The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(22)

“I’m surprised you didn’t cancel when you saw the name of the restaurant.”

“Oh, I thought about it,” she says with mirth in her voice. “But then I reminded myself that it’s just a restaurant name and it probably won’t effect the quality of the food too, too much. Plus I looked up the reviews online, and it sounded delicious.”

“You didn’t trust me?”

“I like to think about what I’m going to eat before I get there. I like to”—she stretches out the word—“an-ti-ci-pate.” She opens the menu. “I see they’ve got several cocktails named after Moby Dick characters.” She turns the page. “Anyway, if I hadn’t wanted to eat here, I probably would have invented an allergy to shellfish.”

“Fictional food allergy. That’s very devious of you,” A.J. says.

“Now I won’t be able to use that trick with you.”

The waiter is dressed in a puffy white shirt that is clearly in conflict with his black glasses and fauxhawk. The look is pirate hipster. “Ahoy, landlubbers,” the waiter says flatly. “Try a themed cocktail?”

“My standard drink is the old-fashioned, but how can a person be expected to resist a themed cocktail?” she says. “One Queequeg, please.” She grabs the waiter’s hand. “Wait. Is it good?”

“Um,” the waiter says. “The tourists seem to like them.”

“Well, if the tourists like them,” she says.

“Um, so I’m clear, does that mean you do or you don’t want the cocktail?”

“I definitely want it,” Amelia says. “Come what may.” She smiles at the waiter. “I won’t blame you if it’s terrible.”

A.J. orders a glass of the house red.

“That’s sad,” Amelia says. “I bet you’ve gone your whole life without having a Queequeg despite the fact that you live here and you sell books and you probably even like Moby Dick.”

“You’re obviously a more evolved person than I am,” A.J. says.

“Yes, I can see that. And after I have this cocktail, my whole life’s probably going to change.”

The drinks arrive. “Oh, look,” Amelia says. “A shrimp with a little harpoon through it. That is an unexpected delight.” She takes out her phone and snaps a picture. “I like to take pictures of my drinks.”

“They’re like family,” A.J. says.

“They’re better than family.” She raises her glass and clinks it to A.J.’s.

“How is it?” he asks.

“Salty, fruity, fishy. It’s kind of like if a shrimp cocktail decided to make love to a Bloody Mary.”

“I like how you say make love. The drink sounds disgusting, by the way.”

She takes another sip and shrugs. “It’s growing on me.”

“In what restaurant based on a novel would you have preferred to dine?” A.J. asks her.

“Oh, that’s tough. This won’t make any sense, but when I was in college I used to get really hungry when I was reading The Gulag Archipelago. All that description of Soviet prison bread and soup,” Amelia says.

“You’re weird,” A.J. says.

“Thank you. Where would you go?” Amelia asks.

“This wouldn’t be a restaurant per se, but I always wanted to try the Turkish Delight in Narnia. When I read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe as a boy, I used to think that Turkish Delight must be incredibly delicious if it made Edmund betray his family,” A.J. says. “I guess I must have told my wife this, because one year Nic gets a box for me for the holidays. And it turned out to be this powdery, gummy candy. I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in my entire life.”

“Your childhood was officially over right then.”

“I was never the same,” A.J. says.

“Maybe the White Witch’s was different. Like, magical Turkish Delight tastes better.”

“Or maybe Lewis’s point is that Edmund didn’t need much coaxing to betray his family.”

“That’s very cynical,” Amelia says.

“Have you had Turkish Delight, Amelia?”

“No,” she says.

“I’ll have to get you some,” he says.

“What if I love it?” she asks.

“I’ll probably think less of you.”

“Well, I won’t lie just to get you to like me, A.J. One of my best qualities is my honesty.”

“You told me you would have faked a seafood allergy to get out of eating here,” A.J. says.

“Yes, but that was only so I wouldn’t hurt an account’s feelings. I’d never lie about something important like Turkish Delight.”

They order food and then Amelia takes out the winter catalog from her tote bag. “So, Knightley,” she says.

“Knightley,” he repeats.

She breezes through the winter list, ruthlessly flipping past the books he won’t go for, emphasizing the publisher’s great hopes, and saving her fanciest adjectives for her favorites. With some accounts, you mention if the book has blurbs, those often hyperbolic endorsements from established writers that appear on the back cover. A.J. is not one of those accounts. At their second or third meeting, he had referred to blurbs as “the blood diamonds of publishing.” She knows him a little better now, and needless to say, this process is less painful for it. He trusts me more, she thinks, or maybe it’s just that fatherhood has mellowed him. (It is wise to keep thoughts like this to yourself.) A.J. promises to read several of the ARCs.