Free A Million for Eleanor: A Contemporary Story on Love and Money by Danil Rudoy Page B

heavenly.”
    “It will make her sleepy,” he remarked. “My pick for her is the Sour Cream Quails.”
    “What about the Bohemian Pheasant?” Eleanor asked, diligently perusing the menu. “Sounds poetic.”
    “They will cook it for so long you’ll forget what you’ve ordered,” said Mrs. Charlester.
    “I am really lucky to have come to this place with you. Sounds like you know it inside out.”
    “My mother discovered this restaurant a long time ago and loved it ever since. So do I. They keep things that work here and try to change only those that don’t. That light, for instance,” he pointed at the fountain. “The first time I came here it was pink. Then it was green. Then red.”
    “I think they finally got it right,” Mrs. Charlester said.
    “It certainly is better than anything else, but I’m still not sure it’s optimal.”
    “I am tempted to go for the Pineapple Chicken Breasts. Is it any good?” Eleanor said.
    “Tender like a kiss of an angel,” he assured. “But please, don’t take French fries with it. It’s for hopeless cases, like the couple sitting two tables away to your right.”
    “Who is there?” Mrs. Charlester asked Eleanor. “I don’t want to turn.”
    “A man and a woman,” she said, casting a furtive look in the indicated direction. “They aren’t eating yet, though.”
    “And what do they look like?”
    “Like a mediocre gangster who killed people and a loser actress who doesn’t care where and with whom she spends the night if the guy will pay the bill,” she said, charmingly.
    “Excellent!” He gave Eleanor an approving look. “I would add it’s their first time. And, most likely, the last. And here is our good man!” He smiled at a tall dark-haired waiter with a thin moustache who appeared before them.
    “Good evening.” The waiter bowed. “Are you ready to make your orders?”
    “We are,” his mother responded to his inquiring look.
    “Are you?” he asked Eleanor.
    “Sure.”
    “What can I get for you?” the waiter inquired, producing a little notepad and a pencil.
    “Go ahead, darling,” Mrs. Charlester said to Eleanor.
    “The Shark Fins’ Soup and the Pineapple Chicken Breasts with rice,” she said. “And a glass of Château Latour, nineteen fifty four.”
    “Excellent choice, my dear,” Mrs. Charlester said. “I will take the Shrimp Salad and a glass of pink Dom Perignon.”
    “What year would you prefer, madam: nineteen eighty, or nineteen eighty-two?”
    “Richard, which one do you think’s better?”
    He paused for a second.
    “Either is fine,” he said. “The first has more divisors, but it’s easier to make a hundred out of the second.”
    “How exactly do you make a hundred out of nineteen eighty-two?” asked Eleanor.
    “Can I borrow your pencil?” he asked the waiter.
    “Sure,” said the latter, handing him the item in question. He quickly scribbled (1+9)·(8+2)=100 on a napkin and showed it to Eleanor.
    “Eighty-two be it,” said Mrs. Charlester with conviction.
    “Anything else, Madam?” the waiter said cautiously. “The Shrimp Salad’s portions are rather modest, as far as the quantity is concerned.”
    “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.” Mrs. Charlester smiled amiably.
    “As you wish. What will the Mademoiselle choose?”
    Elisa looked at the waiter as if considering answering in French.
    “Mushroom fricassee, Greek salad and pineapple juice. No ice, please.”
    “Certainly. You, sir?”
    “A bowl of noodle soup with yoke, the more yoke the better, a Caesar and a Peking Duck,” he said, astounded by the speed with which the waiter was taking notes. “A bunch of black grapes. Seedless. Cranberry juice. Mix it with carbonated water, half-and-half. Thank you.”
    “I bet you and Richard weren’t getting this kind of food at college,” Mrs. Charlester said to Eleanor when the waiter disappeared.
    “No, but we didn’t complain either.”
    “Some did,” he said. “And she was friends with some