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Gonzo finally lowers his menu. The waitress takes note of his Little Person status. It’s like it stalls her out for a minute and she needs to reboot, but the forced smile comes back.
“And what about you, dawlin’?”
Gonzo’s eyes are like saucers. He’s sweating and coughing a little bit, pulling at his collar. I sense a full panic tsunami coming on, though I don’t know why just yet.
“Excuse me,” Gonzo says. He puts his menu up in front of his face. It doesn’t block the waitress’s view. It just makes him look like an idiot. “I can’t eat anything on here, man.”
“Why not?”
“It’s all fish.”
“Yeah, no kidding. It’s a seafood restaurant. Jambalaya Café. Says so right out front.”
“I can’t eat shellfish. My mom says I could be allergic.”
“Could be or are?”
“It’s a helluva way to find out, dude. I could go into anaphylactic shock and die right here within seconds, no do-over.”
The waitress’s smile falters. No doubt she’s picturing herself losing tips while she runs for the CPR kit under the counter. Under the fluorescent lights, she looks tired and lined, like one of my mom’s old book bags, and I feel sorry for her and totally pissed at Gonzo.
“So order the fried catfish,” I say.
The waitress agrees. “The catfish’s real good. It’s my fav’rite.” Her pen hovers, ready.
Gonzo shakes his head. “Mercury, man.”
I make a show of examining the menu. “Sorry … don’t see the Mercury Special anywhere …”
“No, the mercury. In fish, amigo. Some fish have a high concentration of it. It can cause brain and liver damage and all sorts of wicked reactions.”
“You know, Gonz, it’s not like they’re back in the kitchen opening thermometers all over the food. Get a grip.”
“Dude, this is serious. Do you know how many people die of mercury poisoning each year? It’s some serious sh—” Gonzo steals a glance at our waitress. “It’s a growing concern.”
People are being seated in our section. People who might want to order lots of fish from the seafood menu and ostensibly leave big tips to go with that. Our waitress taps her pen on her pad. “I can give y’all another minute if you need. …”
“Gonzo,” I hiss under my breath. “I’m freaking starving. Just order something, okay?”
The hostess whispers to the waitress that Table A3 is ready to order. She nods.
“We’ve got a good salad bar. It’s all-you-can-eat.” The waitress gestures to a food island in the middle of the room where vats of brightly colored food sit on little ice hills under protective glass lit by a jillion lightbulbs. It’s like a small salad city.
Gonzo narrows his eyes. “How often do you clean that thing?”
“Every night,” the waitress answers. Her smile is strained.
“That’s it? Do you know how long it takes for Listeria to grow under those hot lamps, even with ice?”
Here we go.
“It can happen in just five hours. Five hours and you’ve got the salad bar of death!”
The waitress looks confused. “From Listerine?”
“Lis-ter-i-a. It’s bacteria that can cause anything from food-poisoning symptoms to coma.”
The waitress’s smile has completely vanished. “Well, my goodness. Are you boys from the health department? ’Cause we passed with flying colors just two months ago. My manager’s got the certificate on file.”
