Chapter 16

Walt takes his sweetie, Maggie, to a fancy restaurant

Chapter 16

 

 

After my harrowing experience with Li’l D and the Hound from Hell, I was exhausted.

Three days undercover and a drug bust hadn’t left much time for my Sweetie.  We had talked on the phone, but we needed an evening together.  We decided we would go out for a nice dinner and see what developed from there.

My definition of a nice dinner and hers sometimes differ.  My definition of fine dining is Mel’s Diner on Broadway.  I eat there a lot. 

At Mel’s you can get a platter of biscuits and gravy and two eggs any way you want them for four bucks. 

When Mel fixes my favorite lunch, he plops a BIG glob of real butter on a piping hot grill and sautés sweet onions until are all gooey and sweet and don’t taste like onions any more and he piles them high on a half pound ground beef patty with fries.  All for six bucks. 

In the evening, you can get a ten-ounce t-bone, a baked potato as big as a football and Texas toast for $9.95. 

What a deal. 

Mel has a sign over his cash register that says, “If you leave here hungry, you didn’t clean your plate.”

And gravy! WOW!  For me, gravy is one of the major food groups.  White cream gravy with ground sausage over biscuits, a hot beef sandwich with rich brown gravy and best of all creamy fried chicken gravy with the little pieces of the chicken coating floating around. 

“Healthy?” you ask.  Well, nobody’s died at Mel’s in 20 years so it can’t be too bad.  I once read that a person would be much healthier eating natural foods, so I tried.  Then I read that most people die of natural causes, so I quit.  I think I just missed Mel.

I picked Maggie up at her apartment and as we pulled away I asked if she had any preference in eating establishments, secretly hoping for Mel’s.  No such luck.

Maggie had heard of a new restaurant that had just opened in the old garment district downtown.  That area had once been all factories, but as more and more labor was outsourced to our friends in China, the factories closed and sat empty for years.  Then came the rebirth of downtown.  Old factory buildings were converted to luxury apartments and condos and gobbled up by the yuppie elite. 

Apparently, this new restaurant, Chez Francois, was opened to cater to the tastes of the new downtown gentry.

When we drove up, I knew we were in trouble right away.  A large sign on the curb said “Valet Parking Only.”  I hate valet parking.  I hate turning my keys over to a pimply faced kid with a stud in his lip.  I hate waiting in line while they try to find where they hid my car.  I hate tipping some jerk for something I’m perfectly capable of doing myself. 

Thanks, I’m glad I got that off my chest. 

We were escorted inside and as I looked around, my suspicions were confirmed. I’m in trouble.  The building had once been one of the big, fancy hotels of the era.  But with the decline of the district, it closed.  The interior had been restored to its’ former grandeur with high ceilings and ornate woodwork.  Tables were set with fine linen cloths and sparkling crystal, and from somewhere the strings of a Bach fugue, or some such thing wafted through the dining area. 

We were seated in a quiet little alcove and were soon approached by a waiter dressed in a starched white shirt and black tie and had on trousers with a pleat so sharp it would cut your finger.

His demeanor was somber and he walked like he had a broomstick up his butt.

He bowed and said, “Good evening, my name is Rolph and I’ll be serving you this evening.”

“Evening, Ralph,” I replied.

“Excuse me, Sir,” he said. “It’s Rolph, not Ralph.” 

Oh s**t, this can’t be good.

“Uhh, yes, Roolph,” I replied and muttered under my breath. “Whatever.”

He laid a book the size of the Kansas City phone directory in front of me, “Our wine list, Sir,” he said.  “Would you like a moment?”

Well, yea!

I looked at page after page of wines but I couldn’t find the Arbor Mist.  “You do have Arbor Mist, don’t you?”

Rolph looked aghast.  “I don’t believe we have that in our wine cellar, Sir.” and stuck his nose in the air.

How can you have eight pages of wine and not have Arbor Mist? Go figure.

Maggie came to the rescue. “We’d like a bottle of your house chardonnay,” she said. 

