slates."
"Stupid photographer," I grumbled. "He probably prefers cheeseburgers to veal piccata."
Meg laughed. "Is that the way you think of me? As veal piccata?" "It's a splendid classic dish," I said.
I turned southward and she asked where we were going. I told her I knew a fine restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, and would she mind traveling for about an hour?
"Couldn't care less," she said. "I'm so happy to get out of that house."
"Oh?" I said. "Problems?"
"My brother-in-law," she said. "I can't stand the way he treats Laverne. The man is really a mouthy lout. I don't know how my sister puts up with him."
"Maybe she loves him," I said mildly.
Meg hooted. "Laverne loves the perks of being Mrs. Harry Willigan. But she's paying her dues. I'd never do it. If a man screamed at me the way Harry does, I'd clean his clock."
"I'll remember that."
"See that you do," she said, so solemnly that I couldn't decide if she was serious or putting me on.
I had hoped it would be a pure night, the air crystal, the sky glittering like a Cartier ad in Town amp; Country. But it was not to be. That murky ocean should have warned me; there was a squall brewing offshore, and the cloud cover was thickening.
"I think it's going to rain," Meg said.
"It wouldn't dare," I said. "I planned a romantic evening, and it's hard to be romantic when you're sopping wet."
"Oh, I don't know," she said thoughtfully, which convinced me this woman had depths.
Her prediction was accurate; rain began to spatter when we hit Deerfield Beach, south of Boca Raton. I didn't think it would last long-summer squalls rarely did-but it could be a brief vertical tsunami.
"We can stop and put up the top," I told Meg, "and then continue on to Lauderdale. Or we can take potluck and stop at the first restaurant we see that offers shelter for the car. Which shall it be?"
"You call it," she said.
So we continued on, the Miata hatless and the rain becoming more determined. Then, at Lighthouse Point, I spotted a Tex-Mex joint that had a portico out front. We pulled under just in time to avoid a Niagara that would have left us bobbing in a filled bathtub.
"Good choice," Meg said. "I love chili."
Marvelous woman! Not the slightest complaint that her jacket was semi-sodden and her short hair wetly plastered to her skull. We scampered inside the restaurant, laughing, and at that moment I really didn't care if the Miata floated away in our absence.
It was not the Oak Room at the Plaza. More of a Formica Room with paper roses stuck in empty olive jars on every table. It was crowded, which I took as a good omen. We grabbed the only empty booth available and slid in. Paper napkins were jammed in a steel dispenser, and the cutlery looked like Army surplus. But the glassware was clean, and there was a bowl of pickled tomatoes, mushrooms, and jalapenos, with tortilla chips, for noshing until we ordered.
The menu, taped to the wall, was a dream come true. We studied the offerings with little moans of delight. Dishes ranged from piquant to incendiary, and I reckoned that we might have been wise to wear sweats.
The stumpy waiter who came bustling to take our order had a long white apron cinched under his armpits. He also had a mustache that Pancho Villa might have envied.
"Tonight's spassel," he announced proudly, "is pork loin basted with red mole sauce and served with black bean relish in a tortilla with roast tomato chili sauce. Ver' nice."
"Mild?" I asked him.
"You crazy?" he said.
But we skipped the spassel. Meg relaxed her stricture against red meat to order an appetizer of Kick-Ass Venison Chili. (I am not making it up; that's what it was called.) Her entree was Cajun Seafood Jambalaya (including crawdads) in a hot Creole sauce with garlicky sausage rice.
I went for an appetizer of Swamp Wings (fried frog legs with pepper sauce) and, for a main course, Sirloin Fajita. It was described on the menu as a grilled marinated steak basted with Jack Daniel's and served with
"Stupid photographer," I grumbled. "He probably prefers cheeseburgers to veal piccata."
Meg laughed. "Is that the way you think of me? As veal piccata?" "It's a splendid classic dish," I said.
I turned southward and she asked where we were going. I told her I knew a fine restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, and would she mind traveling for about an hour?
"Couldn't care less," she said. "I'm so happy to get out of that house."
"Oh?" I said. "Problems?"
"My brother-in-law," she said. "I can't stand the way he treats Laverne. The man is really a mouthy lout. I don't know how my sister puts up with him."
"Maybe she loves him," I said mildly.
Meg hooted. "Laverne loves the perks of being Mrs. Harry Willigan. But she's paying her dues. I'd never do it. If a man screamed at me the way Harry does, I'd clean his clock."
"I'll remember that."
"See that you do," she said, so solemnly that I couldn't decide if she was serious or putting me on.
I had hoped it would be a pure night, the air crystal, the sky glittering like a Cartier ad in Town amp; Country. But it was not to be. That murky ocean should have warned me; there was a squall brewing offshore, and the cloud cover was thickening.
"I think it's going to rain," Meg said.
"It wouldn't dare," I said. "I planned a romantic evening, and it's hard to be romantic when you're sopping wet."
"Oh, I don't know," she said thoughtfully, which convinced me this woman had depths.
Her prediction was accurate; rain began to spatter when we hit Deerfield Beach, south of Boca Raton. I didn't think it would last long-summer squalls rarely did-but it could be a brief vertical tsunami.
"We can stop and put up the top," I told Meg, "and then continue on to Lauderdale. Or we can take potluck and stop at the first restaurant we see that offers shelter for the car. Which shall it be?"
"You call it," she said.
So we continued on, the Miata hatless and the rain becoming more determined. Then, at Lighthouse Point, I spotted a Tex-Mex joint that had a portico out front. We pulled under just in time to avoid a Niagara that would have left us bobbing in a filled bathtub.
"Good choice," Meg said. "I love chili."
Marvelous woman! Not the slightest complaint that her jacket was semi-sodden and her short hair wetly plastered to her skull. We scampered inside the restaurant, laughing, and at that moment I really didn't care if the Miata floated away in our absence.
It was not the Oak Room at the Plaza. More of a Formica Room with paper roses stuck in empty olive jars on every table. It was crowded, which I took as a good omen. We grabbed the only empty booth available and slid in. Paper napkins were jammed in a steel dispenser, and the cutlery looked like Army surplus. But the glassware was clean, and there was a bowl of pickled tomatoes, mushrooms, and jalapenos, with tortilla chips, for noshing until we ordered.
The menu, taped to the wall, was a dream come true. We studied the offerings with little moans of delight. Dishes ranged from piquant to incendiary, and I reckoned that we might have been wise to wear sweats.
The stumpy waiter who came bustling to take our order had a long white apron cinched under his armpits. He also had a mustache that Pancho Villa might have envied.
"Tonight's spassel," he announced proudly, "is pork loin basted with red mole sauce and served with black bean relish in a tortilla with roast tomato chili sauce. Ver' nice."
"Mild?" I asked him.
"You crazy?" he said.
But we skipped the spassel. Meg relaxed her stricture against red meat to order an appetizer of Kick-Ass Venison Chili. (I am not making it up; that's what it was called.) Her entree was Cajun Seafood Jambalaya (including crawdads) in a hot Creole sauce with garlicky sausage rice.
I went for an appetizer of Swamp Wings (fried frog legs with pepper sauce) and, for a main course, Sirloin Fajita. It was described on the menu as a grilled marinated steak basted with Jack Daniel's and served with
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