The Potluck Writer & The Feast Beyond Time

When I first received the invitation from Jay, I expected it to be a typical potluck party—guests arriving with dishes ranging from kebabs to biryani and street-side chaats. But I never expected the party to serve me the most important meal of my life.

I never expected history itself to be on the menu.

Jay told me to meet him at a red apartment in one of the dustiest neighbourhoods of the capital. His voice carried an unusual weight when he spoke, his usual easy-going tone replaced by something carefully measured.

“If you’re coming,” he said, “there are rules you need to follow.”

“Rules?” I frowned.

Jay’s expression darkened. “You can never talk about this.”

“Why not?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Because some recipes aren’t meant to be rewritten.”

I am a food critic for one of the world’s oldest newspapers, The Paper Chronicles. Over the years, my readers have come to recognise my byline—Ishmael Qazrani—as a journalist who explores the world of cuisine, reviewing everything from street vendors to fine-dining restaurants.

But if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s this: when someone tells me not to write about something, I end up writing more than something.

I’ve had PR agents and hotel managers plead with me to skip writing about dishes that I didn’t enjoy, but this was different. Jay’s warning wasn’t about preference—it was about secrecy.

“It should never go out,” he repeated.

Jay has been a longtime friend since I joined The Paper Chronicles fifteen years ago. Thanks to the nature of my job—eating my way through the city’s best and worst kitchens—my body has naturally adjusted to excess. The result? A permanent potbelly, shallow breaths after a few flights of stairs, and joints that creak like old furniture. I try to walk and lift weights when I can, but the truth is, my profession demands indulgence, and my body has paid the price.

Jay, on the other hand, hardly seems to age. His hair is just as sharp as the day I met him at a food festival, his skin never pales, and for a man his age, 50s, he is—annoyingly—agelessly handsome.

Last week, over coffee, he told me about the potluck party, the red apartment, and the dusty locality. He leaned in, eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“I promise,” he said, “it’s going to help you finish your manuscript.”

This intrigued me.

I was working on a book about the capital’s greatest chefs, intending to trace the city’s rich culinary heritage over the last three hundred years. I had spent months combing through old libraries, culinary schools, and family-run restaurants, hoping to unearth forgotten recipes and lost traditions.

Now, Jay was offering something even better.

“Trust me,” he said. “It’s going to be wild. You’ll meet people from all over the world. I’m certain it will inspire you to finish your manuscript faster.”

I was sold.

The day arrived, and I found myself standing outside the red apartment.

The locality was buried under layers of dust, and the sky hung low with a dense film of smog. I spotted Jay pulling up in his car, and together, we walked towards the building. Just as we reached the entrance, he stopped me.

“Hand over your phone,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“Rules are rules, bud,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’ll get it back after the party.”

He gave me an assured wink as if to say trust me, nothing is amiss. I handed over my phone. Dull music hummed from inside as we stepped into the living room.

For a brief moment, I thought we had walked into a historical cosplay convention. An aged man stood in a Roman toga, deep in discussion with another guest dressed in what looked like Egyptian linen. Across the room, shepherds in woollen cloaks conversed with a woman in an ornate gown, a delicate tiara resting atop her head. A group of children in tattered clothes—out of place, out of time—ran past me, laughing.

I turned to Jay, trying to process the surreal scene. “What’s happening?”

He grinned. “Tonight, history’s on the menu.”

Then he told me something that broke my brain.

This apartment wasn’t just a gathering spot—it was a crossroads of time. Every weekend, a door opened here, linking different timelines, allowing guests from the past to step through and share the food of their era.

The rules were simple:

You cannot talk about this to anyone.You cannot cook the food from this gathering in your own timeline.If you do, the ‘Grand Timeline Keeper of the Food Calendar’ will come for you.

The purpose of this secret potluck wasn’t just indulgence—it was inspiration. Those who dined here went on to create something great: a painting, a novel, an invention, a film, a speech. Art that defined history.