“Very good, Ma’am,” Rolph replied.  He bowed and walked away.

I might as well share some of my other idiosyncrasies.  I am neither poor nor uneducated.  I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.  But I am a simple guy.  I come from a middle class, blue-collar background, but I have made a comfortable life for myself.

However, the affectations of the wealthy bore me and in my humble opinion are a real pain in the a*s.

Maggie knows me well and I thought I saw a smile cross her face as Rolph and I did our verbal thrust and parry.  She would have to be on her toes this evening. 

Just then, a bus boy arrived with a woven basket of bread. 

Hot dog. 

Now we’re getting somewhere. 

He laid the basket on the table then produced two small platters and a jug that was filled with some viscous liquid that resembled 30-weight motor oil.  He sprinkled some green stuff on the platters and proceeded to pour the Quaker State on top.  “For your bread, Sir,” he said and bowed. 

I don’t think so!

“You wouldn’t happen to have a pat or two of butter back there, would you?” I asked.

“Very good, Sir,” he replied, bowed again and headed off to the kitchen.

I opened the cloth cover of the breadbasket anticipating warm soft yeast rolls.  Yikes!  It might as well have been a basket of hockey pucks.  In my mind, I could see Mel’s Texas toast.  Thick slices of soft bread lightly buttered and grilled to a golden brown and served piping hot to your table. 

Dream on.

Have you ever tried opening one of those things?  A hammer and chisel should come with them as standard equipment.  And, if you do manage to penetrate the outer shell, crumbs are everywhere.  I tried and, sure enough, crumbs were everywhere.  No sooner had my roll exploded in my lap, Rolph approached with a tiny silver dustpan and a tiny whiskbroom. 

“Excuse me, Sir,” he said, and proceeded to whisk away my crumbs. 

Just think of all the labor they would save by serving soft bread. 

I wonder if they have a suggestion box? 

Soon Rolph returned with our bottle of wine, a bucket of ice and two glasses.  He set one glass in front of me and with the skill of a surgeon he whipped out his corkscrew and popped out the cork.  Gotta hand it to old Rolph.  It came out in one piece and he didn’t even need the Black & Decker.

He poured about one swallow in my glass and stepped back.  I thought, “Well hell, I paid forty five dollars for that bottle.  I ought to get more than that.  And even worse, he didn’t even give Maggie any.”

I looked at Maggie.  She grinned at me, nodded her head toward the glass and said, “How about you give it a taste and make sure it’s right for us.”

Oh right!  Maggie saved my sorry a*s again.  I tasted and Rolph waited for my response.  “It’s Ok,” I replied. “But it’s sure no Arbor Mist.”

Rolph turned and walked away.

He returned with menus.

“What’s good tonight, Roolph?” I asked.  Just friendly banter with the waiter. Right?

He stiffened, “Sir, everything from our kitchen is good.”

OK then.  It was really just a rhetorical question.

We studied the menu.  When I say studied, I’m serious.  You’d have to be fluent in three languages to read the damn thing.  “Do you know what any of this stuff is?” I asked Maggie.

She shrugged her shoulders and frankly I was relieved when she said, “Not really.”  I hated being the only dummy. 

Rolph returned with order pad in hand and looked expectantly in our direction.

Maggie spoke first. “I’d like a shrimp cocktail and your house salad with creamy Italian dressing, please.”  Maggie had been watching the calories, so I didn’t know if her order was weight watching or a cop-out on the menu selections.

Now understand, I’ve got nothing against salad.  I even eat it sometimes.  But man didn’t get to the top of the food chain by grazing. We’re carnivores, after all.  I needed meat.

I pointed to the menu and said to Rolph, “Maybe you can help me out here.  Where’s the beef?”

I thought I detected a slight flinch, but Rolph replied without hesitation, “May I recommend, Sir, our beef tenderloin medallions, garlic whipped potatoes and vegetable medley.”

“Sounds good to me,” I replied.  Meat, potatoes and vegetables.  Can’t be too bad.

