Clinkerscales had done them proud.
The private room was brightly lighted with two dozen tallow candles, set in sconces around the walls, and there was a reasonably clean cloth on the long table. Admittedly the candles were guttering, smoking and smelling, and one leg was missing off the table, but the man had tried. He’d even propped up the missing leg with a pile of dusty green hymnals to keep the table level.
Everyone else was there.
Doc was in state at the head of the table, in a huge chair of heavily carved oak with a high back. Dean sat next to him on one side, Jak on the other. J.B. and Mildred were opposite each other, next down the table, leaving two spaces for Ryan and Krysty.
“Hi, there.” Ryan closed the door behind him, muffling the noise.
“Mebbe we’ll get us some food now that you two bathbirds have arrived,” J.B. said.
Ryan had barely sat, pouring himself a glass of nearly fresh cold water from a jug on the table, before Clinkerscales himself came popping through, holding a bunch of plastic-covered folders in his sweating hands.
“Here are the menus for this evening. Not a wide range, I fear, but all good and cooked in these very kitchens. I’ll leave them with you for a few minutes. I have some passing red and white wines. Should I bring them in?”
“Two of each. Thanks,” Ryan said.
The golden logo, blind-embossed on the outside of the large maroon menus, proclaimed that they came from the Maltese Falcon restaurant in Quince Orchard, Maryland.
Mildred looked at the front cover. “This meal’s going to be the stuff that dreams are made of,” she said, smiling, looking around expectantly at the others, the smile fading. “Name of a film with. Never mind.”
The contents of the menu didn’t quite live up to the magnificent exterior. Each one contained a single sheet of paper, hand-written, ill-spelled, with the name of the Lincoln Inn at the top.
“Soup. Meat flavur or not. Stew. Pig or sheep or cow. Or cowoty or dog. With vejetubls on the day. Fries. Tuna melts. Mex dish. Chicken done how you want it. Frute pie in all flavurs. Drinks to folow.”
Doc laid the menu on the table, looking around as Clinkerscales appeared with four bottles of wine on a tin tray. “Interesting,” he said. “Probably puts all of the old top hotels to shame.”
“There’s no labels on those bottles,” Ryan said as the barman laid them on the table.
“Truth is, Mr. Cawdor, they was in a warehouse that gotten itself under the Potomac. Below water for forty years or so. But the corks was sealed and they’ve all been good. Man that said he knows about wine told me that the red’s what they call a claret and the white’s.” Clinkerscales scratched his forehead, finally saying, “And the white’s not called a claret.”
He busied himself pouring out glasses for everyone, while they studied the bill of fare.
“What’s the soup?” Mildred asked.
“Ah, yes, now the soup. The soup is very. And made from the finest available. I can promise you that you’ll enjoy it. Promise that.”
“Yeah, but what flavor is it?”
The man tugged at his jaw, his cheekbones so prominent that it looked like they might burst clean through the skin of his face at any moment.
“Sort of soup flavor.”
“What’s the Mex dish?” Dean asked.
“Holy mackerel!” the barkeep exclaimed. “Never figured on havin’t pass a test before I served you good folks your supper. The Mex dish is, well, there’s chicken fajitas with onions and green peppers with sour cream and a taco and a burrito and an enchilada. Whole thing covered in green chili and a side order of our own salsa. Refried beans and black olives and lettuce. All with a big hunk of the finest bread baked in all of Green Hill.”
Krysty clapped him. “Well, if it’s as good as it sounds, I’ll give it a try.”
“Tuna melt?” Jak asked.
Clinkerscales drew a deep breath. “Chunk of that bread, crammed with a coupla handfuls of tuna. Well, that and some other fish. Topped off with cheese and held under the grill so it don’t escape. Fries and salsa on the side.” He looked at Jak. “Just a quick word of advice, son.”