“Ladies, welcome!” Oliver rises to greet us, every inch the silver fox we saw the last time. His tailored blazer looks wildly out of place in this establishment, but he wears it with the confidence of a man who knows exactly how many meals he’s going to eat for free. “Bunny, you’re a vision as always.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, cuz,” Bunny replies, air-kissing both his cheeks. “You know, for a man on the wrong side of fifty.”
“Fifty-two is the new thirty-five,” he counters smoothly and I think I just heard Peggy sigh. At least she didn’t faint.
Bunny introduces us one by one, and Oliver greets each of us with the polished charm of someone who reviews restaurants for a living—professionally pleasant, but you can tell there’s just ahint of critical assessment layered underneath. Thankfully, none of it is coming my way telepathically.
“This is so great,” I say as we settle around the table. “How did you hear about this place?”
“Well, I am a food critic.” He gestures to the chaos around us with the air of a proud parent and we all share a laugh. “Tonight, I’m trying their Thanksgiving dinner special. Sparky’s might look like the kind of place where the health code violations have violations, but I hear their pit master is a genius. He was trained in Memphis before a slight—misunderstanding with the law brought him to Maine.”
“Oh well”— Peggy pats the back of her hair—“everyone knows nothing seasons meat quite like a checkered past.”
We share another quick laugh just as a waitress with hair teased high enough to require FAA clearance approaches our table. Her name tag readsDestiny, and her expression suggests that destiny has not been particularly kind.
“Y’all want the Thanksgiving platter?” she asks, popping her gum with impressive force. “It’s the Thursday special no matter what day of the week.”
“Precisely,” Oliver confirms. “Four Thanksgiving platters and a bottle of your finest wine?” He looks around at the lot of us and we all nod in agreement.
Destiny snorts. “Our finest wine comes in a box, honey. But it’s a nice box.”
“Perfect,” Oliver says without missing a beat. “We’re not a pretentious bunch.”
I nod. “That would be my place of employment.”
Destiny sashays away and Peggy leans across the table toward Oliver. “So, are you single, sugar? Or is there a Mrs. Food Critic waiting at home?”
“Peggy,” Clarabelle hisses. “You can’t just ask if he’s single. You have to be subtle about it.”
“At our age, subtle takes too long,” Peggy shoots back. “I need to know if I’m wasting my good perfume.”
Oliver laughs and it sounds rich and genuine. “Currently unattached,” he confirms. “My last relationship ended when she realized she was allergic to both shellfish and food critics who talk about shellfish at dinner.”
“Her loss,” Peggy purrs. “I’m not allergic to anything except common sense and moderation.”
Before Oliver can respond to this dubious selling point, our food arrives on platters large enough to serve as sleds in a pinch.
The Thanksgiving dinner at Sparky’s turns out to be traditional holiday fare that’s been subjected to smoke and fire as if it committed some serious culinary crimes—smoked turkey so tender it practically falls apart at the mention of a fork, stuffing infused with brisket drippings, sweet potatoes topped with pecans that have been candied in bourbon, green bean casserole where the onions have been replaced with fried pork rinds, and cranberry sauce spiked with what tastes suspiciously like moonshine.
The first bite provokes an involuntary moan from all of us.
“Sweet Georgia peaches,” Peggy exclaims, her eyes rolling back in her head. “I haven’t had anything this good in my mouth since Herbert Cohen at the 1972 Spring Fling.”
We collectively pretend we didn’t hear that.
“This turkey has no right to be this delicious,” Bunny agrees, delicately dabbing her lips to avoid disturbing her lipstick. “It’s practically indecent.”
“They smoke it for eighteen hours over apple and hickory,” Oliver explains, clearly in his element. “Then they wrap it in bacon for the final two hours.”
“Bacon-wrapped turkey should be federally mandated,” Clarabelle declares while already reaching for seconds.
We eat in reverent silence for several minutes, the kind of quiet that only descends upon a table when the food commands complete attention. Even the mechanical turkey bull seems to pause in respect.
Halfway through the meal, Bunny sets down her fork and fixes Oliver with a look that has probably preceded the downfall of several eligible bachelors. “It’s been so many years, Oliver. Tell me everything about yourself. And don’t hold a single detail back.”
Oliver laughs, swirling the surprisingly decent boxed wine in his glass. “I’d hate to put you all into a food coma twice in one evening. Once from the turkey, and again from the sheer boredom of my life story.”
“Oh please,” Bunny scoffs. “You were always the interesting one in the family. Remember that summer in Cape Cod when you convinced the neighbors you were the heir to a British title?”
