Chapter Fifty-One
They walked to the entrance and were greeted by a young blonde woman. “Welcome to the Copper Kettle. Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes,” Mike answered, smiling. “Mike Jones.”
She looked at a book on the podium. “Right. Mr. Jones, party of two.” She looked up and at Jamie more closely. “Jamie Puckett?”
“Um... yes. Do I know you?”
“It’s me, Melissa Osborne. We went to school together.”
“Wow, it’s been a while.” Jamie couldn’t believe it was the same girl he knew back in school. She was one of the ugliest girls in school. I wonder if she had work done?
“Yes, it has. I was truly sorry to hear about your grandparents. My condolences.”
“Thank you. They were quite special people.”
“They were.” She looked Jamie over quickly. “I heard that you closed the diner and are doing some renovations?”
“Yes. We’ll reopen in a few weeks. I hope.”
“That’s nice.” She looked at Mike and said, “Right this way.”
Jamie sat down and waited until she’d left. “That was a blast from the past. She’s definitely had her teeth straightened as well as her hair. It’s not nice to say, but she was downright homely when I last saw her.”
Mike smiled. “I can honestly say I’ve only run into a few of my old classmates when I’m home visiting my parents. I didn’t have many close friends in school.”
“Really?” Jamie leaned into the leather back of the booth where they’d been seated. “I’d have thought you were like the star quarterback or high school prom king.”
“Oh no.” Mike laughed. “I was a tall, gangly teenager. I didn’t start really growing up and working out until I joined the army. I grew four inches after I graduated high school.”
“Okay. That’s a surprise.” Jamie picked up the menu, scanning it. “All this is pretty simple stuff. Nothing really all that special.”
Mike leaned in towards Jamie. “See what I was saying? The things I’ve had here are average at best. Even I could cook a steak as well as they do. The shrimp scampi was okay. Not enough garlic in my opinion.”
Jamie nodded. “The real secret to a good shrimp scampi is cold white wine and cold butter to finish. It helps thicken the sauce.”
“And that right there”—Mike pointed to Jamie—“that’s what I was talking about. You know all this stuff. It’d be going to waste if you only cook for the diner.”
“Could we not... just not talk about any of... well, that?” Jamie didn’t look at Mike then. “I feel like my whole body might explode.”
“I’m sorry.” Mike reached out his hand, looking to take Jamie’s. “I don’t want to make you uptight or sad or...” his voice trailed off. “I really want to see you happy.”
A waitress approached. “Good evening, my name is Jennifer, and I will be taking care of you tonight. May I get you gentlemen something from the bar?”
Mike nodded towards Jamie. “May I have a glass of the Pouilly-Fuissé, please?” Jamie saw the ever so slight raise of her eyebrows.
“And for you, sir?” She asked, turning her attention to Mike.
“I’ll have the same, but can you bring a bottle?”
“Of course. Very good.” She wrote down the order. “Would you like to hear about the chef’s specials tonight?”
“Yes, please.” Jamie wasn’t holding out hope for anything special about the specials.
“He has prepared a low country special, shrimp and grits. It’s a traditional shrimp dish, with onion, garlic, and green bell peppers in a rich, savoury sauce.
There is also the fish of the day, which is farm-raised catfish.
It is batter dipped, deep-fried, and served with the house special coleslaw and French fries.
” She smiled sweetly. “I’ll let you have a think about it and will be back with your bottle of wine. ”
“She can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen,” Jamie said. “I wonder if she’s ever sold a full bottle of wine.”
Mike looked at Jamie. “I can assure you that she’s never been to Burgundy, France.” He chortled.
“Have you?” Jamie asked, interested.
“I have. When I was being transferred back home from Germany, I took some time off and travelled around France. I loved it. I’d go back at the drop of a hat.”
“That’s good to know.” Jamie smiled. “My father lives in France. He stays in Paris three or four days a week and then has a house, well... chateau in Seine-Saint-Denis.”
“Okay.” Mike tilted his head slightly and raised his eyebrows. “I did not know that. Do you visit often?”
“Not as often as I would like.” Jamie sighed. “I took Joesph with me two years ago. Then I went for Christmas last year.”
“I think if I had to pick a foreign country to live in, it would be France,” Mike said. “I like the culture and, of course, the food. They have... I don’t know how to say it. They really like their food.”
