The holographic marquee read: “The Jetpack Diner | All Vegan Food — Exotic Fungi — Bean-curd Yogurt! | Non-alcoholic Wheatgrass Beer | Established 2062.”

 

I walked unhurriedly past the restaurant and took the side alley, restraining myself from looking to see if anyone noticed. At the back door I glanced up; there might be cameras or a stray drone. I spied nothing amiss. A furtive thump on the door, and it opened a crack.

 

“Are you lost?”

 

“No, but I’m a hungry pilgrim.”

 

The door swung open and I scooted in. I was happy the password hadn’t changed.

 

The guard laid a finger to his lips and motioned me to turn around. After a pat-down that verged on a body-cavity search, I felt I knew him better than I did my wife. Satisfied, he led me through the riotous kitchen and down a twisted staircase.

 

Once in the basement, he unlocked a series of three doors. The first was heavy and looked like reinforced concrete. Past the second, I had a dizzy spell — oh glory be, I could already smell it. I surreptitiously wiped a tiny string of drool from my lip.

 

The guard heaved the third gate open and finally grinned at me. “Enjoy.”

 

I slipped him a fifty-credit and smiled back. “You have no idea. It’s been two years.”

 

Entering a room that was a throwback to yesteryear, I embraced the ambience. A family occupied a booth with red and white checkerboard tablecloths, feasting on meatloaf and a platter of honest-to-god chicken tenders for the kids. Two old men sprawled in easy chairs around a faux fireplace with lowball glasses of whiskey and prosciutto-impaled toothpicks. Four ladies perched on stools and gossiped over caviar and cream cheese. And resplendent at the middle of the room sat an obese man, chuckling softly. He swirled a goblet of Chianti above a magnificently butterflied, still-pink filet mignon. That steak! It was what I’d scented from the corridor.

 

But I only had eyes for the deli counter.

 

* * *

 

We had received our weekly allotment that morning. The usual suspects: vitamin powders, amino sprinkles, and the ubiquitous Pink Glop. You fed half a liter of Glop plus various combinations of powder or sprinkles into the Synth-o-Matic 8.0 and voilà: lunch. It might not be appetizing in a visual or olfactory manner, but it was guaranteed to pack the exact amount of nutrients your body needed, without inflicting pain and suffering — and most importantly, indignity — on animals.

 

But I’ve found that a man needs a ham on rye every once in a while. Or a BLT, maybe a little light on the lettuce and double on the bacon. And cheese. Real cheese — not that processed Glop crap. Pure cow juice solidified into heavenly manna.

 

I started at one end of the counter and admittedly went nuts on my order. Slices of every kind of meat piled ever higher onto that sandwich, interspersed with delectable condiments and the aforementioned cheeses. It cost me a week’s credits but I got chills watching its creation.

 

I had just made it to a table when alarms sounded. Lights flashed, cops poured into the room.

 

“Forks DOWN! You there, sandwich on the table. Now. NOW!”

 

Defiant, I took an enormous bite. Kept chewing, unrepentant, through the arrest.

 

If you look closely at the mugshot, I have some mustard in the corner of my mouth.