“Jay, what the f—”

Before I could finish, he grabbed my arm and dragged me across the crowded living space, weaving through the sea of brightly dressed guests. Jay was interrupted by a guest in a suit. He exchanged a quick hello, turned to me, and shoved me into a smaller room with a plain brown door at the far end. The doorframe was painted with sky blue ink and etched with symbols I didn’t understand.

Then he opened it.

What I saw made my breath hitch.

With every swing of the door, the world changed.

A green lawn stretched under a sky untouched by pollution.

A dense forest whispered with creatures unseen.

A grand palace entrance loomed with towering golden gates.

A dimly lit tavern bustled with men in feathered hats, clinking pewter mugs.

And with every shift, more people stepped through—clad in garments from their era, carrying dishes wrapped in cloth, stacked in golden trays, or sloshing in wooden bowls.

Jay watched as my stunned excitement grew.

“Don’t freak out just yet,” he said. “Just stick to the rules, okay?”

I managed a nod, though my heart raced unnaturally fast.

“Where is the door from? Like how is—”

“It’s from The Paper Chronicles.”

“Our Newspaper?!”

“Yes. From the History Archives.”

“I don’t understand. Where is this place?”

“You’ll know everything soon enough.”

Jay left me to greet the guests. Most of them barely acknowledged my presence. Their attention was fixed on him. Maybe because he was the host? There was a magnetic pull about him—like a man both respected and deeply trusted.

It took me several long moments to steady myself. Then I caught Jay again and demanded, “What’s going on? Where are we? I need answers!”

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Just focus on the food for now. Talk to the guests. Eat their dishes. Learn their cuisine.” His voice lowered. “And don’t forget—we only taste, observe, and remember. Don’t break this rule. Or it’ll be the last thing you do.”

I exhaled. Extended my hand. “I promise.”

Jay took it with a knowing smile. A look passed between us. He had trusted me for fifteen years. He believed I would keep my word.

Would I?

“Well,” I said. “I guess… let’s eat, then?”

Jay grinned. “I’m starving. Let’s go.”

We stepped back into the living room. The aroma hit me like a symphony of centuries colliding—spiced air, charred smoke, and honeyed sweetness all swirling together. My eyes landed on the long table at the centre of the room. It groaned under the weight of history.

To my left, a Roman libum gleamed golden, its ricotta-like softness paired with honey syrup that shimmered like amber. Next to it sat moretum, a pungent garlic and herb cheese spread, served with dense wheat bread—hearty, rustic, alive with the simplicity of the Republic.

From the Egyptian corner, my eyes landed on feteer meshaltet—layers of buttery pastry so thin I could almost see through them, served with date syrup and fresh figs. A golden pitcher of haqet, a barley beer brewed to perfection, promised a rich, nutty companion.

The Mughal spread was regal, a feast fit for an emperor. The murgh musallam—a whole chicken stuffed with spiced eggs, marinated in saffron and rosewater—sat like a jewel, surrounded by fragrant zarda pulao. I marvelled at the shahi tukda, fried bread drenched in condensed milk, adorned with delicate silver leaf.

The Chinese dishes were delicate, almost meditative. The tang of suanla tang—hot and sour soup—warmed my soul, while the perfect balance of sesame and scallions in hand-pulled noodles sang of culinary precision.

Each bite was a passage through time, a story written in spices, textures, and tradition.

I turned to Jay. “Can I take notes?”

“Nope,” he warned, barely pausing in his conversation with a group of Egyptians.

“Just ingredients. Nothing else. This is just for research—for my manuscript, I promise.”

Jay winked. Permission granted, right?

I pulled out my notebook and began scribbling furiously, jotting down impressions, textures, and subtle hints of unknown spices. As I ate meals from different centuries, speaking to people across timelines, I fought the urge to ask a million questions:

What was it like to live in Rome?

How did you cook without firewood shortages?

What did you do without the internet?

How much did meat cost?