“It’s respect.” Jamie straightened his posture slightly as he spoke. “They respect their food. From the produce to the proteins. Even their butter is some of the best in the world. I won’t even go into the cheese they produce. Wine, bread, charcuterie, everything. Just the absolute best.”
“Yes!” Mike sat back. “That is exactly what it is. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Respect.”
“Your bottle of wine,” a young man about Jamie’s age presented the bottle to Mike.
Mike read the label. “Georges Duboeuf?” He read aloud, looking curiously at Jamie. He nodded to the guy, who was standing there staring at Jamie, but not saying anything. He proceeded to open the wine, removing the cork with little effort. He poured the sample for Mike.
“Good,” Mike said, nodding his head.
The server poured a glass for Jamie and then for Mike.
Jennifer appeared with a standing ice bucket for the rest of the bottle.
The young man who’d opened the wine wrapped the top of the bottle with a white cloth napkin, then placed the bottle in the ice.
“Enjoy,” he said, nodding to both men and left.
“I knew that poor girl couldn’t open a bottle of wine,” Jamie chuckled and took a sip of the wine. He couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose.
“I agree,” Mike said. “That’s some cheap wine. I’ve never heard of that winery either.”
“I bet they send all the crap wine to the States,” Jamie laughed. “I can’t see a Frenchman drinking this.”
“Have you made any plans to go back to France?” Mike asked, wine glass in hand.
“No,” Jamie said flatly. “I had thought about sometime this summer, but all that got put on hold because...”
“Have you gentlemen made a decision?” Jennifer asked, again a slight smile on her lips.
Mike nodded for Jamie to go first. “I think I’ll have the house salad with bleu cheese dressing and the house strip steak, medium rare, no sauce, and the side of steamed vegetables.”
Mike had watched Jamie carefully as he ordered. “And I’ll have the house salad, also bleu cheese dressing.” He looked at the menu again. “The shrimp and grits special, please.”
“Very good.” Jennifer wrote the order in her little black book. “I’ll put your order in. I’ll be back with your salads.” She walked away.
“So, what did you do today?” Jamie asked, breaking the sudden silence.
Mike scowled. “Paperwork. The never-ending chore of paperwork.” He looked at Jamie. “The military and the government demand piles upon piles of paperwork. Even if everything is on the computer, they still want the damn stuff on paper. A forest of paper.”
“That sounds exciting,” Jamie laughed. “From the look on your face, I can tell you love your job.”
True to her word, Jennifer brought two house salads, a basket of sliced baguette bread, and packets of what Jamie would call fake butter.
Jamie took a piece of the bread and smelled it. It was missing that rich yeasty smell that he’d become accustomed to with the bread. He didn’t bother with the so-called butter and took a bite.
“Well?” Mike asked.
“It’s... flat. I don’t know how else to describe it.”
“Good word.”
They ate and chatted some about the diner, and a little more detail about what Mike’s job entailed. After they had finished their salads and the plates had been removed, Jennifer delivered their main course. “Enjoy.”
Mike took a bite of his shrimp and grits. “I don’t think this is supposed to be runny.” He grimaced.
“No. It’s not. It should be thick but not gooey.” He looked at the bowl in front of Mike. “That’s... sad.”
“I should have gone with the steak like you did.” Mike sighed before taking another bite of his dish. “There isn’t a lot of flavour here.”
Jamie cut into the middle of the steak and looked up at Mike. “Overcooked.”
“Will you send it back?” Mike asked quietly.
“No. It’s okay.” He took a bite and reached for the salt and pepper. “Not a lick of seasoning,” he muttered. “It has to be really bad for me to send something back.”
They decided to share a piece of the coconut cream cake, with neither of them finishing it. They both agreed that it was very dry.
When they were back in the truck, Mike asked, “Okay, give an honest review of that meal.”
“Um... truthfully?”
“Yes, I did ask for an honest review.” Mike pulled out onto the main road in Columbus.
“Well, I wouldn’t go back.” Jamie thought for a moment. “The wine was cheap and then expensive, the bread was generic, the salad was... not very fresh, the bleu cheese dressing was watery, the steak was overcooked and wasn’t seasoned with anything, and your shrimp and grits looked awful.”
Mike laughed. “That was brutal, honest, and the truth.”