Fiction : Savannah Guz
His second drink arrived, and he took another large sip. He got up and went over to the redhead’s table, drink in hand. “So, uh, what are you working on there?” He propped his head on his hand and smiled at her. His elbow slipped off the table, and he repositioned it, undaunted.
“A menu.” She extinguished her cigarette coolly.
“A menu?” He sat back, put his fingers in his belt loops and whistled. “Don’t tell me you work in this dump.”
“Actually, I own this dump.”
“Oh Jesus. Sorry. It’s nice. Real nice. I didn’t mean that.”
“Right. So are you ordering food or just drinking?”
“All of the above,” he lifted a finger playfully. His arm wavered.
She motioned for the waitress. “He’ll have the New York Strip with a baked potato and a side of grilled vegetables. A house salad with green goddess dressing. Oh and, Doris, don’t forget the sour cream.”
“Do - ris,” he sang out gleefully, throwing a goofy smile up at the waitress, who grimaced at him.
The redhead smiled as she might have at an amusing child and went back to menu planning. He saw she had a pen and had begun writing. “How ‘bout,” he began, “foi gras? Tea smoked duck with frambois glaze?”
“That kind of fare doesn’t sell in this town.”
“Why leave New York?”
“Why else?”
“A man?”
“This place is called Armand’s, isn’t it?”
His salad arrived. The notion of tucking his napkin into his shirt collar crossed his mind and was, despite his intoxicated state, immediately banished. “Listen, do you know who I am?”
“Should I?”
“Well…”
“Yes, I know who you are. You’re the kind of man who always comes in here and tries to make time with the waitresses. Who cares more about tail than food. I know your kind well.”
“No, no. I’m a guide book writer.” He leaned across the table to touch her hand appeasingly, and dragged a sleeve through his salad dressing in the process.
“Oh? What kind of guide books?”
“Culinary travel. I help generate traffic for restaurants by rating them on the star system.”
She snorted. “Well, you’re a little late here. We’re closing next week.”
“Oh,” he seemed deflated. He sat back in his chair and gazed at his salad. “I guess that means you won’t sleep with me.”
“I wouldn’t have anyway, Clark Gable.” She got up and took her glass and ashtray with her. “Eat up. We may be closing, but there’s still plenty of food.”
He ate sullenly, his alcohol buzz, upon the woman’s departure from his table, effectively worn off. He was, it seemed now, gazing back into the familiar and wide morass of personal disappointment. His steak was edible, but certainly not rare, as he liked it to be. His vegetables were mushy in a way that suggested they were leftovers. His baked potato was the best thing on the plate. He wouldn’t have given this place even a solitary star.