Bobby Gold Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

." said Eddie, processing this last bit of information, wondering no doubt if the waiter was trying to trick him
     somehow. Wasabi . . . Wasabi . . . Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
    Bobby saw something being resolved. A decision had been made on the oyster question. "Can you ask the chef to make me some
     of that sauce with the shallots in it? What do you call that? Mignonette! I want mignonette sauce. It's like . . . red . .
     . red wine vinegar and shallots . . . and some black pepper. The shallots — you gotta chop 'em up real small. Can you do that?"
    "Mignonette," repeated the waiter, thinking visibly. Which would be worse, thought Bobby: telling Eddie fucking Fish, known
     gangster associate, that he couldn't have the fucking mignonette with his oysters — or approaching a rampaging prick of a
     three-star chef in the middle of the lunch rush and telling him to start hunting up some shallots and red wine vinegar?
    "I'll have to ask the chef, sir," said the waiter. "But I'm pretty sure we can do that for you."
    By the time he started in ordering his entree, Eddie had kept the waiter at his elbow for five full minutes, the rest of the
     poor man's station shooting daggers at him from their tables. Eddie, oblivious to Bobby's discomfort, began the tortuous process
     of grafting together elements from different menu items, designing an entree for himself, figuring out the way it should be
     served, instead of the way everyone else was getting it. Only fools, as Eddie liked to say, settled for less.
    "The hanger steak. How is that prepared?"
    "With saffron cous-cous, sir," said the waiter. "It's pan-seared, then roasted to order and served with a reduction of Cote
     de Rhone, demi-glace and caramelized whole shallots. It's very good." The waiter's offer of an opinion doomed that selection.
     Eddie wasn't having any.
    "And the tuna?"
    "That's grilled rare . . . served with roasted fingerling potatoes, braised fennel . . . and a citrus herb reduction," said
     the waiter, the first hint of frustration creeping into his voice. It made no impression on Eddie. The poor bastard could
     hop up and down holding his crotch, get down on one knee and bark like a dog — it wouldn't make any difference to Eddie, who
     seemed to slip into some kind of a fugue-state when ordering from a menu.
    "Okay . . . Okay . . ." pondered Eddie. "How about . . . let me . . . get . . . the . . . the monkfish. The saddle of monkfish."
    "One monkfish," repeated the waiter, gratefully, the clouds beginning to part, one foot already pointed towards the kitchen.
    "But . . . let me have that with . . . with the sauce from the hanger steak," said Eddie. "And like . . . the roasted finger
     potatoes. That sounds good . . . And what came with the tuna? What was the vegetable with that?"
    "Uh . . . braised fennel," stammered the waiter. Bobby saw the light go out in his eyes. He got it now. He understood, finally,
     what was happening. Eddie was never letting him go. All hope was gone. This vicious, malevolent little creep wasn't going
     to be happy until his whole station was up in arms, until his other customers were so pissed off they tipped ten percent,
     until the chef was pushed to the point of murder. Chefs blame waiters for the sins of their customers, the waiter was probably
     thinking —and this chef, when he saw Eddie Fish's order, was going to unscrew his head and relieve himself down his neck.
    "Forget the monkfish," said Eddie, changing tack, "Let me have the turbot instead. Yeah. I'll have the turbot. It's fresh?"
    "Yes, sir," said the waiter. "It came in this morning."
    "Then I'll have the turbot. Grilled . . . with the balsamic reduction and baby bok choy from this pork dish here . . ."
    "Yes, sir," said the waiter, picturing his imminent dismemberment in the kitchen.
    "Wait!" commanded Eddie, as the waiter began to turn away. "Before you bring the fish . . . could you lemme have a Caesar
     salad?"
    "I'm sorry sir," said the waiter. "We