High Class Eating

“We’re going to a great restaurant Jan found for you guys.” Leaning into the mirror on her side of the bathroom, the War Department applied lipstick. “It just opened downtown and I hear it’s wonderful. It’s called the Outdoorsman. Jan says you guys are going to love it.”

I perked up and tucked in my shirt. “I’ve always said what this town needs is a good restaurant that serves such gourmet outdoor delicacies as fried quail, barbecued dove, venison chili and the ever-popular, fried catfish.”

Her clothes didn’t match what I wore, and I grew worried when she gave my jeans The Hairy Eyeball. At least they were new jeans.

Under the impression we were going somewhere that catered to guys like us, the rest of the Hunting Club membership were also dressed in jeans. I almost grinned when I saw everyone else had their shirts tucked in, too.

The restaurant was dark, and somewhere a harp was playing. I knew we were in trouble when we found the establishment was packed, and we waited for half an hour. While the girls talked at a high-top table, the guys huddled around the bar, casting worried looks at the contents of trays that passed by on their way to other customers.

“Was that a salad?” Doc bit his bottom lip in worry.

Jerry Wayne seemed to wilt. “It was either some form of one, or they’re taking a bite of grass to someone’s horse.”

Doc gave me a look like a spanked puppy when our table was finally ready. We sat at a large table and waited for someone to bring us a menu. Wrong Willie’s stomach growed loud enough to drown out the harp.

Breadsticks arrived, and there was a momentary scrum as we all reached for sustenance at the same time. Two bites later, Wrong Willie was getting up to steal some from the empty table beside us, our waiter Dirk arrived.

“Hello.” He spoke so softly I could barely hear his voice.

Woodrow started to say something, likely caustic, but his wife put an elbow into his ribs with a sound like an ax handle breaking in two.

“My name is Dirk and I’ll be your waiter for this evening. Our special tonight is a brace of plantation quail, roasted on a bed of wild rice hand-gathered from a quaint little village in upstate Minnesota. The vegetable of the day is steamed squash and the soup of the day is shitake mushroom and surprise! We also have a creamy, unconventional Porcini Bisque which is our globally inspired option. Our fish is broiled mako shark served on a bed of…” He drifted off and saved a hand. “Some leafy stuff that looks like lettuce.”

I looked around the table at my partners. They stared glassy eyed into the small candle that was our only source of light. Little did I know that each Club member, including myself, was suffering in silence from a Spousal foot placed where it would do the most good.

Woodrow frowned at Dirk. “Can’t I have a good old-fashioned menu to hold and read?”

Dirk’s little smile froze. “We don’t have menus at the Outdoorsman. What can I get for the ladies?”

They answered, selecting items I hadn’t even heard Our Waiter Dirk recite. Doc’s turn came. “Don’t you have any meat?” he asked.

“We don’t serve meat here.” Our Waiter Dirk’s voice was clipped. “We do, though, offer elk sirloin smothered in mushroom gravy, or Rack of Boar on Toast. I think Chef can also prepare Pheasant Under Glass if you prefer.” He stuck his nose in the air.

“Well, I’d like a big old hunk of backstrap, with some French fries and beans if you have anything like that anywhere, Dirk.” Wrong Willie gasped and threw Jan a pained look.

“I’ll see what comes closest.” Our Waiter Dirk’s reply was drenched in revulsion.

The conversation seemed a little strained after Our Waiter Dirk left. We tried to talk about hunting and such, but good conversation seems to dry up when you can’t see who you’re talking to.

“I’ll bet they don’t even have fried baloney,” Jerry Wayne sighed.

I leaned over and whispered to Woodrow. “Do you think they cook any of this stuff on a grill, or on foil wrapped around an old wire refrigerator rack? That’s what I’d do if I owned a restaurant called The Outdoorsman.”

Visions of golden fried quail popped like bubbles when Our Waiter Dirk brought my order two hours later. Two little-bitty pale quail lay like tiny turkeys on top of a spoonful of rice. I found six squash slices beside them.

The spousal units gasped in delight at the contents of their plates.

We gasped for other reasons, such as the Passion Fruit iced tea.

“Your hunk of backstrap, sir.”

Our Waiter Dirk slid the plate in front of Doc who pointed at his plate. “I think you forgot to wash this one, it looks dirty.” His eyes widened in horror. “Good lord, you mean this is all I get??? I’ve had more meat than this stuck between my teeth.”

“Would you like floss, sir?”

Woodrow’s voice sounded like that of a timid child. “Don’t I get any gravy?”

Our Waiter Dirk slithered around the table. “Of course sir.” We watched in awe as he produced a small soup tureen and ladled out two teaspoons of gravy over Woodrow’s little bitty quail.

We ate in comparative silence and finished the meal with scarce a clatter of utensils. And then we sat there. While we waited for Our Waiter Dirk to get up from his nap and remember that we needed a check, Woodrow disappeared for a moment and rapidly emerged from the restroom.

“Some guy in there kept trying to spray perfume on me.”

Doc nodded. “You mean he’s still trying that after I got through with him?”

“Not anymore.”

Our Waiter Dirk brought the check and we were out of there in a flash, passing an ambulance and the police who’d been called about a disturbance in the restroom.

On the way to Doc’s Suburban, the girls talked in hushed tones about the atmosphere and the wonderful food.

By the time we were on the highway, Doc called over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. “This all right?”

Brightening, the Club membership agreed. He made a wonderful right turn and the male assemblage applauded.

“Thank you for Sonic,” Wrong Willie said.

We agreed, and even the girls ordered fries.