“Monkey piss,” she said, dipping a finger into a pot of consommé Julienne. “Regurgitated hog maw,” she said, taking a tray of potatoes au gratin from the oven. “Flush hard, ladies and gentlemen of the Zephyr,” she said. “It’s a long way to Mother’s galley.” She held her nose, she fanned the air with kitchen towels, she sneered at the plates of food as they went out.
From the other side of the pass-through, I watched her closely. I listened for her voice. In my former world, the world of pampered, Division 1 college athletes, humility was a rare trait. If I was moderately attracted to this woman, I dismissed it as early onset of Stockholm syndrome—the hostage falling for his captor.
I threw myself into my bartending duties without regard to where we were headed or when we would get there. My future was squarely in the hands of my eccentric employer, a quirky chef, and the crew of the train to which we were yoked.
The Zephyr left Reno nearly two hours late. ##
|Novelist Eric Peterson serves up a rollicking tale of Amtrak trains, haute cuisine, and bewitching women|
Reviewed by Joel R. Dennstedt for Readers' Favorite