The bird's milk. A humorous story with a light touch of satire. Marsel Salimov

you an experienced butcher?

      – Not really. But I will do my best.

      The director scratched the back of his head. Everything seemed very suspicious. Who was this man in the mink hat? Was he a public controller, a journalist, writing about restaurants, or only some disgruntled customer, who happened to swallow a nail at lunch? There are no such directors of public catering, who are not afraid of anything. And like an ordinary director, this one was also moderately fearful.

      – Well, I hire you, – he said against his will. – Will you justify the confidence reposed?

      – What confidence are you talking about? – Akbar got surprised.

      It looked even more suspicious, but the director decided, as they say, to fight the tiger.

      – In our work, – having overcome his fear, he explained, – it is important to remember one thing: the one, who divides, knows best, and the one, who eats, does not. Is it clear?

      – Yes, it is clear, – Akbar said. – The one, who eats, does not know anything.

      – And what should the one, who knows, – the director continued more boldly, – do?

      – Divide, – Akbar said.

      – What else? – The director insisted.

      – Keep his mouth shut, – Akbar wiggled out.

      – That's right! – The director was happy. – Then go and divide.

      Akbar took the first massive axe that he found in the corridor and went to the place where meat was cut. When he was approaching the kitchen, he heard a desperate squeal. At that moment, he came across the man in the leather jacket, whom he had met at the director's office.

      – Listen, do you know what that noise is? – Akbar addressed to the man, like an old friend, but the man only inauspiciously smiled with two rows of gold teeth.

      – First, from now on, I am not one of your friends, – the man said. – Second, you should treat me with respect and love. And third, you cannot go to the director without my permission. Do you get it?

      – Why is that? – Akbar got surprised.

      – Because I said so, – the man grinned with his gold teeth. – Now I am your boss and you should contact me for any question. My name is Tatlybay.

      – I see, – Akbar sighed.

      It did not make sense to resist and to resent at the moment. He should be silent and get along even with such el cheapo with gold teeth. The main thing for Akbar was to look closely and to determine where the bird's milk was. It still remained a mystery to him…

      – Well, are you rooted to the ground or something? – Tatlybay immediately took up his duties. – Get to work!

      We all like to curse, that is to practice in criticism of certain individuals, but often we do this only in our minds, for various reasons postponing the punishment of all kinds of bullies and, in particular, of those, who have a higher position than ours. Akbar, having swallowed his pride, only nodded and went with his massive axe to the kitchen.

      It turned out that it was not pigs but two ladies-cooks who were squealing in the clouds of steam, among plates and huge pots. They both were dressed in the same dirty overalls and little caps, but one lady-cook was huge, like the Russian stove, and the other was skinny and tall, like a poker, though, she was squealing louder. Akbar listened for a long time to shrill cries but did not intervene. And only when he saw a ladle and a rolling-pin in the clouds of steam, he decided to give it a try.

      – Hey, ladies, wait a minute! – He said. – Why are you fighting?

      – Who are you? – Without pause, the skinny one got mad at him. – Are you looking for troubles too?

      – That is not your business, – the fat one added. – I am senior here, and she is not.

      – So what? – Akbar did not understand.

      The one, who had called herself senior, looked at him appraisingly and relented a bit.

      – We are criticizing each other, – she said. – I am pointing out her mistakes and suggesting how to improve her work.

      – To improve?! – The skinny one, Tansyk, was indignant. – She lies! She constantly takes fillet and leaves me only bones.

      Akbar looked at both, like a judge.

      – Well, let her take it, – he said. – What's the point in fighting? You can cook soup out of bones, and she can cook cutlets out of fillet. The visitors will eat everything: both the soup and the main course.

      The ladies-cooks simultaneously began to stare at Akbar.

      – Look at him, – the senior one, Tutyia, finally said. – Where did this fool come up?

      – Indeed, he is a fool, – the skinny one, Tansyk, agreed with her. – My family is sick of bones. How can I stand this? We are not dogs, we need fillet, – this time she yelled at Akbar for some reason.

      – I do not care what you need! – Tutyia attacked her. – You should be grateful for it. Others do not have even bones.

      – And you should be careful not to choke on meat! – Tansyk yelled at her again. – Now, you can still squeeze through the door, but soon you will not get through at all. Look, the controllers pay attention to this too.

      – What did you say? – Tutyia got mad. – Repeat that once more! If they ask me about this, you will get into trouble as well. They are also interested in accomplices!

      The women began to squeal and grabbed their weapon again, but Akbar, to distract two comrades-in-arms, stood between them again.

      – Hold on, – he said. – First, tell me what to do, and then continue to criticize each other as much as you feel like. You are busy, and I am not, – and he waved his axe for the credibility.

      The ladies-cooks hardly digressed from the clarification of their relations, showed Akbar the carcass meant for handling, and began to fight again. Hearing the screaming and the cursing, Akbar cut the carcass with his axe, trying to cut meat from time to time. Actually, he was not working much but was looking around.

      There were many things in the kitchen, but he did not see the right one.

      – Hey, where are you? – He finally called the women, having carefully examined everything.

      The fight was over. The ladies-cooks simultaneously emerged from the cloud of steam.

      – Did you finish? – The fat one, Tutyia, asked.

      – Not really, – Akbar replied. – I need a break. Do you happen to have milk here?

      – Yes, we have it. I can pour you some.

      – Do not drink this milk, – Tansyk hissed vindictively. – She has diluted it twice.

      – So what? – Akbar said carelessly to flatter Tutyia. – So, now we have more milk.

      – Of course, now we have more milk, – Tutyia gratefully said. – I take care of the visitors. The fatter the milk, the more harmful it is.

      While the junior lady-cook was cursing, the senior one opened the fridge and took out a flask of milk.

      – Enjoy, – she told Akbar gently.

      – Is it the cow's milk?

      – Well, yes. What else can it be?

      – I do not want the cow's milk! I want the bird's milk.

      – The bird's milk? – The fat one got surprised.

      – Yes. Where do you keep it?

      – We do not have such milk.

      – Then where is it? – Akbar kept asking. – Did you take it home?

      Tutyia