A little boy, about ten or eleven years old, narrowly avoided colliding into us. “Bruce!” his mother scolded. “Wait for your sister!”
He grinned up at us impishly with a pronounced underbite before he ran back to her.
“It’s too hot for a stole,” I complained to Ada.
“That’s the trick, darling,” Ada said. “To look like you’re chilly enough to need it.”
I looked at her from the corner of my eye. “Since when do you care what people think? Why not just be comfortable?”
She suppressed a laugh. “I don’t, honestly. But everything here is an illusion. And if we don’t put on a show, why would anyone else?”
I looked around at the glittering gem of the shore and wondered what she meant. “Because no one here is actually as rich as they seem? Except you of course.”
Ada smirked. “It’s rude to discuss one’s wealth. But that’s only a part of it. The city itself isn’t what it was. If you leave the boardwalk, well . . . I don’t recommend straying too far. And it’s always been a bit of a sham. They may have finally gotten Nucky Johnson, but that didn’t take away the darker elements of the town.”
I didn’t know who that was. But it was hard to imagine this whole place being a facade.
“Where are we going?” I asked as Ada led us directly past the Steel Pier with hardly a glance.
“To dinner, of course.”
I had trouble picturing Ada eating on the boardwalk, but as we neared the northern end, the lights of a huge establishment greeted us. I looked up, reading the sign, which said “Hackney’s,” with a logo of a giant red lobster.
At the door, the host greeted Ada with a bow. “Miss Heller,” he said. “And your new friend, of course.”
“My niece.” He gave me a bow as well.
“We have your usual table prepared, overlooking the water.”
“Thank you so much,” Ada said, and we followed him through the largest restaurant I had ever seen. It was noisy, with the sounds of china and cutlery, clinking glasses, and mealtime chatter. Waiters buzzed through the aisles, some carrying gigantic trays of food, dodging patrons and other servers with practiced skill.
Two waiters appeared as we approached what was clearly a place of honor, the table empty with a card reading “Reserved” on it. They pulled out our chairs, pushed them in after we sat, and, with a flourish, opened our napkins and laid them delicately across our laps.
A third man came seemingly out of thin air. “Miss Heller,” he said warmly. “It is always a pleasure to have you here.”
“Thank you, Michael.”
“Can I start you with some champagne?”
“Of course.”
He signaled to another waiter, who had a bottle at our table, complete with glasses and an ice bucket, in under nine seconds. I was counting.
Michael expertly popped the cork without spilling a drop and poured first for Ada, who took a sip and then nodded, before he filled my glass, then hers to the top, holding the bottle, label out for her to see.
Menus were placed in front of us, and Michael set the champagne bottle on ice, saying he would give us a moment to peruse the menu.
Ada didn’t touch hers.
“You know what you’re having already?”
“And what you are, if you know what’s good for you.”
“And what’s that?”
“Mussels followed by lobster.”
I glanced around at the multitudes of people, all of whom seemed to have the boiled shellfish on their plates in various stages of consumption.
“I—I’ve never had either.” I picked up the menu, uncertainly, looking for some kind of safer fish option.
Ada put a hand on the top of my menu, pushing it down. “Because you’re so religious? Or because you’re afraid to try?”
I kept my face neutral, though it was trying to scowl. She knew I wasn’t religious. But there were certain dictums of my childhood I wasn’t quite ready to abandon. Eating a lobster seemed awfully sacrilegious.
“You already tried crab and loved it,” Ada said as if she could hear my thoughts. “The rules are archaic and from a time when food poisoning was likely to kill you.” She lifted her own menu, though I was sure she didn’t need to even glance at it. “I’m sure the flounder will be excellent here as well. If you’re not feeling brave enough to try something new.”
I set my jaw.
The waiter returned as promised and asked if we were ready or if we needed more time. “I believe we’re ready,” Ada said, gesturing to me.
She was infuriating. “Can I start with the mussels, please,” I said. “And may I have the lobster after that?”
Ada’s brows came together, but she smoothed them before the waiter turned to her. “I’ll have the same,” she said, handing him her menu. But as soon as he was out of earshot, she turned on me. “That’s not how you order.”
“Excuse me?”
“Did your mother raise you in a barn?”
My hackles rose. “My mother—”
“Knows better,” Ada said. “And I would know, because I brought her here before you were born.”
I tried to picture Mama eating shellfish and sitting in the seat I now occupied, perhaps in this very mink stole. But in my mind’s eye, it was Mama as she was now. Not the younger version I had seen in the boardwalk photo.
“What did I do wrong?” I asked.
“You don’t ask for food. It’s their job. They’re not your mother. Say either, ‘I would like,’ or ‘I will have.’ Not ‘May I have.’ The answer is yes, you may.”
“What’s the difference?”
Ada closed her eyes for about three seconds. “The difference is etiquette. You can get away with a lot of things when you reach my age and stature, and you can get away with a lot when you’re young, but neither means you should.”
I winced and sipped my champagne. I would correct my restaurant ordering style beginning now and lasting for the rest of my life.
Waiters placed plates heaped with black-shelled mussels in front of us, giving us each a small bowl as well, then were gone. I looked to Ada. I had no idea what to do with these things.
“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.