20. Iron Jack
IRON JACK
I’ve never been to Jersey, so Greta drives me around the next day to see the places she knows best. There’s a coffee shop that serves what she calls “a mean little ultra-dark espresso.”
And she’s right. The tiny cup is black as a biker’s heart and hot and bitter and wakes you right up like somebody punched you in the throat.
We drive by her son’s school, quiet and closed up on a Saturday. I wonder if she’ll kick me out by Sunday afternoon when she gets Caden from his dad. It’s tricky territory, and I understand that. I’ll follow her lead on it.
There’s a walking trail on a river that is still running in places and frozen over in others. Greta looks like a dress-up doll of a suburban mother in her puffy white coat and gray yoga pants, right until you get to her red hair bright above it all, stark against the snow-drenched park.
I finger it when we pause on a bench. “So, is this color a rebellion or a preference?”
She shrugs. “Both, maybe. When my blond hair started getting dull, I didn’t want to platinum it up, so I went more strawberry. Then it got progressively redder. It’s kind of like slowly boiling the frog. I didn’t realize how vivid it had gotten until I looked at older pictures.”
“And now it’s you?”
“Now it’s me.”
She stands, and we keep going. I take her gloved hand in my bare one. I like the winter.
For dinner, we take the train into Manhattan.
I sit beside her on a bench facing the other passengers, glowering at any man who looks at her longer than a few seconds.
She’s changed into all black to match me, tight leather pants, a fitted jacket, and a shimmery shirt that cuts low, a cluster of silver chains dipping into her cleavage.
She’s hot as hell.
We walk from the station to a restaurant in a long line of buildings. I haven’t been to New York in years, and then only to fly in, drive to an MMA event where I had two fights, spend the night, and fly out again. We didn’t do much exploring.
“Why this place?” I ask as a young woman in a plain black dress takes Greta’s jacket and whisks it away.
“I’ve been meaning to come here,” Greta says. “You’re a good excuse.”
I get her meaning. Her shitty husband wouldn’t bring her.
We follow a man in a suit and bow tie to a table near the back. I’m aware that I’m not dressed like everyone else here, but nobody pays me any mind. We sit down, and I pick up the fancy fabric napkin. It’s folded into a duck or a swan or something.
Greta reaches out to press her hand on mine. “Leave it to the server.”
I set it back down and sure enough, another man, this one in a white shirt and black vest, unfurls the napkin and lays it across my lap.
This is ridiculous. “You aren’t allowed to unfold your own damn napkin here?”
“It’s a courtesy,” Greta says. She sits back as the man shakes out the duck shape and spreads it across her thighs.
I glare at the man. If his finger strays one inch, I’ll break all ten of them.
He stands and bows his head as yet another person hands us two pieces of fancy textured paper. “The summer lay will be along shortly,” he says. Then he’s gone before we can order a damn thing.
“What is he talking about? A summer lay?”
Greta stifles a giggle. “Sommelier. It’s the wine steward. He’ll tell us our options.”
“How many people does it take to serve a table here?”
She looks over the paper we got. “It’s the kind of place that definitely overdoes it.”
The menu doesn’t have much on it. Three types of appetizers. Two salads. Four mains, none of them steak. And two desserts.
I flip the paper over. That’s it?
Greta bites back another smile. “The menu changes every day. They do very good pastas here, I’m told. And the desserts are to die for.”
“Should we order one of everything?” I glance over at the table next to us as their server sets their dinner before them. There is way more plate than food. “Yeah, we should order one of everything.”
“That might get a little pricy,” she says. “We can always get hot dogs from a cart afterward.”
That’s more my speed. I decide on the salmon, since I don’t ever get that at the club, and a random salad. The appetizers are in French, or maybe Italian. I’ve seen this comedy. I’m not getting tricked into accidentally eating goat brains.
A man in a tux arrives, his hands clasped together near his chest. “Hello, I’m Don. We can go over the wine selections. Would you like an aperitif ahead of dinner?”
I have no idea what he just said.
“Wine is fine, I think,” Greta says. “Or do you have any beers?”
The man nods. “We have three small batch artisan brews, a Belgian ale, a stout, and a craft lager.”
“I better take the stout, since the others are probably piss water,” I say.
Greta presses the back of her hand to her mouth to hide her laugh. “I plan to have the salmon,” she manages to say. “What would you suggest?”
“I have a lovely dry chardonnay from California,” he says. “Or a French sauvignon blanc.”
“Let’s try the chardonnay,” she says.
“Very good,” he says. He looks at me as if to say something else, then thinks better of it and says, “I’ll return momentarily.”
“I guess we’re both getting the salmon,” I say when he’s gone. At least he’s not turning his nose up at us. Or at me. Greta fits right in here. The men are all dressed up in suits.
