“The last time you did that,” the old man said, “the remoulade sauce was disgraceful.”
“Indeed it was. The saucier was shot at dawn the next morning. We showed him no mercy, although he pleaded he was the sole support of his old mother. Can I bring you something from the bar?”
Clete saw Ettinger smiling; the smile vanished when Ettinger noticed the old man turning toward him.
“Mr. Ettinger?” the old man asked.
“Not for me, thank you, Sir. I wouldn’t want to anesthetize my tongue before eating in a place like this.”
The old man flashed Clete a triumphant smile.
“Then may I suggest we have a quick look at the menu to see whether fish, fowl, or good red meat?”
“May I ask that you order for me?” Ettinger said.
“I would be happy to translate the menu for you,” the old man said. “They do it in French only to humiliate their patrons.”
“I speak French, if your ordering for me would be an imposition,” Ettinger said.
“No imposition at all,” the old man said. “What would you recommend tonight, Harold?”
“I hesitate to recommend anything. You have been coming in here for thirty years, and I have yet to bring you anything that met your approval.”
“In that case, we will try to wash these hors d’oeuvres down with a bottle of Moët, the ’39, if there’s any left. And you will then go to the kitchen and tell the chef that we are hungry enough to eat anything that hasn’t fallen on the floor.”
“There was some shrimp-and-oyster bisque a while back that didn’t smell too badly.”
“We place ourselves in your somewhat less than knowledgeable hands,” the old man said.
“I am overwhelmed,” the waiter said. “It is, in any case, good to see you, Mr. Frade. Didn’t I hear you were in the Marines?”
“It’s good to see you too. I was in the Marines. I was just discharged.”
“Then welcome home.”
“Thank you.”
The waiter left.
The old man turned to Ettinger. “For reasons I can’t imagine, that man fancies himself the best waiter here; and by inference, the best in New Orleans.”
“It’s probably his table-side manner,” Ettinger said.
The old man actually chuckled.
“The problem with Argentina, Mr. Ettinger,” Cletus Marcus Howell proclaimed, “is that it is a theocracy.”
He was leaning back in his chair, cradling a brandy snifter in his hand. The dinner had gone well. The food, as Clete knew it would be, had been superb.
The shrimp-and-oyster bisque was followed by Filet de Boeuf à la Venison, a dish Ettinger had never previously encountered. When he admitted this, he thus offered the old man the opportunity to display his culinary knowledge as to its preparation.
Ettinger seemed not only genuinely interested, but also showed himself to be quite familiar with the subtleties of haute cuisine. He mentioned to the old man, for instance, that the Moroccans made a similar dish; they substituted mutton for the beef, however, while marinating it and otherwise cooking it like venison.
He also showed a genuine and knowledgeable enthusiasm for the wine. By the time the brandy was served, the old man was almost beaming. And Clete was amusing himself with what was surely his grandfather’s current opinion of Staff Sergeant Ettinger: Jew or not, that fellow is a gentleman.
He was even daring to hope that the old man was in such a good mood he would not mention his daughter. Clete now realized, resignedly, that that was not to be.
“A theocracy, Sir?” Ettinger asked.