ɱɑʀiɛ (coveted) wrote in worldsapart_ic, @ 2019-04-16 10:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | marie roque, xx_dante ruiz |
hot and spicy
Who: Dante & Marie
What: Dante tries a new restaurant, but nothing involving coffee or rice because he's adorably weird
When: Saturday
Where: Boudin
Rating: Low!
Status: Complete
There were two types of people in this world - those who had experienced the wonders of dipping a spoon into seafood gumbo dark as the swamp depths, or a waiter pouring whiskey sauce over bread pudding souffle, or even eaten a Creole tomato while standing over the kitchen sink. Then there were those who hadn’t. Marie felt damn sorry for those people - and that’s why she’d opened Boudin in Los Angeles. In a city full of ‘hipster’ vegan cuisine, and Mexican (which was also delicious, don’t get her wrong), her little Cajun and Creole dive was a breath of fresh air and fresh, hot food. And often a breath of spice - cayenne pepper, mostly. It was said there were four seasons in New Orleans - crawfish, shrimp, oyster, and crab - and right now they were in crawfish season. The specials at her restaurant involved hunching over tables filled with boiled crawfish, corn, and potatoes, along with rolls of paper towels for cleaning off messy hands after peeling. Mardi Gras season had been sugary King cakes representing the revelry of that season; she had other desserts now, since King cakes weren’t always year-round, but they were delicious. She had an apron over her ‘Legendary’ t-shirt (which featured a cartoon image of Wonder Woman), her candy pink-pastel hair pulled back into a long ponytail - casual wear, for when she was both cooking and doing some waitressing. Spotting a newcomer, she stuck a pencil behind her ear and grabbed a menu, heading that way. “Bonjour, handsome,” she greeted with a smile. “Table or a booth? Or would you like to sit at the bar?” Dante loved his job. He honestly did. That didn’t mean that it was perfect. There were times when it was frustrating, to be sure. But that was to be expected. Nobody had a stress free job. Or at least nobody that he knew. Despite loving his job, that didn’t mean that Dante didn’t love his time away from the job as much, if not more. Weekends, which hadn’t really felt like weekends to him once he started working in high school, once again became a time when he could do what he wanted to do… plus some extra, unavoidable responsibilities. Laundry was one of them, but that wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. Instead, he knew that he needed to do some grocery shopping. While Dante knew that he could go back home and get some food from Mami, and that was a tactic that he frequently implemented, he also knew that he needed to be independent enough to function on his own. And while his food wasn’t quite up to par with Mami’s home cooking, a fact that was admittedly heavily influenced by nostalgic memories, Dante was no slouch in the kitchen… provided the things on the menu fell under some relatively limited choices. But his tacos were pretty good, and, honestly, it was hard to get tired of tacos. Grocery shopping was something that could prove to be unnecessarily complicated in Dante’s experience. It was always a bit of a task to choose where he wanted to go when he opted to go grocery shopping. Sometimes he would hit up something trendy, like a Trader Joe’s. Other times, particularly if he was looking for something a little bit more authentically Mexican, he would go to the mercado in Boyle Heights that Mami frequented. It was at said mercado where Dante always got his canela sticks. And then there was Vons, which was the most likely choice. More variety than the mercado, cheaper prices than both, and he knew the layout of most of them like the back of his hand. Even when he was the sole grandchild, Mami would go to the grocery store practically daily to get food for her family, and Dante would almost always tag along. His reliance on the public transportation provided by the City of Angels was rarely enacted when it came to grocery shopping. Yes, the buses could go pretty much anywhere, but that didn’t mean that he was going to get there quickly. And, yes, it was also likely that, even in his own car, a simple trip of a few miles could turn into an ordeal, since traffic in Los Angeles could, somewhat ironically, feel like purgatory at times. But even in those instances, Dante could at least depend on his car’s air conditioning, and the extra space in the vehicle. It was early afternoon when he started his sojourn to the grocery store. He was dressed in his casual attire. A pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Solid emerald green. Blue was his favorite color, sure, but he had lived in Los Angeles long enough to know that wearing pure blue, or red, could prove problematic… particularly in his former homestead. Still, a lot of his choices were blue, usually emblazoned with a graphic of some sort. Kind of hard to think that someone was a gangster if they were wearing a blue shirt that clearly had a picture of Sleeping Beauty Castle on it or something like that. Although the parks did have those weird pseudo biker gangs that he didn’t quite understand. Instead of eating in the morning, Dante instead focused on working out. He wasn’t famished at the time, but as he was driving towards the grocery store, his stomach decided that it was tired of being neglected… in a way that, while not