Going Broke by Trista Russell Page B

touched his chest.
    Being so close, I had to fight to create conversation until we arrived at our destination, a restaurant called Conchman’s Den. The restaurant was the size of a small three-bedroom home; it actually looked like it used to be a house.
    â€œConrad told me about this place,” he said. “He said that it was great.”
    â€œReally?” I looked at it and wondered if we had the right spot. The blue paint was chipping away from the building, and the door looked as though it would fall from the hinges the next time a car passed too closely.
    â€œShall we?” He gestured at the door.
    â€œI guess.” I was afraid to touch the doorknob.
    He had the same look on his face. “I guess.”
    He opened the door, and when I entered, it did nothing more to impress me. Though the tables were covered with white plastic, I could tell that they weren’t sturdy. My purse alone might send it crashing to the floor. Being the only patrons, we expected service right away, but it didn’t seem like anyone was working. There was no hostess, and no waiter rushing to seat us. The noise of pots, pans, plates, and glasses touching each other, came from a room I assumed was the kitchen.
    We stood talking for at least three minutes before someone came out.
    â€œOh, I sorry. I didn’t hear nobody come in,” a pudgy, dark-skinned woman said as she emerged. “How y’all doing?”
    â€œJust fine, thank you,” Julian answered.
    â€œFalla me please.” The woman dried her hands on her apron. In passing, she hit a button on an old stereo, filling the room with the same type of Caribbean music Julian and I were shaking to earlier.
    He pulled out my chair and sat across from me at the table.
    â€œHere is da menu.” She placed paper menus with grease stains plastered over them before us.
    I let mine fall to the table; I didn’t want it to make contact with my fingers.
    â€œMy name is Sybil. Just holla fa me when y’all ready.”
    When she walked away, Julian and I looked at each other and laughed.
    â€œWhat in the hell did I get myself into?” he asked.
    â€œWhat did you get us into?” I studied the menu. “Conchman’s Den,” I read from the sheet.
    â€œSybil,” Julian called for her before she even made it to where she was going.
    She turned around with a smile and returned to the table.
    â€œWhat do you have to drink here?”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œI’m in the mood for a man’s drink.” He smiled.
    She winked at me. “What about the lady?”
    â€œShe wants a man’s drink too.”
    Sybil thought for a moment. “What about a Bahamian Rum Punch?”
    â€œWill it put hair on my chest?” he asked.
    She reached over and rubbed his bald head. “It’ll even put hair on your head.”
    â€œBring it on then. Make one for her too.” Then he added, “A friend of mine told me to try your conch salad, so let us have two bowls of that to start with.”
    As she walked away again, I was curious. “You ever had conch?”
    â€œNo,” he said. “What is it?”
    I pointed at the beautiful shell housing the salt and pepper shakers. “It’s the big snail-like creature that used to live in this shell.”
    â€œAre you serious?”
    â€œYes, sir.” The Bahamas was close enough to Miami for me to be a little familiar with seafood. I had conch salad a few times, but never prepared by the hands of a native Bahamian.
    After two glasses of rum punch and a bowl of the best conch salad I’d ever had, our main courses and third glass of punch were before us. We both ordered stuffed lobster, crab and rice, macaroni and cheese, and potato salad.
    The food was so good that there was almost no talking while we ate. I was too busy studying the ingredients in everything so that I could have this experience again.
    â€œLet’s make a