Were there taxes on salt?

Was food ever free?

The hours blurred into a parade of faces, flavours, and conversations, each dish whispering a story of its own. Then, I noticed him—a lone figure, his posture regal yet unassuming, stirring his chicken broth with the slow reverence of a musician about to play his instrument. Steam curled between us, thick with history, carrying an aroma that didn’t just tempt—it summoned.

By now, the potluck had given me kings and warriors, bakers and merchants. I had dined with warriors who still smelled of battlefield steel, with emperors whose voices carried the weight of vanished empires. But this—this was different. Something about him—the quiet precision of his movements, the way others leaned in when he spoke—made me pause. This was not just a man sharing a meal. His words were careful, weighted, as though each syllable carried an oath. I inched closer, drawn not just by the fragrance of his broth but by the gravity in his voice. There was reverence in the way he described his dish—not to impress, but to honour.

“The flavour,” I murmured, taking another sip. Layers. First, the deep, smoky fire. Then, something floral—almost elusive. “It’s... unlike anything I’ve ever tasted.”

The Mughal smiled, slow and knowing. “Balance. Fire and earth. Some recipes are written on parchment. Others, in bloodlines.”

He studied me for a moment before replying, his voice smooth but distant. “It is a blend honed over generations. Not just spice—but history, ground to dust and stirred into the pot.”

I hesitated. “And the herb? The one that lingers on the tongue—smoky, but with something... floral?”

His smile froze. Slowly, he placed his spoon down, the clink unnaturally loud. “Some things,” he said, voice now a whisper, “are meant to be tasted, not spoken.”

His fingers curled over the rim of his bowl. “A name can be a gift,” he murmured. “Or a key to doors best left locked.”

Jay’s warning surfaced, unwelcome. Taste. Observe. Remember. But some things demand more. Some things beg to be preserved.

I forced a chuckle. “Of course. Just a historian’s curiosity.”

But curiosity does not sit still. It hungers. Jay’s words echoed—taste, observe, remember. But knowledge, once glimpsed, is a beast with claws. And this secret... the desire to know about the unnamed herb was curling around me, tighter by the moment.

I wove my words carefully, like a fisherman casting a net—casual anecdotes, reverence for the past, a writer’s quiet longing. I let him believe I was one of them, a man who valued preservation. The game required patience. I did not ask outright. Instead, I painted a picture—of forgotten cookfires, of manuscripts turned to dust, of histories slipping into silence. He listened. He nodded. And, slowly, I felt the door begin to creak open. I spoke about my upcoming book, my half-done manuscript and my job as a food writer. This made the Mughal gentleman more curious. It took patience—four glasses of different drinks, to be precise—before he finally leaned in and whispered the name of the lost herb.

“Honour this truth. Say to no one,” he said.

I promised.

But as soon as he moved away, I quickly scribbled the name in my notes and slipped into the crowd, eager to meet other guests. I still had millions of questions, but Jay’s warning lingered in my mind—don’t ask about wars, don’t mention kingdoms, don’t disrupt the timeline.

Then, I met the Romans.

They introduced themselves as Pompeians, their laughter rich, their manner open. Three years before the eruption, I realized with a tug in my chest.

They asked what I did for a living.

“I’m a journalist,” I replied.

They frowned. “A what?”

I hesitated. “I write stories—on paper.”

Their confusion deepened. “Words are shared in our time through stone.”

I smirked. “We use phones.”

“What’s a phone?”

My hand instinctively reached for my pocket—only to remember that Jay had taken my phone.

I glanced across the room, where Jay stood at the far end, watching me. He winked.

The conversation was absurd. But here I was, speaking with people centuries apart, sharing meals, discussing how they cooked, how they ate, how they lived. It was intoxicating. My heart kept pumping up and down. My mouth was singing with amazement thanks to the relishing food that was just drowning in my mouth one bite after another.