painful, really, could certainly be described as uncomfortable. As if by kismet, Dante saw Boudin nearby. Not a place that he had visited just yet, but a few people had talked about it at work. Nothing but praise. Perhaps Dante could find himself a little less adventurous, at least in terms of culinary options, choosing to stick to the tired, true, and delicious staples that had served him well during his lifetime. The prospects of what could be in store was enough to entice the hunger beast that had decided to rent out a portion of his body until it was sated, and it wasn’t long before the young man was in the parking lot, and from there, inside the establishment. His relative ignorance when it came to the region where Boudin’s offerings apparently originated from were on display almost as soon as he walked inside. Where he was used to seeing expected, if authentic, representations of Mexico, or Chinese, which, it should have been noted, was his actual favorite type of food to eat, instead he was surrounded by things that seemed far more at home in a place like New Orleans Square. Except, he was willing to bet, Boudin’s decorum was probably chosen in a way that was far less homogenous than what the Imagineers opted for. It wasn’t long before he was looking at someone who had noticed his arrival. And she thought he was handsome. Or maybe she was just being charming. He did that when he was a waiter. Tips were important. “Um… bonjour…” Bilingual though he was, and even with years of Latin in high school under his belt (if, for the most part, forgotten by now), his attempt at using the French word probably sounded like someone from Wisconsin in Acapulco. Which was to say… bad. Hopefully not offensive. “It’s just me, so probably a table?” He didn’t really sit at bars if he could avoid it. Not necessarily temptation. Actually, not even an iota of temptation. More like no desire to see people indulging in something that he had no interest in. “But if it’s easier for you, a booth.” His own past as a waiter always kicked in when he went out to eat. He knew how inconsiderate patrons could be, from personal experience, and always wanted to be better than that. Hopefully, he was. Dante smiled at her. Another thing that he knew people in his position didn’t always offer to people in the other position. Well, that was a cute answer. Whatever was easier for her? How considerate - and he really was handsome, wasn’t he. Some people flew past her radar, they just weren’t interesting enough for her to notice, but now? She liked the tall, dark, and ‘complete opposite from white male accountant’ look. Marie also usually attempted to picture how tasty their life force would be - and he definitely looked like a yummy snack. “A table it is,” and her smile was all warmth and shadows, a shark’s bite of a grin. She led the way, setting the menu and rolled silverware down. “Let me know what you’d like to drink, oui? And also if you have questions about the menu - or help with the pronunciations.” That attempt at ‘bonjour’ at been adorable. She’d just love to hear him try something like Étouffée. “You might need to help me with some of them… but, if you at least don’t openly mock my attempts at pronunciation, that’d be enough.” But who was he to talk? Watching people attempt to force themselves to try and say certain words in Spanish was particularly painful. Admittedly, that could have been because he was completely fluent, and was so used to people being able to switch between the languages effortlessly. During the short walk to the table, he was able to get another sense of what he was in store for. Instead of using his eyes, though, this time it was Dante’s nose that was doing the heavy lifting. There were so many smells that were coming at him. None of them were bad, but there were so many of them that he really, really had no idea about. He could sniff out oregano, or comino, as if he was some sort of Mexican bloodhound, but these smells? No idea. “I’ll take lemonade, if you have it.” Almost an impossibility for a restaurant to not have lemonade, but, again, uncharted waters. He would have gone with a clear soda, like Sprite, but they were still fifteen days away from Easter, and while his reasons for observing Lent were solely to appease his extremely religious grandmother, as opposed to some sort of strong conviction and adherence to his own faith, Dante was still going to do his best to make good on the choice that he made. Two weeks. He could hang. It mostly just meant drinking a lot of water, which Dante normally did anyway. Hydration was important. He looked at the menu, and was back to being visually confounded by the mysterious offerings. Los Angeles had just about anything a person could think of, in terms of food offerings. They even had some weird fusion of Korean and Mexican that got started in Los Angeles. But Dante had gone to Kogi, initially with some college friends, and was pleased with the offerings. If nothing else, that experience showed him that attempting to expand his culinary options could be fruitful. Hopefully, Boudin would keep the streak going. He had no reason to believe that it would do otherwise. The conversations that he had been in regarding Boudin’s offerings ran through his head. “My coworkers have talked about this place for a little while. Part of the reason I came here, really.” No need to mention the building need for food, because that wasn’t complimentary. “They