Smiling customers ate at tables with black-and-white cloths holding tempting dishes. Every chair appeared filled, yet a hostess escorted us to a table near a far wall.
We sat near the knotty pine wall. I scanned the framed pictures of swamp scenes. Across the room I spied Father Paul Edward laughing with the women seated beside him.
I glanced around at all the faces, looking for Gil. Disappointment dropped in when I didn’t find him.
“I want a seafood platter,” Stevie told our waiter. “A large one.”
Without opening my menu, I asked, “Would you have boiled crayfish?”
“Sorry,” he said, “we haven’t gotten any yet.”
More disappointment. I sighed. “Then I’d like shrimp stew and lima beans. A cup of shrimp and corn soup as an appetizer, please.”
“How did you know they’d have dishes like that?” Stevie asked me.
“Lucky guess.”
She eyed the entrées and appetizers people surrounding us ate. “This does seem like a nice place. And all of the food looks great.”
I made noncommittal sounds. “Nice music.”
“Yes, that’s good, too.”
We turned toward a small platform holding a trio playing soft jazz. Right beyond them stood the most striking woman. Probably in her early thirties, she wore a magenta suit and similar makeup that showed off a willowy figure. Shoulder-length blond hair flipped in a fashionable style and surrounded a beauty-queen face pinched up in a scowl. She stared at her watch.
The musicians quit playing. The beauty queen turned to a man with extra-short hair who rushed to the platform. The cute man didn’t look at home stuffed into his tweed sports coat.
“Good evening,” he said into the mike, “and welcome. We hope you’ll enjoy your experience at Cajun Delights and come back again soon.”
Customers applauded. The man said, “I’d like to introduce our lovely daytime manager to you, Babs Jacobs.” He pointed to the woman, her scowl replaced by a bright smile while we all clapped. “And I’ll be overseeing things here in the evening,” the man onstage said. “So if anything’s wrong with your meals, you can take it out on me, Jake Bryant.”
I chuckled with others at his self-deprecating humor. I liked this young man.
He continued, “We wish the owner could be here.”
Yes, we do wish that.
“But he’s out of town. Come back again, and you’ll be sure to meet him,” Jake said.
The fluttering in my chest signaled my wanting to see the owner, yet I knew I shouldn’t.
Stevie spread butter on crackers we’d been served. She ate them, seemingly unaware of my anxiety.
I glanced toward the side to try to break up my thoughts. Father Paul Edward was laughing. So were the women at his table. Did that man of the cloth—apparently also a man of the world—know much about the man who died in Stevie’s yard?
“Right now we’ll have our joke contest,” Jake Bryant said. He flung out his hands. He didn’t wear a wedding band. “Please come up and share a favorite joke with us. They have to be clean. Cajun jokes are especially encouraged, if anyone knows any.”
Now, during the grand opening, joke contests would be held every evening. Later they’d take place at a variety of times. Contest winners would be chosen by customers and receive their meals on the house.
“I wish I knew some jokes to tell,” Stevie said.
I did. I’d heard many at Gil’s restaurants but could never imagine, as Gil sometimes suggested, that I’d ever get onstage to tell one.
The waiter served our appetizers. Stevie attacked her fried onion rings, and I dug into my corn soup. The shrimp were chewy, the creamy base well seasoned.
One brave soul took to the stage. The small middle-aged man began his joke.
Almost as loud as his voice through the mike, a woman’s angry tone could be heard.
The complaints came from Babs Jacobs. She stood near Jake Bryant, pointing her finger at him. This was her left hand. I noted her fingers also without rings.
“What is
We sat near the knotty pine wall. I scanned the framed pictures of swamp scenes. Across the room I spied Father Paul Edward laughing with the women seated beside him.
I glanced around at all the faces, looking for Gil. Disappointment dropped in when I didn’t find him.
“I want a seafood platter,” Stevie told our waiter. “A large one.”
Without opening my menu, I asked, “Would you have boiled crayfish?”
“Sorry,” he said, “we haven’t gotten any yet.”
More disappointment. I sighed. “Then I’d like shrimp stew and lima beans. A cup of shrimp and corn soup as an appetizer, please.”
“How did you know they’d have dishes like that?” Stevie asked me.
“Lucky guess.”
She eyed the entrées and appetizers people surrounding us ate. “This does seem like a nice place. And all of the food looks great.”
I made noncommittal sounds. “Nice music.”
“Yes, that’s good, too.”
We turned toward a small platform holding a trio playing soft jazz. Right beyond them stood the most striking woman. Probably in her early thirties, she wore a magenta suit and similar makeup that showed off a willowy figure. Shoulder-length blond hair flipped in a fashionable style and surrounded a beauty-queen face pinched up in a scowl. She stared at her watch.
The musicians quit playing. The beauty queen turned to a man with extra-short hair who rushed to the platform. The cute man didn’t look at home stuffed into his tweed sports coat.
“Good evening,” he said into the mike, “and welcome. We hope you’ll enjoy your experience at Cajun Delights and come back again soon.”
Customers applauded. The man said, “I’d like to introduce our lovely daytime manager to you, Babs Jacobs.” He pointed to the woman, her scowl replaced by a bright smile while we all clapped. “And I’ll be overseeing things here in the evening,” the man onstage said. “So if anything’s wrong with your meals, you can take it out on me, Jake Bryant.”
I chuckled with others at his self-deprecating humor. I liked this young man.
He continued, “We wish the owner could be here.”
Yes, we do wish that.
“But he’s out of town. Come back again, and you’ll be sure to meet him,” Jake said.
The fluttering in my chest signaled my wanting to see the owner, yet I knew I shouldn’t.
Stevie spread butter on crackers we’d been served. She ate them, seemingly unaware of my anxiety.
I glanced toward the side to try to break up my thoughts. Father Paul Edward was laughing. So were the women at his table. Did that man of the cloth—apparently also a man of the world—know much about the man who died in Stevie’s yard?
“Right now we’ll have our joke contest,” Jake Bryant said. He flung out his hands. He didn’t wear a wedding band. “Please come up and share a favorite joke with us. They have to be clean. Cajun jokes are especially encouraged, if anyone knows any.”
Now, during the grand opening, joke contests would be held every evening. Later they’d take place at a variety of times. Contest winners would be chosen by customers and receive their meals on the house.
“I wish I knew some jokes to tell,” Stevie said.
I did. I’d heard many at Gil’s restaurants but could never imagine, as Gil sometimes suggested, that I’d ever get onstage to tell one.
The waiter served our appetizers. Stevie attacked her fried onion rings, and I dug into my corn soup. The shrimp were chewy, the creamy base well seasoned.
One brave soul took to the stage. The small middle-aged man began his joke.
Almost as loud as his voice through the mike, a woman’s angry tone could be heard.
The complaints came from Babs Jacobs. She stood near Jake Bryant, pointing her finger at him. This was her left hand. I noted her fingers also without rings.
“What is
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