Eighty Days Blue by Vina Jackson

gone out to enjoy their first meal of the trip that small differences became apparent. Less people, like a film set cutting down on crowd extras, notices on many of the bar and restaurant windows and doors for new personnel, oyster chuckers, domestic help.
    â€˜It just doesn’t feel like America at all,’ Summer remarked, her eyes darting in every direction, trying to find her bearings.
    â€˜I know,’ Dominik said. ‘It’s quite unique.’
    â€˜I never got the opportunity to visit Europe much – just a long weekend in Paris – but it’s not quite European either, is it?’ she queried.
    She had slipped into a thin white full-length dress with capped sleeves, held in at the waist by a narrow red belt worn with low-heeled sandals. The rain had ceased, and the atmosphere felt close, a touch claustrophobic, pregnant with future storms.
    â€˜Just a blend of diverse influences,’ Dominik confirmed. ‘French, Spanish, Creole, colonial English. Many of the early settlers here were Acadians, all the way from Canada, refugees from religious intolerance. It’s a curious historical melting pot.’
    â€˜I like it already,’ Summer remarked.
    â€˜Pity the weather is so dull today. Not the perfect introduction to the city.’
    â€˜I don’t mind.’
    â€˜According to the forecast, we should avoid further rain for the next handful of days,’ he said.
    â€˜Good.’ Dominik not having informed her of their destination, Summer was worried she hadn’t brought a proper set of clothes.
    â€˜Remember the Oyster Bar under Grand Central?’ he asked her, with a gentle smile spreading across his lips.
    â€˜Of course,’ Summer said. ‘You know how much I love oysters.’
    â€˜This is the right place for them. And crawfish. Shrimp. Gumbo. We’ll have an ongoing feast.’
    There was a lengthy queue outside the Acme Oyster House on the corner of Iberville and Bourbon, and both of them had skipped breakfast back in New York and turned down the airline food, so spurred on by their appetite, they moved ten minutes down the main road and found a window table at Desire, the oyster bar of the posh Sonesta Hotel.
    The elderly waitress brought them their hot bread and butter while they ordered.
    â€˜You’ll see,’ Dominik said, ‘they serve a sauce that is a blend of ketchup and horseradish with the raw oysters. Initially, I was wary of the prospective culinary delights of tomato ketchup, but the combination works wonders. If you want it even stronger, you can add a further dollop of horseradish. It’s fierce but blends beautifully with the taste and consistency of the oyster meat. I also indulge in a squeeze of lemon and a sprinkle of pepper.’ He demonstrated a moment later when the waitress brought a large platter over to their table. He brought the first enormous oyster to his mouth and swallowed it one gulp.
    Having watched him closely, Summer followed his example.
    Soon the platter was a thing of the past, a battlefield of empty shells dotted against a background of crushed ice.
    She’d also added a few drops of powerful Tabasco to her final trio of oysters and her throat felt on fire as she greedily downed her glass of iced water to sooth the burn.
    She looked up at Dominik, saw him wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin and devouring her with his eyes. She couldn’t help suppressing a smile of her own.
    â€˜If I didn’t know better, the way you look at me makes me think you want to eat me too, with the oysters just an hors d’oeuvre. I know they’re supposed to be an aphrodisiac, but, remember, I’m already in your bed – there’s no longer any need to lure me there,’ Summer said in jest.
    â€˜And don’t I know that,’ Dominik said.
    The following days were taken up by the obligatory tourist activities: taking the tram up to the Garden District and a visit to