mentioned something with shrimp… but I can’t remember exactly what it was. Just that they really liked it.” And he liked shrimp, so that was probably going to be the direction he went. Although not all shrimp was amazing. He loved shrimp. He loved enchiladas. Shrimp enchiladas, though? Nope. Hard pass. “We do have lemonade and it’s fresh. Get comfy, bébé, and I will bring it to you,” Marie instructed - she was gone and back quickly, with a tall cold glass. Cajun lemonade had a splash of hot sauce plus rum or vodka, but this was simply the virgin variety. There we go, now to tackle the menu. “No mocking, don’t worry,” she chuckled huskily, getting her pencil ready, the lead lightly tapping against the pad of tickets. “Cajun French is its own animal anyway. But you like shrimp, then?” She tried to think of what it could have been that his friends mentioned - seafood was a staple of Nawlins cuisine, and given that Boudin was right near the beach? Well. She didn’t skimp on the shrimp, or the crawfish, or the crab - that wouldn’t be happening, non. “Could have been the Étouffée,” she said. “It is a seafood stew over rice. Very flavorful. Then I also have gumbo, one with alligator and sausage and one with shrimp and sausage. But the po’ boy sandwich is popular for lunch, though you can eat it anytime - it’s a warm sandwich stuffed with hot fried seafood, namely shrimp and oysters. The bread has a crispy crust but more of a fluffy inside - it’s nice for sopping up what’s put in them. Any of that sound good, mon cher?” Getting comfortable at restaurant tables was a slight oxymoron, but not very difficult. And, it didn’t take long for her to come back with the lemonade that he requested. Early in the interaction, and she was already treating him quite well. Certainly a plus. He just gave a light nod at the mention about liking shrimp. Enough of a wordless confirmation to answer the question, without need for elaboration. It wasn’t needed, after all. Dante was surprised, although not aghast, when she mentioned that they had gumbo with alligator. Alligator. If he thought about it, and he did, it actually wasn’t that surprising. He had been to places where they sold jerky that was considered to be from exotic game, and alligator was one of those animals. Kangaroos, too. Both were surprising, and he never had the urge to try either. One just because he wasn’t interested. The other because… well… eating kangaroo just seemed really, really wrong, even to someone who did eat meat. The mention of the dish that had the rice danced through his head quickly, too. “I’m not a huge fan of rice.” Somewhat blasphemous, for a Mexican to not like a staple of the cultural diet, sure, but that was just who Dante was. Mami had tried for many years to get him to warm up to the rice that she made, but it was all for naught. If he tried to explain why the rice didn’t hold much appeal to him, he wouldn’t be able to put it into words. And it wasn’t like his Caucasian side was just doing some of the heavy lifting in that respect. Plenty of white folk that he had seen in his life would plow through that rice with reckless abandon. But fried rice, from Chinese places? Yes. Always. Ever the anomaly, Dante. He knew about gumbo, obviously. It was something that was relatively ubiquitous, even to someone who was relatively clueless about the cultural cuisine. And it made him think of The Princess and the Frog. Which also made him wonder about the gator. Tiana would never do that to Louis! Thinking of… beignets for dessert? Probably. It was the po’boy that seemed to catch his ear the most. “I think it was probably the po’boy…” and even if it wasn’t, fried shrimp was almost impossible to screw up. He didn’t eat a lot of fried food, although he was willing to admit that he ate more of it than he probably should have (not that it showed, given his workout routine), but if he was going out and the option was available for fried food, well… what was wrong with treating himself? “That’s what sounds best to me.” His food finally decided on, Dante was able to take a sip of the lemonade. It was refreshing and tasty. Yum. “This,” his left index finger pointed at the glass, “is amazing, by the way.” “I’m glad you like it,” Marie’s smile grew, because she always enjoyed hearing compliments about what she served at her restaurant. “There’s more where that came from, bébé.” She made note of what her newest customer, not a fan of rice (mon dieu, really? But everyone had their tastes, she supposed) had ordered. The po’ boy was a good choice - one of her favorites, actually. No doubt she would overstuff his, giving plenty of fried goodness, just because he was really easy on the eyes and looking at a face like that made her...hungry. Triggered the demon within, that feasted on tempting morsels such as this one. “I’m Marie, by the way,” she added. “I own this place. If you have any special wants or needs, I can satisfy them for you.” Mais oui, could she ever. But then she went back to the kitchen to prepare the sandwich. There were few things that screamed ‘Nawlins’ better than a gut-filling po’ boy. She stuffed the bread (which was shipped from her hometown, it had to be Leidenheimer bread and stored in a special fridge at Boudin because it was very delicate) generously with well-seasoned shrimp and oysters to the point where they were falling out, and made it dressed - which meant lettuce, tomatoes, and mayonnaise. All of that