The Trouble with Waving to a Happy Chef Statue

To download mobile version (.mobi), click here.

To download e-reader version (.epub), click here.

I wave to a giant Happy Chef statue every Friday night. It will pay off someday. I’m certain of it.

The Happy Chef statue to which I wave doesn’t actually sit outside a Happy Chef Restaurant anymore. Sadly, that chain of family-style dining eateries, once 57 locations strong throughout middle America, went mostly extinct in the 80’s, perhaps because patrons started growing penchants for chefs with surlier dispositions. And now we have Gordon Ramsay.

No, the particular 36-foot fiberglass monument that I greet weekly stands guard outside a restaurant supply company about an hour north of town on Highway 169. Despite the fact that he no longer beckons hungry folks to dine in country comfort at his beloved namesake establishment, he somehow musters up the gumption to remain jovial. His grin never fades. He never dresses down, always insisting on wearing his pristine white suit, tie and contrasting vest. He dutifully continues his task of waving an enormous wooden spoon high above his head. And even though the “Happy Chef” identification on the front of his toque has been painted over, you can tell he’s still committed to being happy; happy to be standing in the middle of nowhere and waving to no one in particular. Ordinarily, that’s the kind of thing that’ll break a statue’s spirit – we’ve all seen it time and time again. Frankly, no one would fault him for giving up. But this fellow is different. And I find that kind of relentless cheerfulness in the face of adversity truly inspiring.

So every Friday night as we drive northward, I wave to him. 

“Why do you do that?” my wife asks.

“Because he stands there waving all day, and he looks so happy doing it. I bet nobody ever waves back,” I say. 

In truth, there is another reason I wave. That’s why one subsequent Friday evening, I encourage my wife to wave, too.

“Why would I wave to a stupid chef statue?” she asks.

“Well…” I hesitate to answer. But then I decide she really should know. “Because what if that’s really God? Maybe he’s watching us through the Happy Chef. Wouldn’t you wave back if God waved to you?”

“You think the Happy Chef statue is God?”

“I can’t rule it out.”

My wife shakes her head and laughs before returning to her book. She doesn’t wave. I know she thinks I’m just fooling around. She doesn’t have the kind of faith in the Happy Chef that I do. And that’s too bad. Someday, I’ll ask the Happy Chef to forgive her.

Sometimes on Sunday nights, driving in a southerly direction on our way home after the weekend, I make it a point to wave again. It requires me to crane my neck awkwardly because the Happy Chef is really aimed at northbound traffic. But since it’s God and all, a little extra effort is merited.

My kids anticipate my waving ritual. They mock me. Before we reach the Happy Chef, they start singing, “Happy” by Pharrell Williams. They make up new lyrics and insert my name. Never mind those little Hell-bound urchins, I tell myself. It won’t deter me from waving one bit. In fact, it makes me do it with much more vigor. I honk the car horn for good measure. That’s what faith is about, you know.

Over the years, I’ve grown to take great comfort from these encounters with the Happy Chef. Every time I drive past and notice he’s still gleefully standing there, it’s a reminder that the world is still worth watching. And there’s still something worth smiling about. If, for some reason, he disappeared or developed a disapproving frown, I would worry that things were about to go south. That wouldn’t be good.

So I wave. Time and time again. Because I believe. 

One Friday, however, I don’t wave. It isn’t intentional. I’m driving by myself and listening to the call of the baseball game and thinking intently about stuff. Sometimes when I do that, I get so wrapped up in my thoughts that I lose track of where I am and become oblivious to large swaths of road that I just traversed. The next thing I know, I’m well past the Happy Chef. I look back to see if I can still spot him, but I’m too late.

The hollowness at that very moment is powerful. After all, seeing the Happy Chef is something I look forward to; missing it is kind of like sleeping through Christmas. Now I have to wait to wave again. Perhaps I should turn back, I think. Perhaps I should make this right. But I don’t. 

Not long after, I die. I crash into a hay combine that was inexplicably crossing the highway. There’s not a lot of hay to combine on concrete highways, so its placement there is befuddling to me. I’m left wondering if it has something to do with not waving this particular time. I hope not. I hope the Happy Chef is not a spiteful Happy Chef.

It’s not all bad news though. Shortly after the accident, I gain my cosmic consciousness. I know because I’m not in any pain and a sense of perfect calm flows through me. Plus, there is a neon sign that says, “Welcome to the Afterlife.” 

And who do I see standing next to the sign? The Happy Chef!!

I’m so excited that I run up to the Happy Chef and embrace him. Unencumbered from statue-dom, he returns the embrace. I can feel his spoon brush against the back of my head as he squeezes me. Happiness rushes through every ounce of my being. If I had a chef’s hat that read “Happy Dead Guy,” I would have worn it right then.

I pull back, still beaming. “I knew it! I just knew it!”

“Yeah, you sure did.” The Happy Chef has a voice that sounds like Bing Crosby. It’s rich and buttery and pleasing and makes me want eggnog.

“May I ask you one question, Mr. Happy Chef?”

“Fire away.”

“I didn’t die because I forgot to wave to you this last time, did I?”

“No.”

