The bartender didn't know what Krug was.
CHAPTER 8
I had lunch with Shirley Ventura at a new joint on Huntington Ave. called Ambrosia. You could eat well, and have quite a nice time examining the spectrum of Boston chic which regularly gathered there. Shirley studied the menu for a long time. She was wearing a low-cut electric blue slip dress that was designed to enhance long legs and a narrow waist. Shirley was short and chunky. The effect was different. A number of the women lunching that day appeared to notice the difference.
'You got any, ah, like maybe a roast beef sandwich?' Shirley said to the waitress.
'We have a wonderful sandwich of grilled portabellas with Asiago on country bread dressed with extra virgin oil and served with julienne of jicama and blood orange,' the waitress said encouragingly.
'What's a portabella?' Shirley said to me.
'A big mushroom,' I said.
She looked at the waitress and frowned.
'A mushroom sandwich?'
The waitress smiled enthusiastically.
'Why don't we each have the pail lard of chicken, and a green salad and some bread.'
'Of course, sir. Anything to drink with that?'
'Wine,' Shirley said.
'Anything special?' the waitress said.
'Some white wine,' Shirley said. She'd lost interest in ordering and was looking around the room at the other diners.
The waitress looked at me. She didn't have to be a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.
'Bottle of Sterling Sauvignon Blanc,' I said.
The waitress smiled as they always do to tell me how much she admired my choice of wines, and hurried away to tell the wine steward.
'What's that pal lard thing you ordered?' Shirley asked.
'Breast of chicken flattened with a mallet and quickly sauteed.'
'Sounds terrible,' she said.
'Drink enough wine,' I said, 'you'll think you like it.'
Shirley picked up a roll from the bread basket and bit into it the way you eat an apple. She looked around the room some more until the waitress returned with the wine.
'You care to try it?' I said to Shirley.
'Sure,' she said.
The waitress opened the bottle and poured a splash in Shirley's glass. Shirley looked at it.
'Come on, lady, pour me some wine,' Shirley said.
I nodded to the waitress.
'Pour it out,' I said.
'I'm sure it's fine.'
The waitress smiled happily and poured us both a glass of wine, and put the bottle in the ice bucket. Shirley picked up her glass and drank half of it. She smiled at me.
'Hits the spot,' she said.
'You bet,' I said.
She glanced out toward Huntington Ave. where her father's big Lincoln sat near the curb. The driver was behind the wheel, reading the Globe.
'See if Jackie's watching,' she said with a big confidential smile.
'They don't like it, I drink wine at lunch.'
'Your secret's safe with me,' I said and made a slight toasting gesture with my glass. Shirley drank the rest of her wine and reached behind her to get the bottle from the wine bucket. She poured another glassful. The waitress brought our salads. The salad chef was long on presentation. There were various colored greens arranged into a somewhat precarious-looking vegetable spray. Shirley studied it for some time, sipping her wine without a word. I ordered a second bottle of wine from the waitress.
'So what can you tell me about Anthony?' Shirley said.
She stuffed a forkful of greens into her mouth.
'Haven't found him yet,' I said.
'So why we having lunch. So you can tell me you haven't found him?'