came with a side of fried okra. Because come on, live a little. The kitchen door swung open and then she was back, delivering the goods. “Here we go, cher, bon appetit.” “I’m Dante. It’s very nice to meet you, Marie.” He had been interacting with her for long enough to believe that she was young, possibly around his age (although the existence of the Supernatural made guessing someone’s age very, very difficult indeed), and if that was true and she was already owning and running her own business, that was undoubtedly impressive. As Marie went out of sight, he continued to take stock of the place from his seat at the table. He liked the feel. It was unique, and he appreciated that. Before long, Dante reached for his phone and looked at it. The ringer was almost never on, instead leaving the vibrate option as the main source of indicating that he had a message. Over time, he’d almost become immune to the sensation of the phone vibrating in his pocket. No missed calls, not that he was expecting any calls to begin with, but a few texts from his cousins in their longstanding Ruiz family group chat. Cousins only. Dante may have been basically a decade older than the nearest cousin, but his younger cousins never treated him like he was more of a tio than a primo. He smiled at the silly memes and gifs that had been posted. Occasionally he would find something to add in that respect, but, really, he didn’t spend much time scouring the internet for such things. In the back of his head, Marie’s statement continued to pop up, about being the owner. He was happy where he worked, and, in all honest, running a business was not something that Dante had ever dreamed about. Indeed, Rodrigo had been doing that for his entire life, and while running a gym in Boyle Heights wasn’t exactly the same as running a Fortune 500 company, it was still something to appreciate. What those words did do, however, was make him wonder if he was doing the most with his own life. His cousins looked up to him. He knew that. And even if he forgot it for a second, the rest of his family would make sure that it was hammered into him so much that he might as well have it tattooed on his forehead. Was he doing enough to set a good example for them? He liked to think so. But maybe… Before his all too familiar struggle of living his life for himself instead of living his life to provide an example for those younger than him could get too overpowering, at least for the moment, Marie came back with the food. If his minor crisis of self was enough to make him forget that he was also hungry as hell for the moment, as soon as he smelled that fresh food, his stomach’s needs were enough to make him prioritize eating. “So… you own this place… that’s extremely impressive. And I take it you’re from the area where most of these recipes come from?” He didn’t want to say the Bayou, because he wasn’t sure that would be considered insensitive to say as someone who was not from that area. “Oui, I am,” Marie nodded, leaning over to arrange the plate on the table (there was a bit of tits-in-the-face, but she was wearing a regular cut t-shirt, nothing that had those chest puppies spilling out the way the fried seafood in the sandwich did). “I was born and raised in New Orleans. My mère and père owned a restaurant in the French Quarter. They made everything from scratch, and taught me their recipes. I remember I would go to the seafood market on the weekends, to pick up the fixins." A few pounds of shrimp, a dozen crabs, a tub or two of claw meat. She could recall the shacks, side by side, with the day's catches displayed out front - it wasn't always fun for her as a small child, because as she trudged along those gravel roads she knew she'd be in store for a lot of peeling and de-veining. But worth it in the end. “If I can get you anything else, let me know?” In the meantime, she’d leave him - Dante, what a great name - to enjoy. The French Quarter. That explained the ease with which Marie spoke the language. “I did a lot of that myself… except at the mercado.” Much like Marie was able to flawlessly slip into French, Dante’s enunciation of the word mercado was natural and effortless. But it was true. Though their locations couldn’t be any more different (presumably, since Dante had never actually been to New Orleans, but he had seen enough footage to make a fair assessment that it was, well, not what Los Angeles was like in many ways), that tradition of passing on certain experiences to the next generation, or, in his case, the next, next generation, could be considered universal in many ways. “I’ll make sure to let you know. Thank you, Marie.” And while some men may have opted to watch her walk away with a certain intentness, Dante did not. She was attractive, to be sure, but he was more and more willing to believe that she was pouring the flirtations on a little bit too much. Not a bad quality to have, necessarily, but he was a more modest person. Maybe even shy, although he didn’t like to think of himself like that. Plus, he was hungry. Like, really, really hungry. The first bite was smaller than normal. Slightly cautious, just in case he found himself in a position where he was tasting something that didn’t agree with his taste buds. It was, after all, a very possible outcome when it came to trying something new for the first time. The bread was delicious. Carbs were really hard to mess up, sure, but when the bread was good, or better than