“And were you involved in the development after that?” asks Jack.
“A little.”
“A little!” Matthew is out of control. “She organized all the field testing. She really guided the development of the whole product. Don’t be so modest, Belinda.”
A smile from Belinda. Matthew thinks she’s secretly quite happy to have him trumpet her this way while she hangs back modestly.
“That’s great,” says Effie.
“Do you have any children, Belinda?” asks Richard.
Before Belinda can answer, the waitress, now accompanied by a couple of assistants, arrives with huge trays of food and begins delivering it with dispatch. Only the one who took the orders knows who ordered what, so the efficiency of this trio is low. The lieutenants stand around wearing the looks of friendly concern they were taught during employee training.
“What the heck is this?” asks Jack.
“Food,” says Matthew.
“Did we order food?”
“Once upon a time,” says Richard.
None of them can, with complete certainty, remember what kind of potatoes he or she ordered, and the waitress in command seems not too certain, either. For the few moments that the delivery takes, the five of them watch, helpless, befuddled by this sudden rapid activity. They try to gather their thoughts, focus them on the food, notice whether they’re getting what they want and what they ordered, and then suddenly it’s over. The waitresses are all gone, and the group is left to itself again. The table’s crowded with dishes large and small. Where a moment before there had been nothing, there is now a heap of food, bounty, plenty.
It’s a traditional sort of plenty, probably just what a bunch like this would have ordered ten, twenty, forty years ago: clam fritters about the size of golf balls, a Flynn’s trademark, served in a basket lined with a napkin translucent with grease; prime rib; fried scallops; fried haddock; baked stuffed shrimp; french fries, baked potatoes, Delmonico potatoes; coleslaw, carrots, green beans, beets, baked beans; a platter of onion rings for the table; a basket of corn bread, rolls, and sticky cinnamon buns; celery, carrot sticks, sweet gherkins, olives; and salad for the table served in a huge crockery bowl, another trademark.
When they’ve begun to eat, Jack says, “Hey, where’s my lobster?”
He begins lifting the baskets and napkins and bowls in front of him, looking for his lobster. “Anybody see it?” he asks. “I’ve got my french fries here, my coleslaw, corn bread, onion rings, salad, pickles, and all this other shit. I’ve got my lobster basket and I’ve got this lobster-ripping thing and this cracking implement. I’ve got my bib here — ”
“It’s got a picture of a lobster,” says Effie.
“Yep, it’s got a picture of a lobster, and it’s got this Flynn’s logo on it. I’ve got a stack of napkins, and a condom — ”
“That’s a moist towelette,” says Effie.
“No kidding?” He examines it. “Uh-oh,” he says. “I may be in some trouble back home. Anyway, I’ve got all this stuff, but I have got no lobster.”
“Maybe there just wasn’t any room for it,” Richard says.
Everyone begins lifting things as Jack did, as if hunting for the lost lobster, snorting and giggling like naughty kids.
The trio of waitresses returns, bearing lobsters for Grandma and the group of ten. Matthew and his pals follow the trio with their eyes, their heads swiveling as one.
“You know something?” says Jack. “I’ll bet one of those lobsters is mine.”
“I’ll go get it for you,” says Effie. “Which one is it?” She actually gets out of her chair.
“Effie,” says Richard. There isn’t a touch of humor in his voice. Only caution.
Jack looks at Matthew. When he sees that he’s caught Matthew’s eye, he mouths, “Dickhead.” Belinda sees it; she snorts again.
All of a sudden the waitress is back again, looking baffled, holding a tray with a mammoth old lobster on it. “Anybody missing a lobster here?” she asks. It strikes four-fifths of the table as the funniest thing they have ever heard.
Issue Number 18 of The Babbington Review is now on Substack.
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🎧 451: “And were you . . .”