“Oh my god,” she said, dropping my bucket. She set hers down onto the ground and reached out with both hands for the emerald. “Where did you find this?”
“Down over the hill. Somebody’s been digging with a backhoe, so I tried there.”
Alison looked up at me. “This … is this an emerald?”
“I think so.”
“That one inside said it was worth a million dollars.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my,” she repeated.
I slowly picked my find up from her hands and placed it back inside my pocket. “Don’t say anything to the people in the building about this. We’ll just show them our buckets on the way out if they want to see them.”
“Okay. Are you ready to go now?”
We made it out of there without Alison exploding. I was proud of her, because she was clearly struggling to contain herself. She was genuinely excited, though, when the lady working there rinsed off her stones and put them in a plastic bag for her.
Back in the car, I tucked my emerald safely away in my camera bag. Focusing again on our primary mission, I reviewed the rest of Alison’s schedule with her, hoping to avoid another no-show like we had today. She had two restaurants lined up for each day and wanted to be able to stop in at any other magazine-worthy prospects we might find along the way. Of the six places she had scheduled, she said that only two really gave her a good feeling—one being the first place that we already went to, and another scheduled for tomorrow lunch.
She had a breakfast place lined up for tomorrow morning, so we wanted to get a hotel near that. We drove to the little town and found a no-tell motel. It didn’t look that great, but it seemed to be the only place available.
We walked up to the counter, and Alison asked how much for two rooms.
“Forty dollars each,” the old man said.
“Okay,” Alison said. “Put them both on my credit card.”
“Can’t do that,” the old man said. “Don’t take no credit cards. Cash or check only.”
Alison looked at me in surprise. “I don’t have that much cash,” she said.
“I can write you a check,” I said to the old man. “I’ll need a receipt.”
We checked out our rooms—mine smelled musty, but at least it didn’t stink from old cigarettes like I expected—and then we met back at the car to go find some supper. There was only one restaurant open, and it certainly wasn’t one of Alison’s magazine-worthy prospects. I choked down a greasy burger and fries while Alison picked at a plate of something green and brown.
“I’m going to write my story from this morning when we get back to the motel,” she said. “We need to be at the place tomorrow morning by eight o’clock.”
“That’s kinda late for me to eat breakfast,” I said. “Can’t we go in earlier?”
“Sure. Want to leave the motel at seven?”
“Okay. While you’re writing tonight, I have some work I can do, too.”
“Going to be researching emeralds?” Alison asked with a smile.
“I doubt there’s any Internet access here. No, I have some work to do on my computer.” I paused, then continued a little quieter, not wanting to be overheard. “You know, I don’t even know how to feel about that emerald. First, it might not even be an emerald, but I do think it is, and I do think it’s very valuable.”
“Yeah,” Alison agreed sarcastically, “I’d call a million dollars valuable.”
“Not so loud,” I said, looking around cautiously. “I doubt it’s worth that much, but it could be pretty substantial. It’s just so far out of my league that I don’t know what to think about it. I’ll research it after we get home.”
Back at the motel, I was sitting in the only chair in the room touching up some photos I had taken for a new client. My mind kept wandering: sometimes to the emerald, but mostly to Alison. She needed to learn a few things about managing a sustainable business, but all the time we spent in the car together just talking…. It was fun.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on my door. I opened it to find Alison holding her laptop in front of her under crossed arms. “I couldn’t concentrate on my writing,” she said. “Can I come in?”
I stepped back and opened the door farther. “Yeah, absolutely!”
She walked slowly across the small room and stood beside the bed. “I’m sorry to bother you. If you’re working, I can go back—”
“Don’t be silly. Sit down.” I walked over to the desk where I had been working on my computer and sat down. “Just let me save this …. There. What’s up?”
“I’m sorry. You were obviously working on something.”
“Because I didn’t have anyone to talk to, so now I do. Why couldn’t you concentrate on your writing?”
She timidly sat down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know. I got everything written down from today, but it was really forced and I think it shows. I’ll probably have to rewrite it.”
“Well, at least you got it all down. After we visit the other restaurants, it will probably all come together.”
She let out a small laugh. “Are you always this optimistic?”
“Absolutely. I’m a firm believer that you can do anything you put your mind to.”
She gave me a disbelieving look. “I’ve tried lots of things that I couldn’t do.”
“And what kind of attitude did you have when you started them?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, but you can’t have a good attitude about everything. Life isn’t always that easy.”
“I didn’t say it was easy. Just possible. But you have to start out with a positive attitude. Look at it from the opposite side. If you believe you can’t do something, you’ll always be right.”
She stood up and walked over to me. “What are you working on tonight?”
“Just some client photos. Here, let me show you something more interesting.” I opened up a different file. “I haven’t shown these to anyone yet.”
“What is it?”
“Something I’ve been playing with between jobs. I use Photoshop and some other tools to combine images into artwork. What do you think?”
I had a picture of a car driving on the ocean, cornering and throwing up a wave, and another of a shark fin sticking up through the bubbles in a clawfoot bathtub with a woman in it.