good, it was easy to tell. This bread was better than good, too. Way better. And the meat? Oysters probably weren’t going to get anywhere near the top of his list of things to buy, but the way that they mixed with the shrimp was, well, delectable. The vegetable, okra, if he remembered the listing on the menu correctly, wasn’t bad, and he didn’t have to force himself to finish it, but it didn’t compare to the quasi-divine taste of the sandwich. He noticed that the food was a little bit messier than he would have expected, though not quite barbeque status, and that made him grateful for the plentiful napkins that were on hand. Normally someone who drank his beverages at a much quicker pace than he ate his food, it was perhaps due to the fact that he was hungrier than normal that Dante focused more on the food than he did the lemonade, and that by the time the course was finished, he still had a few drinks left of the beverage. Although it didn’t take long for him to rectify that oddity. The food was finished, and Dante was doubly thankful. Most importantly, he was thankful for the food itself, because it was delicious. He was also thankful for the fact that he was eating alone, because he was willing to bet that the way that he inhaled his meal probably would have appeared ravenous to any other person that he may have been with. Something to keep in mind, just in case he decided to make a return. Another napkin was used to wipe off some of the remaining sediments of food while he waited. If only he knew! Succubi were shameless, sorry not sorry - but, in the interest of not hovering, Marie merely kept an eye on Dante from afar and made herself busy with other tables and what was simmering in the kitchen. Lots of delicious things, to be sure. Even some of that elusive alligator gumbo. When it looked like he was ready for her to swoop in again, she came by and collected the plate (which he’d cleaned, what a good boy). “So it was a positive experience?” she guessed, honeycomb eyes twinkling with delight. He wasn’t one of those people who ate half the meal and then demanded it be on the house because it was ‘awful.’ She hated customers like that, and had seen plenty in the service industry. Bleh. “Let me know if I can get you anything else, cher.” It didn’t take long for Marie to come on back. That was good. It was the sign of an attentive… well… calling her a waiter would have been extremely underselling Marie’s position as the owner. Indeed, there was a part of Dante that felt a certain degree of uneasiness by being served by the owner. In his experience, the owner was very rarely on the floor, or in the trenches as it were. It was certainly respectable of Marie to deviate from the trend. “It was really, really good. I’ll be sure to confirm with my coworkers that this place met every expectation that they hyped up during their conversations.” He might even attempt to bring some of his family members over at some point. Some of the more adventurous members, obviously. His younger cousins probably wouldn’t be down with things that they didn’t understand. After all, some of them were still very much against veggies, so food options were something of a struggle. Not really his struggle, since he wasn’t a parent. And when he was watching them, he usually went with safe stuff. The thought prompted a reminder to get some mac and cheese when he made it to the grocery store after he left Boudin. “I’d say my compliments to the chef, but I’m pretty sure that I’m looking at her. So, compliments to you, Marie.” Anyone who cooked something, regardless of what they were cooking, was probably looking for a compliment. His wasn’t forced, it was entirely genuine. “While this might be inching towards a stereotype… I’m going to assume that you have beignets for dessert? Because I’d really like to try some if you do.” It was like going to a Mexican restaurant and just assuming that they had flan for dessert. Odds were high that the place did indeed have flan, but that wasn’t a guarantee. Not that Dante, personally, was checking for flan. He detested flan. It needed to be banished. “And a refill of the lemonade to go with them.” Because he needed something to wash them down with. The remark about the stereotype made her laugh, a sweet little sound. Sweet as those beignets themselves which of course she did have. “Bien sûr, mon cher,” she confirmed. “It’s a very versatile creation - works for any occasion.” And was basically the archetype of New Orleans cuisine, with Café du Monde in all of its open-air glory (cash only, mind you - even to this day) the place to chow down on beignets. Most ordered the treat with a café au lait, but she could do lemonade. Still, she’d bring a little sample - just in case Dante wanted to dunk. It didn’t take her long to rustle up some beignets from the kitchen - they were literally drenched in powdered sugar (that was how you ate them). With that, she had a tiny espresso cup containing a coffee sample. “I brought your lemonade but the beignets are very sweet,” she cautioned. “So it might be too much. Also, I didn’t know if you’re a coffee drinker - but this is a little bit of café au lait. The coffee is made with chicory root. Common practice is to dunk the beignets.” If he didn’t like it, that was fine - but she wanted to give the option. There was a light sigh of relief, basically impossible to notice, but Dante knew it was there, when Marie didn’t seem to mind the comment