Chipotle maple sausage. Cinnamon caramel ricotta crepes. Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake. You name it, Jeddy’s had it, including honest-to-God real fried green tomatoes, but with a dill agave tarragon cream sauce for dipping instead of ketchup.
All served on chipped, ancient industrial-grade restaurant wear by an old woman named Madge who’d been working the booths since 1948. And could still walk and talk faster than Josie on three espresso shots.
“Whatcha want, Sweets?” Madge asked Laura, her breath the graveyard where old cigarettes and Chanel go to die. The woman had to be at least eighty but looked fifty—except for her mouth, where smoking lines were grooved so deeply her lips looked more like an elephant’s puckered asshole than anything resembling human flesh.
“Oh, let me see,” Laura said, amazed at how quickly she downshifted into comfort here. The glare of the overhead strip lights and the cracked vinyl held together with duct tape didn’t faze her. Madge’s bags under her eyes, though, were mesmerizing, with caked-up foundation in the creases. Who knew undereye circles could have wrinkles in them that would hold enough makeup to cover a small community theater’s needs?
China blue eyes reminded her of Mike, and when Madge started tapping her stylus on her ordering tablet, the incongruity hit her.
“You guys use a wireless ordering system?” She pointed to the smartphone-like device in Madge’s hand.
“No. This is a chisel and a chunk of marble. Grog back there deciphers it all with hand puppets and grunts. Now what are you two eating? I’ve got work to do.”
Josie craned her neck around, surveying the nearly-empty joint. “It sure is hopping.”
Madge smirked. “The silverware don’t roll itself.” Those eyes. Mike. A pang of despair hit her—hard. His hands on her. Dylan’s tongue on her.
Josie shot Laura a skeptical look and turned to Madge. “What are your specials?”
“At 4 a.m. you get the fryer and the desserts. And maybe a limp salad. Jeff ain’t here now to cook the good stuff.”
“Do you have coconut shrimp with that aioli?” Laura perked up. Despair faded a notch.
“Yep.”
“Two of those, an order of chipotle maple saus— you got that tonight?” Madge nodded, not looking at them, hand flying with the stylus. “With cheesy potato pancakes. One piece of Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake and a giant peppermint hot fudge sundae,” Josie declared.
“And drinks?”
“Just water,” Laura replied.
“Watching yer weight, huh?” Madge snickered, walking away. Fortunately for Laura, she’d looked at Josie when she said it. The last thing she needed right now was a comment on her weight. Eating comfort food—even at 4 a.m.—no, especially at 4 a.m.—was exactly what she needed.
“What about coffee?” Josie asked.
“I’m not making you any.”
“Hah. I’ll order some after we pig out.” Each booth had an old-fashioned jukebox attached to it. “You have a quarter?” Josie begged.
Laura fished one out of a pocket. Josie slipped it in as Laura wondered how they got away with still just charging a quarter. She remembered long car trips to visit her relatives in Ohio and stopping at the L&K Diners, the jukeboxes identical, a burgundy red she only saw in ancient Italian restaurants and rest stops in the Midwest.
Back then a quarter got two songs. Now, one. Josie punched some buttons, fingers more accustomed to glass phone screens than analog squares, and soon Gloria Gaynor crooned.
Laura groaned.
“First I was IM'ed! I was petrified,” Josie sang, using her rolled silverware as a microphone. Seriously? The song was bad enough. Josie’s tone-deaf performance would be worse.
“Kept thinking there was no way these guys would want my backside...”
These guys?
“Stop it,” she hissed, whacking Josie’s forearm. The fork slid out and shot across the room, hitting a table leg. Madge strode by without missing a beat, picked it up, and threw a clean one on the table in front of Josie, her stride completely fluid.
“And then Thor and Superman, they came to me in the same bed, and now I’m half dead, ooooooh now I am half dead!” Josie wriggled and thrust her neck out as if singing, her voice a cross between an eight-year-old’s earnest choir attempts and something out of Killer Karaoke.
“You have the music ability of William Hung.” And the stage presence.
“I will ménage! I will ménage!” As Josie parodied the familiar chorus, Laura lunged across the table and clamped her hand over Josie’s mouth. That was quite enough.
“No brawling,” Madge chided as she used a bissel to sweep the tattered carpet a few tables away. “Don’t make me call the bouncer.” She hooked her thumb over at the old homeless man sucking on a cup of coffee. He looked up and grinned, two teeth total in his mouth, eyebrows shooting up to a bald pate and creased, greasy hand waving. The girls laughed and Laura settled back down in place.