“Where did you take that picture?” Alison asked with a sly grin.
“In school. That’s a friend of mine.”
“Apparently.”
The next one was a mashup of a flat, dry landscape with a close-up of the moon and an owl flying in front of it. I worked a long time getting them to all blend together seemingly naturally.
“Ooh, I really like this one.”
“Here, sit down where you can see them better.” I stood up to offer my chair, and she took over driving my PC. I stood behind her, leaning on the back of the chair. It was hard to see the screen through her hair, but she smelled terrific.
“These are fabulous pictures, Jack. Really, I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.”
We spent the next half hour going through my catalog. They were mostly weddings and boring corporate shots, but they made for some good conversation starters.
Alison got up from the chair. “Can I ask you a question?” She looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry; this is too personal.”
“What? Ask away.”
“How much money does a photographer make? I’m sorry. My mom told me to ask you that. Never mind.”
I laughed. “You can tell her that the money’s not great—not yet—but I make enough to get by, and I’m making more every month.
“I’m embarrassed to tell you how much I made last year.”
“So don’t. You’re just starting out. Do you like what you do?”
“I like being a journalist. It’d be nice to report on more important things. I’d really like to have my own column, but I don’t know if that will ever happen.”
“It’ll co
me … as long as you have a plan. And a website. We need to get you a website.”
“Would you really help me with that?”
“Sure. How about the weekend after next? I should be caught up by then.”
She stammered a little like I caught her off guard or something. “Okay. That would be great.” She kept looking at me with a funny smile.
“What?”
“Have you ever dropped everything to chauffer a girl around for three days before?”
“Is that your mom’s question, too?”
“No, that one’s mine.”
“Well, I haven’t. You’re my first.” I laughed at myself. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right.”
She blushed but said, “I knew what you meant. So why do it for me?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “You needed help. I thought it’d be fun.”
“Fun?”
“Sure. I work alone. You probably do, too. I just thought it would be fun to work with somebody for a few days.”
“And that’s all?”
“Well, you’re a reporter. Reporters need photographers sometimes. And you probably have lots of contacts. I’ve picked up a lot of business by just pursuing conversations with people and asking for recommendations.
“And it’s not like I dropped everything, either. That’s the biggest benefit of being self-employed. You can work whatever sixty hours a week you want.”
She laughed and walked over to pick up her computer. “I need to get back and go to sleep. Thanks for keeping me company.”
She opened the door, then turned back to face me. “Oh, I almost forgot. What’s your last name?”
“Taylor.”
She smiled at me and said, “Goodnight.”
The next morning’s breakfast restaurant was surprisingly busy. It looked like lots of workers started their day there. Most were in dirty clothes or work uniforms sopping up their gravy and biscuits. A couple were dressed in suits.
We took a table, and a girl came over with an order pad in hand. “Watcha want?” Her accent was twice as thick as Alison’s. I didn’t think that was possible.
“Can we see a menu?” I asked.
“We ain’t got none o’ them here. Watcha want?”
I was a little stunned, not expecting this first thing in the morning. “Watcha got?” I asked her.
“All the usual. Biscuits and gravy, chicken and waffles—”
“Chicken and waffles?” I turned to Alison. “Really?” I asked if I could just get some scrambled eggs and bacon and hash browns.
“Sure, hon,” she said without pause. She turned to Alison. “And how ’bout you?”
“You’ll have to excuse him,” Alison said. “He doesn’t know what a real breakfast is. I’m Alison Meyers. I spoke with Ruby last week about writing a magazine article about restaurants in the North Carolina Mountains.”
“Oh, yeah. She told me ’bout that.” Turning around, she yelled back toward the kitchen, “Hey Gene! Tell Ruby that writer’s here to see her.” Then she turned back to Alison. “Watcha want?”
Ruby sat down with us, and she and Alison had the most southern conversation I’ve ever heard in my life. White gravy and black-eyed peas. Corn mush, and the intricacies of whole hominy versus grits. I had left my camera gear in the car, so I dashed out to get it and returned to properly document these southern delicacies.
When we got back into the car, Alison declared, “That was fun!”
“Well I’m genuinely happy for you,” I said.
“Oh, y’all eat boring breakfasts up north. That’s comfort food in there.”
“Do you eat that kind of food at home?”
“You bet I do. Just like my grandma taught me.”
“Yeah? What else did your grandma teach you?”
“She taught me to take life by the horns—or maybe that was to take boys by the horns—you can never tell with my grandma!”
“Well, you’ll have to show me what she taught you sometime,” I said with a grin.
“I’d love to do that. You’re goin’ to have to eat southern, though,” she said with a grin of her own.
3
Ezra Tate and the Chocolate Cake
My GPS struggled with the address for Alison’s next restaurant. I couldn’t use my phone maps because I couldn’t get a cell signal. Fortunately I had a paper map in my car, though I can’t remember the last time I used it.
