"Sounds good to me," he said. "I trust you."
"All right," Harrison said. "But none of that nouveau cuisine. Ain't enough calories in that to keep a canary alive."
"Are you kidding me?" the waiter asked. "In this establishment?"
He disappeared into the dimness and reappeared in moments with two tiny china plates in his hands. He set them down with a flourish.
In the center of each plate was a golden brown round of bread topped by a dark green, ridged leaf Griffen thought was spinach. It was the setting for one plump oyster, still glistening with its liquor, sprinkled with white shavings and a single red dot that was unmistakably hot sauce. Griffen lifted the plate to smell the white shavings and recoiled slightly. Horseradish.
"Here's a little amuse-bouche to start you gentlemen off," Edwin said.
"That means a little appetizer . . ." Griffen began.
"You think I don't know my Franglish?" Harrison asked. "This is my city. You just got here." He disposed of the oyster in a gulp. Griffen swallowed his own oyster. His eyes watered, and his whole body shuddered. He followed it with the brown bread and basil leaf. It filled his sinuses with a heady licorice scent that went perfectly with the horseradish and hot sauce. That was the way to enjoy a bivalve.
No sooner had Griffen recovered from the oyster than Edwin swooped in to remove the plates and replace them with two flat basins of warm, fragrant green liquid. Griffen inhaled appreciatively. The turtle soup was what brought him back time after time to this restaurant. He hoped it would mollify the gruff officer, and it did. The aroma made Harrison smile.
"It's made with sherry," the waiter explained, "but I had the chef flame it to take down the alcohol before he added it. Enjoy it."
"We will," Griffen promised. The rich liquid rolled on his tongue like cream, and the savory, meaty flavor made him feel all was well with the world. Neither of them spoke until the soup plates were empty. Harrison sat back in his chair.
"I'm gonna have to arrest the chef," he said.
"Why?" Griffen asked.
"He stole my aunt Emily's recipe."
Griffen laughed. "Are you sure? Should we check the kitchen to see if she's back there?"
"Now that you mention it," Harrison said, "I haven't heard from her in a while. Maybe she's moonlighting. Damned economy."
"I hear that a lot," Griffen said.
"Your business doing okay?" Harrison asked.
"Glad you asked," Griffen said, keeping it casual. "Your fellow guardians of the law came and tossed one of our games the other night."
"Keeping you honest. You guys don't pay taxes."
"Actually, we do pay taxes," Griffen said. "I have all my employees filing W-9s before the end of the year."
"Anyhow, we got a complaint from the hotel. Got to follow up on complaints. You're still unlicensed, unless you've swung that in the last few weeks."
"You have me there, Detective," Griffen said. "I prefer to think of it as operating in a gray area."
"You know I don't give a damn unless someone gets hurt." He glared at Griffen. Griffen spread his hands.
"Look, Harrison, we both want the same thing, for everyone to live in peace and make a living. You don't have to have a stick up your ass."
Harrison grimaced. "I don't like to relax around people like you. I might have to run you in one day for vice."
Griffen shifted uncomfortably, then noticed the mischievous gleam in Harrison's eye. The detective was ribbing him. He didn't know whether to counter with a retort or just accept it. Edwin rescued him from the awkward moment.
"Salad, gentlemen," he said.
"I hate frisee," Harrison said, as Edwin put the plate down in front of him and carefully drizzled dressing on it from a sauceboat. But he finished it. "Great dressing. Too bad they put it on weeds and grass clippings."
A busboy removed the empty dishes. Edwin and another waiter brought the main course out to them, big silver covers on the plates. At a silent count of three, the waiters whisked the domes away.
"The best of New Orleans. Enjoy."
A rush of hot steam washed Griffen's face. Contentedly, he contemplated a surf and turf at a far remove from ordinary family restaurant fare of fried shrimp and tough steak. The parsley-sprinkled bread-crumb crust on the filet of flounder was so delicate it broke like the snap of crisp snow on a winter morning. The tenderloin was sliced and fanned to show the red center in the rectangle of brown. Griffen applauded the chef's using a fish that was firm and hearty enough to stand up to the meat. Fingerling potatoes and baby vegetables filled in the empty places on the plate, and the entree was surrounded by a savory sauce. Griffen had been schooled by Edwin and other servers at the finer restaurants that good meat shouldn't be covered by the sauce. That trick was for keeping Salisbury steak and turkey breast from drying out. Everything smelled so good it was hard to decide what to try first.
He had his eyes closed, enjoying a perfect bite of flounder, when Harrison's gruff voice interrupted his reverie.
"I have to keep learning all the time, or I'm gonna get killed out there," he said.
Griffen's eyes flew open. It was an awkward beginning, but at last the elephant-in-the-room subject was coming up. The tough street cop was appealing to the college kid from Michigan, and he did not like the uneven quality of the playing field. It took a brave man to admit he had a weakness. Griffen dipped his head to acknowledge it.
"Whatever I can do to help out the NOPD," he said.
"Forget the NOPD," Harrison said, chewing a miniature squash. "They'd lock me up in a mental institution if they could hear us now. How many of . . . you are there?"
"I have no idea," Griffen said, honestly. "I knew as little as you did until recently, and I still don't know everything that's out there."
"What about people like you?"
"Dragons." Griffen let out a low whistle. "There are a lot more dragons in New Orleans than I thought, and I know I haven't met all of them yet. And there are all the other ones."
Griffen paused while Edwin came and topped up their glasses.
"What other ones?" Harrison pressed.
"Uh, changelings, uh, werewolves. Shape-changers. Vampires. Ghosts. Wiccans. You know . . ." Griffen let his words trail off uncomfortably. Harrison's expression didn't change, but Griffen could almost hear the gears turning. The detective was handling the revelations better than he would have thought.
"I already knew about the wiccans," Harrison growled. "I feel like I'm living in Disneyland. Why's this city got more weirdos than anywhere else in the world?"
"I don't know if that's true," Griffen said. "I'd bet there's a higher percentage here, but I don't know. I haven't had that much experience living in many other places, and none before I knew about . . . you know. I know I would rather live here than anywhere else, and I'm a dragon."
"This is the best place to be," Harrison said. "It's worth protecting. Even with all of you in it."
Griffen held up a finger. "Wait a minute, Detective. It's not in spite of people like me. We're part of this city and this country, too. I may be new down here, but lots of others have been here as long as any human beings. They love this city. I love it. We're not interfering. We're part of the landscape."
Harrison chewed over the notion. Griffen could tell he found this tough to accept, but he swallowed it as he did the fish. "My granny had one of those scrolls that hung from a nail in her parlor that was called 'Desiderata.' She always told me it was a waste of energy to rail against what can't be helped. But is there some kind of secret password so I can tell what I'm dealing with?"