hotel?”
Why indeed, thought Bram. If he’d stuck around instead of blowing a gasket, he might not be so completely in the dark right now.
“I just think you deserve better.”
“I already have the best, honey. If I have to fight Nathan for her, I will.”
“God, that is so totally Neanderthal, Dad. You’re like a gorilla in a forest making uhga uhga sounds to prove you’re the alpha male.”
Bram laughed. “Nice image.”
“My father is more evolved than that.”
“Don’t kid yourself. When it comes to love and war, nobody’s evolved.”
They continued on in silence.
As they passed through the wrought-iron gate and headed up the steps to the club, Margie asked where they were.
“You’ve heard of the Rookery Club, right?”
“Not really.”
Bram briefly explained the history. Once inside, he stopped to talk to Sheldon Larr, the maître d’, to see if they could get a dinner reservation. Sheldon told him there would be a twenty-minute wait.
“Well,” said Bram, looking around, “do you want a drink or a guided tour of the building?”
Margie glanced into the Wackenhut room. “Omigod, there’s Mrs. Josefowicz. We did her daughter’s wedding last month.” She waved and plunged into the crowd. “Mrs. Josefowicz, hi! It’s Margie Baldric!”
Bram smiled. Margie was just like him—a born schmoozer.
Seeing that Margie was already talking up a storm, Bram decided to check out the action in the De Gustabus room, a large pantry off the kitchen that Vince Parillo had turned into a dining room.
Within the Rookery Club were smaller groups based on specific gastronomic interests. For instance, there was a wine club that met the third Wednesday of every month. Then there was a bread-making club, an Italian food lovers club, a coffee and tea tasting club, and on and on. The strangest group of all was De Gustabus. So strange in fact that it had only three members—two now that Bob Fabian was dead. The reason for the limited interest was the kind of cuisine De Gustabus pursued.
Bob Fabian, Lyle Boerichter, and Vince Parillo had met in Viet Nam. What drew them together years later was a love of, well, just plain weird food—food that most Americans would find not only disgusting but downright dangerous. All three men traced their love of odd cuisine to the years they spent in South-east Asia.
Bram had done a tour in Viet Nam himself, but he’d never much liked the local food. He had grown up eating tuna noodle casserole, hamburgers, and grilled cheese sandwiches. As a young army grunt, he was by no means a culinary adventurer, although he found that he was fascinated by it now. Not that he wanted to eat pygmy iguana paté, snake soup, or lamprey stew, but the menus never failed to intrigue him. So much so that he often dropped in on the De Gustabus room to see what new loathsome beast the men were eating.
Above the door to the small dining room, Vince had placed the sign NO RESERVATIONS REQUIRED. That was obvious. There was no stampede to get a seat at the table, only to be served a chocolate cricket torte. Vince was not only the head chef at the club, he was also the culinary inspiration for most of the De Gustabus dishes. The “normal” club members forgave him his culinary idiosyncrasies because he was such a marvelous chef.
Tonight, when Bram entered, he found only one man present. Lyle Boerichter was an airline pilot for Sunrise Airlines. He was husky, maybe five-nine, with thinning red hair and a florid, bulldog face. The lights in the room were turned low. At the end of the long table was a picture frame with black crepe paper draped around it. Bram squinted to get a better look. It was a picture of Bob Fabian.
Lyle sat with a bottle of rye whiskey in front of him. His head rested on his hand, elbow on the table, and in the other hand, he held a shot glass. When he looked up and saw Bram standing in the doorway, he gave a faint smile. “Hey, Baldric. Sit down. Join me.” He lifted his
Why indeed, thought Bram. If he’d stuck around instead of blowing a gasket, he might not be so completely in the dark right now.
“I just think you deserve better.”
“I already have the best, honey. If I have to fight Nathan for her, I will.”
“God, that is so totally Neanderthal, Dad. You’re like a gorilla in a forest making uhga uhga sounds to prove you’re the alpha male.”
Bram laughed. “Nice image.”
“My father is more evolved than that.”
“Don’t kid yourself. When it comes to love and war, nobody’s evolved.”
They continued on in silence.
As they passed through the wrought-iron gate and headed up the steps to the club, Margie asked where they were.
“You’ve heard of the Rookery Club, right?”
“Not really.”
Bram briefly explained the history. Once inside, he stopped to talk to Sheldon Larr, the maître d’, to see if they could get a dinner reservation. Sheldon told him there would be a twenty-minute wait.
“Well,” said Bram, looking around, “do you want a drink or a guided tour of the building?”
Margie glanced into the Wackenhut room. “Omigod, there’s Mrs. Josefowicz. We did her daughter’s wedding last month.” She waved and plunged into the crowd. “Mrs. Josefowicz, hi! It’s Margie Baldric!”
Bram smiled. Margie was just like him—a born schmoozer.
Seeing that Margie was already talking up a storm, Bram decided to check out the action in the De Gustabus room, a large pantry off the kitchen that Vince Parillo had turned into a dining room.
Within the Rookery Club were smaller groups based on specific gastronomic interests. For instance, there was a wine club that met the third Wednesday of every month. Then there was a bread-making club, an Italian food lovers club, a coffee and tea tasting club, and on and on. The strangest group of all was De Gustabus. So strange in fact that it had only three members—two now that Bob Fabian was dead. The reason for the limited interest was the kind of cuisine De Gustabus pursued.
Bob Fabian, Lyle Boerichter, and Vince Parillo had met in Viet Nam. What drew them together years later was a love of, well, just plain weird food—food that most Americans would find not only disgusting but downright dangerous. All three men traced their love of odd cuisine to the years they spent in South-east Asia.
Bram had done a tour in Viet Nam himself, but he’d never much liked the local food. He had grown up eating tuna noodle casserole, hamburgers, and grilled cheese sandwiches. As a young army grunt, he was by no means a culinary adventurer, although he found that he was fascinated by it now. Not that he wanted to eat pygmy iguana paté, snake soup, or lamprey stew, but the menus never failed to intrigue him. So much so that he often dropped in on the De Gustabus room to see what new loathsome beast the men were eating.
Above the door to the small dining room, Vince had placed the sign NO RESERVATIONS REQUIRED. That was obvious. There was no stampede to get a seat at the table, only to be served a chocolate cricket torte. Vince was not only the head chef at the club, he was also the culinary inspiration for most of the De Gustabus dishes. The “normal” club members forgave him his culinary idiosyncrasies because he was such a marvelous chef.
Tonight, when Bram entered, he found only one man present. Lyle Boerichter was an airline pilot for Sunrise Airlines. He was husky, maybe five-nine, with thinning red hair and a florid, bulldog face. The lights in the room were turned low. At the end of the long table was a picture frame with black crepe paper draped around it. Bram squinted to get a better look. It was a picture of Bob Fabian.
Lyle sat with a bottle of rye whiskey in front of him. His head rested on his hand, elbow on the table, and in the other hand, he held a shot glass. When he looked up and saw Bram standing in the doorway, he gave a faint smile. “Hey, Baldric. Sit down. Join me.” He lifted his
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