in the public gallery looked at the cloche that caught the light. It sat in the middle of a dark mahogany table, and condensation formed on its silver side as the clock ticked inexorably forward. One woman in the audience held a white handkerchief to her mouth, as if to hide the salivation that gathered there. The smell filling the dank courtroom was almost indescribable. Each member of the jury could pinpoint a different scent. 
 
 
 The man with the dark skin, orange turban and fearsome set of mustachios smelled ginger, vanilla, brown sugar and cardamon, while the woman on his left with the bulging signs of an advanced pregnancy, leaned forwards and sniffed eagerly at the sour pomegranate and blood orange smell. The foreman of the jury, with his fisherman's sweater and white beard, could not escape the familiar scent of garlic, white wine and -- oddly enough, tarragon. The housewife would have sworn the smell was bread rising, mixed with fresh marmalade, while the man with nervous hands and greasy hair could have told you it was pickle relish and fresh tomatoes, so ripe the juice would drip down your hands. They all leant forwards against the barrier, waiting for the judge to come in and the cloche to be lifted so one of them could be proven right. More importantly, so the rest of them could be proven wrong. 
 
 
 
 It was universally agreed by almost every food professor, that the dish itself was sacrilegious. It broke every rule in the book. An abomination. *It should not be able to smell like that. * Simply false advertising. The chef, Josip, in shackles, sat in the prisoner's bench, looking miserably at his feet. If you asked him -- and no one did -- he could only smell burning. He'd smelled burning for sixteen years, after his wife had died in a mysterious blaze which ate up his life's work in recipes. 
 
 
 
 The judge entered and the court rose to their feet. Sniffing the air, the judge settled into his seat and drew his horsehair wig about him. Lord Carlisle smelled rich plum jam and hot milk, reminiscent of the time he'd spent as a troublesome prankster in a boarding school in the north of England. The youngest judge on the bench, Josip's lawyer had asked for him specifically, most likely for his forgiving nature. His Lordship thought boys would be boys, after all. Lord Carlisle shuddered, ill at ease with the sudden memory. Some pranks had gone a little too far. 
 
 
 
 `` Let me taste the food,'' Lord Carlisle said. False advertising be damned, he could not help it. The smell was intoxicating, it begged to be tasted. Perhaps if he tasted it, he could wash the memory away as easily as he had washed away the soot from his hands that awful night -- no. He would not think of that now. 
 
 
 
 Josip got to his feet and watched as the cloche was brought to his Lordship's bench. The usher lifted it, the court watched with bated breath. 
 
 
 
 `` A soup?'' Lord Carlisle cried. `` You mean to tell me, you have made a soup!'' 
 
 
 
 The court reporters began scribbling furiously as his Lordship, former troubled youth, owner of a buried past, tasted the soup. Josip, the mourning chef, struggling with the burden of losing his life's work on a snowy night in York, watched with his shackled hands pressed up against the glass. 
 
 
 
 His Lordship greedily spooned the soup into his mouth. He intended to stop, but the urge was too great. Saliva filled his mouth and he leant closer and closer to the plate until he licked at the dregs of it. Horsehair wig flecked with drops of it, he sat back and panted against the great chair. 
 
 
 
 `` But,'' he said. Lord Carlisle coughed. `` This is awful!'' He said. `` Water, please!'' 
 
 
 
 He scrambled for the glass on his desk and chocked, gulping it down. `` It tastes like burning!'' 
 
 
 
 From the prisoner's bench, Josip smiled. Now his nemesis would know how it felt; the taste of ashes in his mouth, tainting every mouthful he took. As far as Josip was concerned, justice had been served.
