Don't Forget to Write: A Novel(54)
“Why are you looking at me like that? Eat.” Then her expression softened. “Watch me,” she said.
I watched as she took a small fork, pried the meat out of a shell, and popped it into her mouth. She chewed, then held the shell up like a tiny castanet. “You use this to pluck them out of the rest,” she said, demonstrating on another set of shells.
After I failed at three attempts with the fork, Ada handed me her shells. “Try now,” she said. “Or we’ll be here all night, and we do have plans after this.”
“What are we doing after?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” I pried the first mussel from its shell with ease and looked at it, clamped between the two black shells I had used as tweezers. “It’s better as food than art.”
Certain I was about to chew something with the consistency of shoe rubber, I placed it on my tongue, pleasantly surprised by the taste—it was salty and sweet, chewy but not tough.
“They’re delicious,” I said after swallowing.
“You sound surprised. It’s not like I told you to order cod liver oil.”
I opened the next. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until the first mussel hit my tongue.
When we finished, the bowls and plates were cleared, and two lobsters appeared in front of us. “I suppose you’ll need help with this too,” Ada said. “This takes considerably more skill than the mussels, I’m afraid. But you seem to be a fast learner.”
Ada described the anatomy in far greater detail than I expected or needed, then showed me how to eat it, piece by piece.
“So?” she asked.
“I understand why it’s a delicacy now.”
“Always say yes to new things,” Ada said. “It’s the only way you’ll be able to write about life—if you actually go out and live it.” She laid her fork delicately across her plate. “You asked why I didn’t warn you off Freddy—that was part of why. You can’t expect to write about things you’ve never felt in a real way.”
I copied Ada’s fork placement, and Michael returned, offering us a dessert menu, but Ada waved him away. “No, we have a show to get to tonight.”
“Of course,” Michael said smoothly. “You two always arrive in town on the same nights.”
“By no great coincidence, I can assure you,” Ada said, smiling almost flirtatiously. She handed him a stack of bills. “Buy your wife a present.”
“Thank you, Miss Heller.” Ada patted his arm as busboys cleared our plates.
“Let’s go,” Ada said, rising. “We have a rather long walk, but it’s a pleasant night.”
“What show are we going to?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I assumed it would be some old-time band to remind Ada of her youth. But we walked back past the Steel Pier. Many of the families had retired, but some were still going, children starting to look sleepy if they hadn’t just eaten their body weight in sugar—the children who had were running circles around their tired parents.
At Missouri Avenue, we exited the boardwalk, and I glanced around, looking for signs of the decay that Ada had said was occurring in the city. But we walked only two blocks before we hit a large crowd of people, a neon sign advertising “The 500 Club” in front of us. A nightclub? I thought. I had never been allowed to go to one, though the braver of my college friends and I had snuck into a few in New York. I wondered if this would be some sort of vaudeville act.
Ada sidestepped the line, however, bringing us right to the front. “Miss Heller,” the man at the door said, unhooking the velvet rope for us. “Your table is ready, right in front.”
“Thank you so much,” she said. “Does he know I’m here tonight?”
“He does,” the doorman said with a wink.
“Wonderful.” Ada walked in through the door he held for us, people in line craning to see what celebrities we were to be allowed in ahead of them.
We walked through the main bar, fitted in the Art Deco style of the 1920s, zebra-patterned wallpaper lining the walls. There was a waterfall in this first room, lined in imitation foliage. But Ada kept walking, moving us through to the Vermillion Room. The walls were dark red velvet, and the floor was filled with tables covered in white cloths. It was mostly full, with a small table in front holding a “Reserved” sign for us. Ada led us purposefully through the room to the table by the stage, and a waiter appeared, pouring champagne without asking what we wanted. “On the house,” he said. “Mr. D’Amato sends his regards.”
“Tell Skinny I said thank you,” Ada said. “But he’s still too young for me.”
The waiter chuckled. This was apparently a running gag.
I looked around the room, spotting Jayne Mansfield on the opposite side of the stage from us. My eyes widened. Scanning the rest of the tables, I saw Paul Newman with Joanne Woodward as well. A man and woman approached the movie stars, and I smiled, recognizing the couple I had seen in Avalon the other day, sans children this time. They snapped a picture with the famous couple, and Paul Newman signed a napkin for the woman—Evelyn, I believe her name was—before they returned to their seats farther back in the house.
“Ada,” I said, leaning across the table. “Who are we here to see?”