Mostly. There’s another couple that doesn’t fit in. The man wears a red track suit and a pile of thick gold chains. His white Nikes are immaculate. He’s got on one of those open-topped tennis hats with a colored visor. It’s upside down.
He catches me looking and takes me in with my double layer of shirts and the leather cut. He juts his chin up in a “hey” gesture. Confidence and “fuck off” vibes run off him like rain water.
I return the gesture.
Now I get it. The staff thinks I’m some kind of celebrity like that guy. We do what we want. It’s funny that only the weak, pale business types have to toe the line with fancy suits. The rest of us can walk in wearing a clown costume.
“What do you think?” Greta asks. “Did I lead us astray?”
I don’t like that she’s so far, so I shift my chair closer to the corner and drag hers to mine. I drape my arm over her shoulders. “Whatever you like, I like.”
“Good.”
A young woman sets down a basket of bread, and the man who handled our napkins quickly arranges plates and forks and knives in front of us.
I wait him out, then peer into the basket. I’m starved. “Looks good.” I pluck it out with my hands and break it in two.
Another smile. Greta takes her half and taps it against mine. “Let’s find out.”
We both bite into it.
It’s good, soft and flavorful. As I swallow the chunk I tore out of it, I realize, actually, that it might be the best bread I’ve ever tasted in my life.
“Try it with the seasoned butter,” Greta says, sliding a knife into the flower-shaped lump of yellow speckled with green.
I wasn’t sure that was even food until she did that. I stab the flower and spread the butter on the end of my bread.
This bite makes my head swoon. What is this magic?
“That’s good,” Greta says, setting down her bite. I’m surprised she is physically able to separate herself from this heavenly concoction.
I double down, spreading more butter on and feeling another rush. “Are you kidding?” I say. “It’s like baked sex.”
She laughs so suddenly that it’s a snort, and she smacks her hand over her mouth. “Jack!”
“Well, it is.” I finish mine off. “I want more of that.” I glance around, looking for the bread basket girl.
“You can have mine.” She transfers her chunk of the loaf to my plate. “I want to have room for the rest.”
There is that. If the bread is this good, who knows what else is in store?
Tux Man returns with a glass of white wine for Greta and a frothy dark pint for me.
I take one sip and feel transported. “Damn,” I tell Greta. “Do they put drugs in this stuff or what?” I want to down the whole thing and throw the glass to the ground like Chris Hemsworth in Thor.
“It’s definitely not the schlock my brothers serve at the Leaky Skull.”
I guzzle another third of the glass before I defend them. “They have some good stuff there. Don’t knock how the lower half lives.”
She sips her wine and sighs. “I know, I know. Just every time I’m there for a while, I forget how nice it is here.”
“Rural Florida hits different.” I drain the glass, feeling better about the place. But her words chill the happy buzz I was feeling from the beer and bread. “You like the high life, don’t you?”
That would count me out.
She swirls her glass, watching the pale gold liquid race around. “I’m not sure what I like anymore. My life was all fixed in place. Husband, job, family. And now it’s in pieces everywhere.” She takes a sip of the wine and sends a sidelong glance my way. “Last week was a nice escape.”
Escape. Temporary. Like a beach vacation.
I want her permanently.
But not yet.
Not with what is happening next.
I lean back in my chair. “I’m happy to be your escape.”
The salads arrive, and I seriously haven’t had anything like it. The dressing doesn’t come out of a bottle, that’s for sure.
I’m three beers in when the salmon arrives.
And I nearly spew the stout across the table.
Greta’s eyes go wide, and she leans away as if to escape her plate.
“What is this shit?” I say, loud enough that several tables of customers look our way.
Greta doesn’t even try to tone me down. She looks at the boy who brought it and repeats what I said. “What is this shit?”
The man, who is maybe twenty-two, looks terrified. “I’m just the runner,” he says. “I’ll find your server.”
Both Greta and I look down at our plates as if to confirm we saw what we thought we saw.
Two white plates, each with one yellow flower.
And the head of a fish, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
Greta covers her mouth with both hands. “This is…oh. Jack. I had no idea.” She backs up her chair to get even farther away from the dead salmon’s face.
I can’t bring myself to try it. Maybe it’s delicious, but the amount of actual edible salmon past the neck of the fish face is minimal. It really is just the head on the plate.
And I’m not eating whatever is behind those eyes and gaping mouth.
The server who took our order approaches with a poker face worthy of Vegas. “May I address any questions you might have?”
“Sure, buddy,” I say, pointing at my plate. “What in the actual fuck did you serve us?”
“It’s quite the delicacy,” he says.
“It’s bullshit,” I say, my voice booming. When people look our way, I lift the plate. “Look at this bullshit!” I announce to the room.
And that’s when it happens.
The fish face slides off the plate and right into the flowers in the center of the table.