Meh Michelin I had heard a lot about Bistro Voltaire. A friend of mine had eaten there and claimed that it was a gastronomical Mecca. I decided to check it out before taking the wife. I made a reservation. I walk in to Bistro Voltaire and am greeted by an overly polite maitre’d. “Maitre’d” is a word I would only use at a place like Bistro Voltaire. I have never used that word in real speech.

Read the first part here Rohan woke up inside a dark chamber. He had been drooling in his sleep and dreaming. His mind raced through the tinglings of a dream where he was being slow cooked alive in a hot pot. His hands were tied behind his back with a silky string. The chamber had a very low ceiling and the ceiling protruded out in a corner. He looked around and saw that he was surrounded by books - books of different colors and hues, but all of the same size.

Rohan crouched so that no one could see him. It was past midnight on a dark, moonless night. The only sound Rohan could hear was the rhythmical buzz of the crickets. He was facing a small square - an open area between buildings where kids played during the day. The square was faintly lit by street lights in the adjacent street. In the middle of the square was a giant statue of a cow.