Our dinners arrived.  A huge bowl of salad and a glass with shrimp butts sticking out the top was placed in front of Maggie.

I looked at my plate.  Yikes!  There were two tiny pieces of meat, each about the size of a fifty-cent piece and each was covered with a teaspoon-sized dollop of mashed potatoes.  On the left side of the plate were two carrot spears and on the right, two asparagus spears.  Yellow gunky stuff was dribbled around the edge of the plate and a sprig of something that resembled the weeds I spray in my yard was sticking out of the mashed potatoes.

“Lovely presentation, isn’t it, Sir?” Rolph gushed.

“Presentation my a*s!” I thought.  “Where’s my dinner?”

But to Rolph I replied, “Lovely, just lovely.  You wouldn’t happen to have some gravy back there, would you?’

Wounded, he replied, “We don’t serve GRAVY here, Sir,” and he walked away.

It didn’t take long to finish dinner.

Rolph returned with another menu.  “Would you care to order dessert, Sir?” he inquired.

I was still hungry and I was thinking of Mel’s pies.  Lemon, chocolate, coconut cream.  Six inches high with creamy filling and fluffy white meringue.  “Sure,” I said and took the menu.

OK, they had flambé, brule and a torte.  Where’s the pie?

Rolph returned.  “Your order, Sir?”

“Two tortes,” I replied, “and two cups of coffee.”  And off he went.

He returned with a dainty little cup about the size of a big thimble.  My heart sank as I thought of the giant mugs of steaming coffee at Mel’s.  You could sit and drink all day for $1.95.  I was paying $6.00 a gulp. 

I turned to Rolph, “Do you give refills?”  I asked.  Without even a nod he turned and walked away.  I think I was getting on his nerves.

He returned with our tortes.  Do you know what a torte is?  Well, I didn’t either, but I soon discovered it was a little square piece of pastry not much larger than a postage stamp.  It doesn’t even have icing.  But, all kinds of colored syrup were dribbled around the plate in a fancy design.  Humph, Picasso torte.  But what good was it.  The only way it could be eaten was to lick it off the plate and after what I’d seen so far, I didn’t think that was an option. 

Oh, yeh.  Presentation.  Bullshit!

By the time I had paid my bill, tipped Rolph and the valet, I had dropped a couple of c-notes.  I could have eaten at Mel’s for two weeks for that kind of money.

Probably won’t be back.

 

***

 

We had avoided talking about the ‘Realtor Rapist’ at dinner.  Just getting through the meal was stressful enough.

On the way back to her apartment I related my latest adventures in crime fighting.  She was shocked to learn that I had actually been shot at and horrified that she had almost lost Mr. Winkie to the Hound of the Baskervilles.   

She invited me in for a cup of hot chocolate and a cookie.  Maybe two cookies.  I was starving.

We finally got around to the elephant in the room.  The murders.

I told her about Dr. Billings’ profile of the murderer and that the detectives were now concentrating their efforts looking for someone within the real estate industry, either an agent or an affiliate, who might have an axe to grind with women of authority. 

It was hard to get her head around the idea that someone so close to home could commit such atrocities.  It would be so much easier to believe that the killer was a total stranger.

I had been an active agent for 30 years, but had been retired about six months by this time.  Maggie, of course, was still entirely immersed in the business.  Between the two of us, we knew most of the agents in most of the offices.

I asked her what had been in the grapevine just before the murders started.  There was always scuttlebutt circulating about whom was screwing whom, both figuratively and professionally.  Nothing startling.  There were a few dalliances of note and agents were always grumbling about how some competitor had stolen their client, but certainly nothing to evoke the violent rage exhibited by the killer.

Earlier in the evening I had formulated a plan to turn Mr. Winkie into Mr. Happy, but by this time we were both so exhausted I discovered he had become Mr. Sleepy.  Not wanting him exposed as Mr. Dopey, I kissed her goodnight and said goodbye. 

I cautioned Maggie again not to set foot out of her office without a call, e-mail or text letting me know where she was going, who she was going with, and when she would return.  She promised.