It was precisely 12:30 p.m. when the office lunch bell (a relic of Mr. Penfield's fondness for school-like routines) rang. Everyone at BriskWorks Ltd., a modest tech company, shuffled to the communal kitchen with the enthusiasm of children on Christmas morning. This wasn't just any lunch - it was Tuesday Special from Greasy Spoon Cafe, the only place that delivered to their building on time and with the excitement of uncharted taste adventures.
Nina, who worked in HR and had a flair for dramatics that could rival a theater major on opening night, sauntered over to her boxed salad, sniffing it with an expression that read pure skepticism. She leaned into the lid labeled "NO NUTS - NINA" and peered suspiciously at a rogue almond that gleamed menacingly amid the kale. "Who ordered the Death Salad?" she whispered, eyes darting around the room.
Bob from IT, meanwhile, was busy cradling his burrito marked "EXTRA SPICY - BOB" with the glee of someone who'd been jalapeno-deprived for days. Little did he know that what awaited him was not a culinary fiesta but rather a botanical bombshell.
That's when the avalanche began.
"Nina! What's that in your mouth?!" screeched Dave, the wide-eyed intern whose entire personality seemed based on permanently teetering between alarmed and flustered. Nina, mid-bite, paused, pupils dilating as the horror dawned. "Almond!" she croaked. "ALMOND! CODE RED!"
Bob, mid-chew, suddenly blinked. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. His brow furrowed as the faint taste of... lavender seeped through his taste buds. His wedding day, a day he only remembered as "The Day of Lavender Hospital," flashed before his eyes. He spat out the burrito, flinging it like a cursed relic.
Chaos erupted. Carol, the finance manager whose pristine white blouse was an inexplicable fashion choice for a tuna salad enthusiast, watched in terror as Bob stumbled backward and flailed. The move would have been comical if it hadn't resulted in him knocking over the ancient, gurgling coffee maker, which exploded in a spray of hot liquid and steaming grounds. A splatter landed just inches from Carol, who shrieked, "This is cashmere!"
Tony from marketing, never one to miss an opportunity to showcase his dramatic prowess, leaped up from his chair and pointed at the kitchen as if casting in a thriller. "It's the end of lunchtime as we know it!" he shouted, eyes wide and breathless.
"Will someone just grab Nina's EpiPen?" barked Tim, the accountant, who had just returned from his monthly rage management seminar. He dove for the pen, only to pick up a black marker in his haste. With a puzzled look, he scribbled "DO NOT PANIC" on a sticky note and slapped it on the fridge as if it would somehow restore order.
Meanwhile, Bob, already turning a shade of purple reminiscent of eggplants, fell to the floor, eyes bulging like a cartoon character. A faint wheeze escaped him. Carol, in her cashmere catastrophe, looked down at him. "This is why we don't trust anything from a place called Greasy Spoon," she muttered, clutching her tuna like it was sacred.
In the center of this bedlam stood Mr. Penfield, the manager and self-declared "Lunch Supervisor," holding a yogurt cup labeled "SUSAN." His fork hovered mid-air, spoon balanced like a weapon of fate. He blinked, confused as he scanned the room. "Why is Bob purple? And who ate Susan's dairy-free yogurt?"
The irony struck. Penfield spooned an accidental bite of yogurt into his mouth just as Susan - whose allergies were as varied as her collection of ergonomic chairs - walked in. Her eyes widened. "Is that... dairy?"
Two paramedics, one very confused delivery driver, and three gasping coworkers later, the kitchen had finally quieted, with only the steady hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of someone faintly whimpering "lavender" from under the counter.
Nina, sipping water with all the precision of a bomb technician, glanced at Bob, who was now hooked to a portable oxygen tank. Their eyes met. There was a silent truce, born from shared trauma.
"Next time," Bob croaked through the mask, "we're ordering from the deli."
Everyone nodded solemnly. Even Tim, now staring guiltily at his hastily scrawled "DO NOT PANIC" note, couldn't help but chuckle. It fluttered, barely attached, a symbol of misplaced optimism.
"Dave," Mr. Penfield said, brushing yogurt off his tie, "add Greasy Spoon to the banned vendor list."
Dave, the intern who had survived yet another trial by fire, jotted down, Lunch Prohibition: Tuesdays, No Greasy Spoon.
It was decided. From that day forward, Tuesday lunch became known across BriskWorks Ltd. not as a day of routine but as a day forever etched in infamy: The Meal of Mayhem.
As the office collectively sighed and began to clean up the remnants, Carol, glancing at her stained blouse, muttered, "I'm ordering a tuna salad kit online. You know, for safety."
And everyone - EpiPens at the ready - couldn't agree more.
