fact, we didnât.
When it came time to deliver the dessert menus, the reason for the wait staffâs continuing concern over Margaret Feathermanâs absence became clear. The headwaiter himselfâ
a heavyset man named Angeloâcame to the table to make an official and suitably ceremonial pronouncement.
âI am so very sorry Madame Featherman was unable to join you tonight. She spoke to the head chef earlier today and made a special dessert request for your tableâs dining pleasure this evening. Iâm happy to report that the kitchen staff has been delighted to comply. And so, unless there is someone who wishes to choose from the regular dessert menu, Reynaldo will be serving raspberry soufflés all around.â
After that, no one bothered giving the standard dessert menu a look-see. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, we all told Reynaldo that weâd be happy to sample Margaret Feathermanâs specially ordered soufflés.
When the soufflés arrived, they were wonderful. As soon as I lifted the first steaming spoonful to my mouth, my nostrils were assailed by the aroma of hot fruit rising from the steamy sauce. Instantly I was transported back to my childhood and to my motherâs small kitchen in Seattle. There, every summer, the aromas of hot fruit would fill the entire apartment as Mother dutifully canned peaches and apricots and put up raspberry and blackberry preserves.
Iâve heard it said that remembered smells linger longer in memory than do recollections from any of the other senses. One whiff of that steaming raspberry sauce made a believer of me. Naomi must have caught the faraway look on my face.
âWhereâd you go?â she asked.
âBack to my childhood,â I told her. âThis sauce takes me back to when I was seven or eight and used to help my mother do canning.â
âReally,â she said. âThe only thing my mother knew about canning was to use an opener on a can of Del Monte peaches. But this is wonderful,â she added.
I looked around the room, where other diners were enjoying their non-specially-ordered desserts. âHow do you suppose Margaret pulled this off?â I asked. âHow do you go about getting a cruise ship kitchen to agree to whip up a special command-performance dessert like this?â
âI understand that nicer ships are happy to comply with special requests,â Naomi answered. âBut Iâm sure it helps if you go in waving around the promise of a very large tip. From the looks of him, Iâd guess Angelo is worried about whether or not the tip will actually materialize, since Margaret herself wasnât here to sample the kitchenâs impeccable delivery. The sad thing is, the way tipping works on cruise ships, no gratuities actually change hands until the very last day. In other words, the staff wonât know whether or not Margaret stiffed them until itâs too late for them to do anything about it.â
âWould she?â I asked. âStiff them, I mean.â
Naomi sighed. âProbably. Itâs happened before.â
After dinner we once again repaired to the Twilight Lounge. This time the pseudo-comic/pianist was missing. Instead, we were treated to the talent of an African-American torch singer named Dahlia Lucas who specialized in Billie Holiday ballads and wasnât half bad. As Marc Alley had done all during dinner, when the dancing started up again, he assumed responsibility for Virginia and Sharon, leaving me in charge of Naomi. We danced some, but mostly we listened to the music and watched.
âAre you having fun?â I asked.
âOn the cruise, or tonight?â
âBoth.â
Naomi nodded. âMore than I thought I would,â she said.
âMe, too.â
âAnd what about your grandparents?â she asked. âAre they having fun, too?â
âI think so,â I told her. âThey seem to have gotten over last
Eric Flint, Charles E. Gannon