CONTINUED FROM PG. 35
“Fuck you. But that’s good news. You can fight on salami. We used to go two, three pounds of salami before our shift at the Libertine. There it is. I ever tell you about that?” “The Libertine, yeah, I’ve been curious about that. What was the food like?” “It was a speakeasy, underground, the real thing, the best restaurant this city ever had, then or now, but you couldn’t go there. Nobody could, unless they’d been vetted. Gender Davis and his orchestra used to play until the sun came up or the local Nessie and his hatchets spilled our wash down the gutter. Champagne flowed in the private rooms, and if you slipped your cock over hot and got a girl pregnant you moved to Beaverton. We called that bad luck, back then. Now you think you’ve made it if your friends don’t visit and the neighbors pass a law against your fence.” “What kind of food did they do?” “Finest in the world. Each table got wine by the magnum, flowin’ all night, and the martinis came three at a time, ice cold and strong as ether. We were back in the kitchen, pounding ’em back faster than the customers, sweatin’ out the booze as quick as we could drink it. ” “Do you remember any of the dishes? Any signature stuff? Was it French-influenced, or more James Beard-type Northwest stuff?” “Eh, I think we did a pork chop… and we had a Mexican cut prime rib tableside in his people’s best bib ’n’ tucker. I remember one broad—walleyed and cruel on Scotch—got so mad when he didn’t serenade her, she tried to scream at him but threw up all over the floor. Wrong pipe, you know. Next night she was in stacking ’em up again, a real trooper. The captain sent over a fifth of Cutty Sark and the table floated it in two rounds.” “Huh. So the food was really more of an afterthought?” “Hell no, it wasn’t!” he objected. “We were the best cooks in the country, west of New York! We could run that joint half in the bag and talkin’ to shadows!” “What happened to the place?” He took another sip, slow for reverence. “You did. You don’t drink any more, and the good places can’t stay open. Restaurants don’t make any money on food, everybody knows that. Now you all just eat ice cream with shit in it and die from Computer Arm.” I couldn’t fault him there. It was about lunchtime, and I needed to pack off and get something tangible in that regard. “Got any lunch plans?” I asked him, considering bringing him a Bunk sandwich or something. He lifted his koozie, winked at me, and took a pull. (THE END) 2 The Mercury’s Eat & Drink Guide April 19, 2012
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October 11, 2012 The Mercury’s Eat & Drink Guide 37