Table for One
“You know it’s an apocalypse when we run out of appetizers!”
Forty years of cocktails and Cajun haute cuisine on Bourbon Street taught Charles something about survival logistics. That’s why his café could serve fresh crab dip and gumbo while everyone else split MREs.
“How did you get in here?” a girl bartender asked me my first night, hands around a steel shaker full of rye.
“I’ll have one of those,” I answered. It was the first time I’d seen a fresh mint julep in months.
“You must know somebody.”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “Charles invited me.”
“Oh,” she nodded. “Table for one.”
“What’s that mean?”
“There’s only two ways to get in,” she let bourbon dribble into a polished highball glass. “Know someone, or be someone. Did anyone recommend you? Did you pay membership dues?”
“Ain’t got money,” I said. “Charles told me to come here.”
“Ah, the secret third option.” She garnished the glass with a mint leaf. “Charles saw you, likes your face. Thinks you’re interesting.”
“That’s me!”
“You want an MJ, huh?” she rattled fresh ice into her shaker.
“Yes, please.” I wiped my glasses clean of raindrops. “This place is amazing!”
“We think so,” her smile turned wan. “Been here long?”
“Got off the bus from Mobile two hours ago. Moving ever since they closed Panama City.”
“And before that?”
“Orlando. Man, the coast is toast. They’ll be selling chunks of the A1A as souveniers, just like that … what was that wall, over in Europe.”
“The Berlin Wall,” she answered, her eyes narrowing. “What’s your name?”
“Jimmy G.”
“Well, Jimmy, my name is Sarah. This is the only time I’m going to say this.” She set the glass in front of me, her eyes staring into mine. “Finish that drink and rattle your hocks. You don’t want to stay here.”
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