As in:
It wasn’t too early to get a table at Milford’s and, at least in Page’s view, they got the best one, in the back section, near the window, on the Monroe Street side. The calamari appetizer was laughably enormous, having been derived from freshly captured Humboldt squid.
“You’re going to have to eat it like one of those melon-sized onion rings,” Page joked.
And, oh, it was delicious, especially with a dab of ginger and some smoked ranch dipping sauce.
But a completely bogus and unwarranted firing, like the ones Reneé had bestowed upon Beatrix and Ramon, needed some call-of-the-wild food, something earthy and pungent to fully unhinge the id, and open the door to seizures of indignation and ululations of resolve. Oysters on the half shell. A few squirts of lemon juice.
“I’ll bet I’m going to need some champagne with that,” Beatrix said playfully to Gil the waiter.
“It’s on the house,” said Gil, who understood the occasion and fully grasped that it would be neither good for business nor for the karma of the fine establishment to charge for the libations this evening.
It was Ramon’s sullen conclusion to leave town gracefully, and though he couldn’t bear to say this to anyone in particular, he did speak it into his chowder.
“Nope,” Beatrix said, holding a piece of calamari up to the light with a cocktail fork, admiring its form. “I think we should sue the bitch.”
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