Alison wanted to make some notes before going into the next restaurant, but there was no way she was going to be able to balance her laptop on these roads, so she wrote longhand the best she could while I drove with my map in my right hand. And they say cell phones are dangerous to drive with.
Between my map and the directions that Alison got over the phone last week, we found the restaurant with surprisingly little trouble. I guess this is what everybody did until about ten years ago, but it just seems so ancient to me now.
We arrived earlier than Alison had told the owner, but rationalizing that it might be better to catch him before he gets a lunch crowd, we went in.
“Hello, hello! Welcome to my restaurant!” came the jubilant greeting from the owner as he strode out to meet us in one of those white, double-breasted chef coats. “Ezra Tate at your service. You must be Alison,” he said, shaking her hand in both of his, his big, turned-up cuffs flopping back and forth.
“Yes, hi,” Alison said. “And this is my photographer, Jack Taylor.”
“A photographer, ohh,” he said, giving me the same two-handed handshake.
“I’m hoping I can take some photographs of your dishes,” I said, feeling like I had to say something.
“Oh, absolutely, absolutely. And maybe you can take some photographs of the food on the dishes, too! Ha ha ha.”
I could tell I was going to like this guy.
Ezra turned back to Alison, clasped his hands together, and said, “What exactly can I help you with? What kind of information would you like?”
“I’m spotlighting some hidden gem restaurants in the North Carolina Mountains. I’d like to see your best dishes—I’d like to try them—”
“Absolutely, absolutely.”
“And I’d like to hear your story. How did you come to own this restaurant, where did you learn to cook, what are your specialties, all that sort of thing.”
“Perfect, perfect. Let me offer you a seat. I need to give some instruction to my kitchen staff, and I’ll be right back with you.”
“We’re not intruding on your lunch schedule are we?” Alison quickly asked. “We did come earlier than I had told you.”
“No, no, you’re fine. Just give me a moment.”
He left us at a table in the dining room, and I said to Alison, “I can’t place him. He sort of has a southern accent, but there’s something different about it.”
“He’s gay.”
“What? No way.”
“Of course he is.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’m a girl; we know these things.”
“I’ve met plenty of gay people, and none of them sound like that.”
“Not all gay people sound exactly the same.”
“I know that. There still seems to be something different—something European.”
“Nope. Just gay.”
Ezra returned carrying a menu. He sat down beside Alison at our table for four. “I’m having the kitchen prepare a selection of my best dishes for you.” He looked at me. “You can photograph them and eat them. Hah!”
Ezra opened the menu and started going through all his favorite dishes with Alison. She grabbed her pen and scrambled to keep up. I’m certainly not a foodie; I eat pretty plain. But I noticed that everything he described—even his sandwiches—had lots of herbs in them, and he seemed to use more spices than usual, too. It sounded pretty good, actually. It could have just been his passion describing each dish. Now this guy was a foodie.
“I use all fresh vegetables and herbs,” he said. “I drive to Asheville t
wo mornings every week to a co-op that always has fresh-picked local produce.”
“What do you do in the winter?” I asked. As soon as the words were out, I realized that I was intruding into Alison’s territory, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“I change the menu.” Ezra replied. “Well, I change it a little. I use dried herbs in the winter. They’re not as good as fresh, but I dry them myself, so I know they’re done right, and they’re never more than six months old. Give or take a little,” he added with a toothy smile and rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.
“Ezra, this all sounds so fabulous,” Alison said. “I’d just love to see how y’all prepare these.”
I looked at Alison; studied her. She always has a southern accent, but I just now realized that she controls how strong it is. Right now she had it dialed up to ten. She’s usually at a five or six around me. I was curious if she did this intentionally or if it was totally subconscious.
“Certainly, certainly,” Ezra replied. “Your selections should be just about ready, but come with me into the kitchen and you’ll be able to see the final preparations.” He jumped up, and Alison followed. I hurriedly grabbed my camera out of my pack and decided the lens that was on it would do.
I was surprised how big the kitchen was, compared to the dining area. Certainly more than half the size. It wasn’t all stainless steel like you’d expect in a modern restaurant, but it looked very clean and very functional. One guy and one girl wearing white coats and hats were moving very fluidly preparing plates that were apparently for Alison and me. I had never seen people move like this in the south. I’ve only been down here a couple years, but most people who didn’t move here like I did seemed to take their good old time about things. Which was fine with me—I’ve found that I can blend right in with just about any crowd—but this still stood out to me as unusual.
Ezra was taking Alison around all the different areas in the kitchen. I had already fallen behind, so I began snapping pictures of the two of them and the two cooks. I noticed a couple chocolate cakes on the counter that hadn’t been frosted yet and took a picture of those. Ezra must have seen me, because he shuffled over to me and said, “I must put the icing on the cakes, and then you will take a picture of them. This is my signature dish. I have the best chocolate cake anywhere. You will have a piece; then you tell me if you’ve ever had any better.”
Diners, Dives, and Dirty Deeds Page 3
