People think CDs sound better than vinyl.”
“And everybody agrees cassettes sound terrible. Quality is only subjective after the base values everyone agrees upon are met. I don’t know anyone who loves drinking wine that smells like wet newspaper. Beyond that, you’re absolutely right, it’s a matter of taste.”
Sunny started taking restaurant leftovers out of the refrigerator, piling white takeout boxes on the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen. There were four different main courses, half a dozen vegetable sides, mixed greens, a tub of soup, and several desserts. She turned on the oven and took down an assortment of saucepans. “No one will go hungry tonight.”
“If they do, it won’t be me.”
“So, spill it. What’d you buy at the auction anyway?” said Sunny.
“Loads of stuff. French, Chilean, Australian. I went on a Côtes-du-Rhône spree. I bought some great Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a bunch of Gigondas. Pretty well aged, too. There was nobody there to bid against me. If you’re from out of town, you couldn’t find the Napa airport without GPS and a police escort. The guys running the thing said—”
Monty was interrupted by the decisive jangle of the string of bells attached to the front door. Wade Skord and Rivka Chavez appeared. Greetings, coat removal, and wine pouring followed.
“By the way, I don’t know why I bother asking anymore,” said Sunny, turning to Monty Lenstrom, “but is the lovely Annabelle joining us tonight?”
“Negative. Annabelle has stopped eating dinner as part of her attempt to dramatically reduce her caloric intake and live to be two hundred years old.”
“She’s not seriously doing CR?” said Rivka.
“Dabbling, I’d say,” said Monty.
“What’s CR?” asked Wade.
“Calorie restriction,” said Rivka. “I read an article about it. You eat almost nothing and live forever.”
“What’s the advantage?” said Wade. He poured himself a glass of wine, added a splash to Sunny’s, and chimed his glass against hers. “To protection from evil spirits,” he said, meeting her eyes.
“And Peeping Toms.
Santé!”
Sunny handed Monty a stack of plates and followed him with bowls and silverware into the living room, where the plank table took up too much space. The arrangement of pink tulips and cherry blossoms salvaged from the restaurant stood in the middle of the table, together with a rusty Moorish candelabra loaded with flesh-colored tapers. Monty arranged the plates, then took matches from his pocket and lit the candles.
“What’s this about Peeping Toms?” said Wade.
“I saw McCoskey in her birthday suit tonight,” he said. “The back half, at least.”
“Racy!” said Rivka. “Let’s hear it.”
“He was spying in the window like a pervert,” said Sunny.
“Excuse me, I was checking up on a dear friend’s safety,” said Monty. “What were you doing in there, anyway? Squeezing a pimple?”
“None of your business.”
Rivka looked thoughtful. “So you might say that Sunny puts the bare ass in embarrassment.”
“Nice,” said Wade.
When they at last sat down, it was to a feast of leftovers, beginning with a winter gazpacho of Seville oranges, pine nuts, and paprika, and a platter of grilled asparagus with chopped hardboiled eggs in a marjoram vinaigrette, followed by lemon-rosemary chicken, a small portion of braised oxtail with leeks and carrots that had been unexpectedly popular that week, and, as the pièce de résistance, roasted spring lamb shoulder with potatoes au gratin, of which there was an ample supply since it had been unexpectedly unpopular all week. They opened a bottle of Skord Zinfandel to go with it.
Monty held up his glass. “Inky. Ninety-eight?”
“Ninety-four,” corrected Wade. “Nearly the last of it.”
“Holding up nicely.”
Platters heavy with food went around the table.
“There’s nothing like a spring lamb,” said Monty. “So tender, so succulent. A wee babe hardly weaned
“And everybody agrees cassettes sound terrible. Quality is only subjective after the base values everyone agrees upon are met. I don’t know anyone who loves drinking wine that smells like wet newspaper. Beyond that, you’re absolutely right, it’s a matter of taste.”
Sunny started taking restaurant leftovers out of the refrigerator, piling white takeout boxes on the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen. There were four different main courses, half a dozen vegetable sides, mixed greens, a tub of soup, and several desserts. She turned on the oven and took down an assortment of saucepans. “No one will go hungry tonight.”
“If they do, it won’t be me.”
“So, spill it. What’d you buy at the auction anyway?” said Sunny.
“Loads of stuff. French, Chilean, Australian. I went on a Côtes-du-Rhône spree. I bought some great Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a bunch of Gigondas. Pretty well aged, too. There was nobody there to bid against me. If you’re from out of town, you couldn’t find the Napa airport without GPS and a police escort. The guys running the thing said—”
Monty was interrupted by the decisive jangle of the string of bells attached to the front door. Wade Skord and Rivka Chavez appeared. Greetings, coat removal, and wine pouring followed.
“By the way, I don’t know why I bother asking anymore,” said Sunny, turning to Monty Lenstrom, “but is the lovely Annabelle joining us tonight?”
“Negative. Annabelle has stopped eating dinner as part of her attempt to dramatically reduce her caloric intake and live to be two hundred years old.”
“She’s not seriously doing CR?” said Rivka.
“Dabbling, I’d say,” said Monty.
“What’s CR?” asked Wade.
“Calorie restriction,” said Rivka. “I read an article about it. You eat almost nothing and live forever.”
“What’s the advantage?” said Wade. He poured himself a glass of wine, added a splash to Sunny’s, and chimed his glass against hers. “To protection from evil spirits,” he said, meeting her eyes.
“And Peeping Toms.
Santé!”
Sunny handed Monty a stack of plates and followed him with bowls and silverware into the living room, where the plank table took up too much space. The arrangement of pink tulips and cherry blossoms salvaged from the restaurant stood in the middle of the table, together with a rusty Moorish candelabra loaded with flesh-colored tapers. Monty arranged the plates, then took matches from his pocket and lit the candles.
“What’s this about Peeping Toms?” said Wade.
“I saw McCoskey in her birthday suit tonight,” he said. “The back half, at least.”
“Racy!” said Rivka. “Let’s hear it.”
“He was spying in the window like a pervert,” said Sunny.
“Excuse me, I was checking up on a dear friend’s safety,” said Monty. “What were you doing in there, anyway? Squeezing a pimple?”
“None of your business.”
Rivka looked thoughtful. “So you might say that Sunny puts the bare ass in embarrassment.”
“Nice,” said Wade.
When they at last sat down, it was to a feast of leftovers, beginning with a winter gazpacho of Seville oranges, pine nuts, and paprika, and a platter of grilled asparagus with chopped hardboiled eggs in a marjoram vinaigrette, followed by lemon-rosemary chicken, a small portion of braised oxtail with leeks and carrots that had been unexpectedly popular that week, and, as the pièce de résistance, roasted spring lamb shoulder with potatoes au gratin, of which there was an ample supply since it had been unexpectedly unpopular all week. They opened a bottle of Skord Zinfandel to go with it.
Monty held up his glass. “Inky. Ninety-eight?”
“Ninety-four,” corrected Wade. “Nearly the last of it.”
“Holding up nicely.”
Platters heavy with food went around the table.
“There’s nothing like a spring lamb,” said Monty. “So tender, so succulent. A wee babe hardly weaned
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