about the beignets being expected. He knew a thing or two about people making assumptions, simply because they felt that they could. Sometimes, as in the case of the dessert, those assumptions were perfectly founded. Nonetheless, that did nothing to lessen the potential harm that they could do. While Marie laughed at his comment earlier, Dante gave a quick snicker when she expressed the opinion that the lemonade and beignet combo might be too sweet. “I’ve got a pretty big sweet tooth. Haven’t quite found where that limit is yet.” He was the kind of person that would go through almost all the sugar packets when he was having tea somewhere else, which is why his favorite Chinese places to visit were the ones that had the larger sugar containers, instead of the individual packets. “And thank you for the coffee, but I’m going to have to pass on it.” He didn’t drink caffeine. That wasn’t to say that he lived an entirely caffeine free lifestyle, as that would mean ditching chocolate, which was something that simply could not happen, but things like coffee? They just didn’t appeal to him. “Much like rice, I never acquired the taste for it.” Even the decaf stuff. That aftertaste was just… blech. The beignets looked like what he had seen, and ordered, before. Perhaps a bit more sugary, but that was not a quality that Dante was going to complain about. He grabbed the topmost one, the warmth of the item registered on the tip of his fingers in a way that was simply alluring. Some of the powdered sugar fell off as he moved it closer and closer to his mouth, a regrettable, though unavoidable, fate. A moment later, he was chewing on it, letting his taste buds take in the food. “I had put pretty high expectations on these, after having that sandwich. And I’ve got to say, Marie… you’ve still managed to exceed them.” His hand reached over and grabbed the lemonade, taking a decent sized chug. “And the beignet lemonade combo? Not too sweet.” There was a wry smile at the end of that, as if he had been dared, and succeeded. Dante reached over for another one. It would have been wrong to stop at just one, after all. How someone could not have acquired a taste for coffee was admittedly beyond Marie, but different strokes for different folks - she wouldn’t begrudge someone their food preferences. “Still managed to exceed them, hm? High praise, cher, thank you. Please know you are welcome back anytime.” In fact, she hoped she’d see Dante’s face in her little establishment semi-regularly, or even regularly, from now on - she was quite good to her regular customers, and would use the power of good food and drinks, and even conversation, to lift their spirits if they were having a rough day. The check was ripped off the pad, and placed on the edge of the table. “And take your time, there’s no rush,” she assured. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Repeat visits were probably going to happen, although he wouldn’t be coming by weekly or anything like that… more than likely. Adding extra locations to the places that he would go to for food when he needed something right away, or was just too unmotivated to cook something himself, was never a bad thing. And, again, he intended on bringing at least his grandparents over at some point. Which would just add an extra visit with them, because Mami was very much a home and hearth kind of woman. If the first two beignets were seemingly pure delight, the rest of the beignets maintained that trend, even if his stomach was starting to tell him that he was hitting a threshold. He hadn’t taken a count of the delightful little pastries (they were pastries, right?), and, in all honesty, Dante probably should have. The last one, mere inches from his mouth, was simultaneously inviting and daunting at the same time. Like finishing a bread bowl at the Pacific Wharf. Still, most fried food wasn’t nearly as great once it cooled down, and while he could wrap the single beignet in a napkin and take it for later, was he willing to sacrifice the pristine taste for the sake of his stomach? Nope. The napkin that he was holding while he pondered his options was instead used to remove the traces of powdered sugar from around his mouth. He’d look at the mirror when he got back in the car to make sure that he got rid of all of the powdered remains. Last thing he needed was a cop pulling him over and thinking that the white powder was something else. Even though that type of powder wasn’t really ingested, if all those drug lectures that he had been part of growing up were to be believed. Dante waited a few minutes, letting everything settle. There was some slight discomfort in his stomach, but it was the kind of discomfort that one got from stretching. As in, not entirely unwelcome. When he felt ready to go, he looked at the bill and pulled out some cash. The amount that Dante left on the table contained a significant tip, because he knew that Marie was generous with both her attention and her portions. Plus, she owned the place. And if he had to throw a couple extra bucks her way as a tip to keep her in business, well, that was money well spent in his opinion. He stood up, looked over in the general direction of where the woman had come from during her rounds, and gave a quick nod and a shallow wave before he made his way back towards his car. Maybe he could try and make a po’boy himself, pick up some shrimp at the grocery store… nah, that would probably be a disaster. |