Chapter Twenty-Seven - James
457 Words
Chapter Twenty-Seven - James
Michael leans back against our makeshift bar, arms folded, wearing a warm puppy grin. “I’d say we did it.”
“I’d say we did.”
A stream of aunts, sisters, cousins, grans, moms and daughters ferry dish after dish from the kitchens. Each one sets down some platter or server then beelines for the bar.
Michael raises his voice. “It’s getting kinda noisy don’t you think?”
“The Irish and the Italians? Two of the most famously vocal races in the world. And they’re at a party. Ah…” I point… “The Happy Couple have joined us at last.”
Ryan and Kirstie, hand-in-hand, pause in the doorway, gaping, then breaking into delighted grins. I can’t hear a word they’re saying over the racket, but Kirstie claps her hands. Kyle comes up to his brother and the two shake hands, clap shoulders. Kyle gives Kirstie a bearhug and a kiss on the cheek. At the same moment, the band strikes up.
In my few distracted seconds, Michael has conjured up two beers. He hands me one, sucks at the other, then swipes foam from his mouth. “Kirstie’s looking a bit mussed.”
“It’s her wedding day. She’s entitled to a bit of mussing.”
There must be some kind of announcement. I didn’t hear it, but there’s a general surge towards the food tables.
A couple of minutes later, Klempner ambles across to us, a paper plate in one hand, a plastic fork in the other. “Who do I have to assassinate to get a drink around here?”
“If it were anyone but you asking that, I’d think it was a joke…” His eyes crease… “As it is, let me get you something. What’s it to be?”
He waves his fork at my beer. “I’ll have one of those for now.”
He downs his beer in three swallows. “I was ready for that.”
“I’ll get you another.”
A voice rises from somewhere around my knees. “Can I have one, too?”
Klempner doesn’t even look down. “No, you can’t. You can have an orange squash. Or a lemonade.” He meets my eye and shrugs. “She seems to have adopted me.”
Without really looking, he forks up from his plate, chews for a moment then, brow furrowing, does look down, this time at his food. “What am I eating exactly?”
I scan the contents of his plate. “You don’t like it?”
He chews and swallows. “I do like it. I just haven’t ID’d it.”
“You are eating what I think is best described as Irish-Italian fusion food. Gnocchi with bacon and cabbage.”
He frowns. “That’s… not an obvious combination.”
“No, it isn’t. Ryan’s Italian chef uncle wanted to use Serrano ham. But his Irish housewife cousin insisted on bacon. I think it works. . Besides…” I nod toward where Ryan is dancing with Kirstie… “…it’s not the only Irish-Italian fusion that’s a success today.”
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- Writer