“Oh, good. Because I thought maybe since I forgot to wave, you got angry and put that hay combine in the middle of the highway.”

“Ummm…the combine wasn’t in the highway. It was parked in the middle of a field. You drove off the road when you looked back.”

“No, that couldn’t be.”

“Yep, sure as shit.”

I am taken aback. I didn’t think someone as dignified as Happy Chef God would have such a potty mouth. I’m also taken aback that I’m a certified idiot. “Well, that’s a pretty dumb way to die,” I admit.

“It really was.”

“Wait…if I didn’t look back to see if I could see you, I’d still be alive?” 

“Probably.”

“Oh…” That troubles me.

“Wanna get something to eat?” Happy Chef asks.

“Ummm…yeah…I guess. We eat here?”

“Yeah. We eat here. Follow me.”

Happy Chef leads me down a tree-lined path. In short order, we arrive outside a restaurant.

“Is this…? Could it be?! Is this a Happy Chef Restaurant??!!” 

“What did you think it was going to be? You think I’d take you somewhere else? Could you imagine a Happy Chef walking into an Applebees?”

“No, I suppose not.”

We enter an empty restaurant. We have our pick of seats, yet Happy Chef chooses a booth way, way in the back. Perhaps because it’s the only one large enough to accommodate a 36-foot tall statue.

“Whattya want?” he sighs as the green vinyl seat crinkles under his weight.

“To be honest, I’ve never eaten at a Happy Chef. What’s the best thing here?”

“Meatloaf. Or the Country Fried Steak.”

“I like meatloaf. I’ll have that.”

Happy Chef pushes himself out of the booth and makes his way into the kitchen. 

He emerges holding a plate. It has a square of gravelly looking meat coated in gravy. He slings it down in front of me. 

I dig in. My face doesn’t hide my surprise. It’s horrible. I don’t wish to swallow it.

“It’s not good, is it?” Happy Chef says. He’s still smiling though, and that seems a tad sadistic to me.

“Ummm…I don’t mean to be rude, but…ummm…no.” I wipe my tongue off with a napkin. “I imagine it’s what diesel exhaust would taste like if you could eat it.”

“Yeah. That happens sometimes.”

“Really?” I’m confused. “I thought everything in this place was supposed to be wonderful.”

“No, not always.”

“Well, can we go somewhere else to eat then?”

“Sure.”

We leave and find ourselves on a busy city street. There are restaurants as far as the eye can see, in every direction. But they are all Happy Chef Restaurants. It’s like I’m in a Happy Chef house of mirrors. 

Each restaurant has its own smiling Happy Chef statue outside. Some of them are playing solitaire. Some are drinking coffee. And others are reading magazines called “Playstatue.” The Venus de Milo might be on the cover. It’s hard to tell through all the cigarette smoke though.

“Which one you wanna go in?” Happy Chef asks.

“They all look the same,” I note. “Is there anything other than a Happy Chef?”

“Nope.”

“Is the food in these any different from the one we just left?”

“Nope.” Happy Chef uses his spoon to scratch his ass.

“If I didn’t like the food at the last place, why would I want to go there then?”

“I don’t know. I’m still wondering why you wanted to come here in the first place.” Happy Chef examines the end of the spoon and flicks off some white flecks of paint that used to be on his backside.

“What do you mean? Isn’t this heaven?”

“Sorta.”

“Sorta?”

“Well, this is an afterlife anyway. But not one any one has ever chosen before, other than Happy Chef statues.”

“I didn’t choose this.”

“No? Well, let me refresh your memory: the waving, the honking, the ‘honey, the Happy Chef might just be God.’ The faith. The believing. You convinced yourself, for some unknown reason, that a Happy Chef is God. By doing that, you kinda chose this. Personally, I don’t get it…I mean, who worships a goofy chef statue? Nobody, that’s who. Most people pray to the cute, chubby guy or that guy on the cross…I forget their names. But you probably shoulda done that. I hear those places got better food and better company. Wine, too.”

“There’s no wine here?”

“Never got a liquor license.”

“Crap…so, you’re not God?”

“Not the one you’re thinking of.”

“But…but…I thought I was finding God in all things!!”

“You did, technically. But I guess you shoulda been more careful with where you were looking.”

“Oh, no…” I whisper. It’s not a good whisper though. Happy Chef can hear it.

“Yeah. ‘Oh no’ is right.”

I survey the endless line of diners sprawling out in front of me. In actuality, I am surveying my eternity. “Think anybody else will ever show up here?” 

“No. I really don’t.”

“I didn’t think so.”

We don’t talk for a spell. But the Happy Chef keeps glancing at me out of the side of his giant, painted eyes. I ignore it, partly because it’s disturbing and partly because there is a lot going through my mind. Happy Chef finally breaks the silence. 

“So…” Happy Chef takes off his hat, wipes his nose with it and returns it to the top of his head. “Wanna go try that Country Fried Steak now?”

“Is it any better than the meatloaf?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

For the record, it isn’t.

The Trouble with Waving to a Happy Chef Statue

A short story by Tom Witkowski

Photo Credit: 9 Circles Photography

Share