The party went on all night until the break of dawn peeped through the windows. Most of the guests looked sleepy. The plates on the table were nearly empty. Jay clinked his glass and gave all of us a glass of wine, the courtesy of the Chinese kingdom. I declined because of my faith. I tasted another juice offered by the Mesopotamians. It was probably one of the best drinks that I’ve ever had. Across the room, a Harappan merchant traded barbs with another Mughal courtier over the virtues of flatbread versus rice. It was a surreal sight—one I still struggled to comprehend.

“How long have you been doing this?” I asked, keeping my voice low as I watched Jay exchange greetings with an ancient Chinese scholar.

Jay smirked, swirling the red juice in his glass. “Longer than you can imagine.” His voice carried an odd echo, as if layered with centuries.

I scoffed. “Come on, Jay. You’re a sub-editor at The Paper Chronicles, not some immortal gatekeeper of culinary history.”

His smirk deepened. “And what do we do at The Paper Chronicles?”

I hesitated. “We... report the truth?”

Jay leaned in, his tone quieter now. “And what if the truth was written before it even happened? What if we weren’t just reporting history—but correcting it?”

“Jay…”

He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Some meals are more than just meals. Some words are more than ink.” His fingers tapped the glass in his hand. “And some editors… well, let’s just say, we’re more than we appear.”

I glanced around the room—the guests from different eras, the shifting doorway of time. And then I looked at Jay, a bit closer. Is there a reason why he hardly ages, although we’re of the same age? What’s going on?

Before I could ask, the first guests began to leave.

One by one, they stepped through the doorway of time, vanishing into their respective eras.

The Egyptians walked into a blazing desert.

The Romans into lush green pastures.

The Mesopotamians into arid, sun-bleached lands.

The Mayans disappeared into a dense jungle.

The Chinese to the banks of a river shrouded in mist.

The Mughals stepped into a parched city, perhaps the capital, centuries before my own time.

For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to follow them—to step through history, to witness the kitchens, the markets, the scents of a world lost to time.

Then, the door clicked shut. The symbols on the doorframe flickered with dull flame and then blew away in a wisp of smoke.

And the apartment was empty.

Just Jay and me.

“Jay,” I whispered, my voice thick with awe, “you’ve outdone yourself.”

He raised his glass, drained it, and grinned. “Welcome to history’s best-kept secret.”

By the time I got back home, I still had many questions; What do we do at The Paper Chronicles? What’s the library at the newspaper? How does the door of different timelines work?

Jay said to wait for further invitations, which might come very soon, as long as I stay true to my word and do not talk about this anywhere. Moreover, I was certain that I could never even talk about this, as people would think I was crazy.

Over the following weeks, my notes turned into chapters. The manuscript thickened, filled with pages on ancient recipes, forgotten culinary traditions, and secret herbs. I scoured archives, and read through centuries-old cookbooks, filling in the gaps that history had left behind. I ignored Jay’s final warning. “Don’t write about whatever you have seen at the potluck!”

Months later, during the book launch event, I saw that it was packed. Cameras flashed, journalists from rival papers hovered, waiting to catch me off guard. The Emperor’s Plate: A Journey Through Time and Taste was already a bestseller. I had done it.

As I signed copies, a staff member slipped an envelope onto my table. No return address. Just my name, in precise, old-fashioned script.

I opened it.

Inside, a single note.

“You wrote about the dishes. You broke the rule.”

I had lied to Jay that I didn’t write anything about the potluck but I had actually — I had written about the secret herb the Mughal gentleman had revealed.

My throat went dry. I scanned the room, but no one met my eye. Then, a presence. A shadow stretching longer than it should under the bright bookstore lights. I turned.

Jay stood at the entrance, arms crossed. His usual grin absent. Beside him, a towering figure—robes the colour of midnight ink, eyes like candle flames burning low. Was he the Grand Timeline Keeper of the Food Calendar?

I swallowed.

My fingers tightened around the letter.

I had spent my life writing about the past.

Tonight, it had finally written back.