Ch 56 ~ Getting Inked

The outside of not just Spain’s, but the world’s oldest restaurant looked a lot like a gentleman’s club, Rachel thought.  Not the trashy kind with pole dancers, but the old-school cigar and brandy snifter type.  Maybe it could even be a cigar shop with its low-profile brown awning and gold-leaf lettering. 

No.  Definitely gentleman’s club.  The cherry floor-to-ceiling wainscoting, along with two plate glass windows, that characterized the ground floor of the restaurant’s four stories was definitely more suited to visions of a library full of genteel men making crazy wagers than a plain old cigar shop.  In fact, it gave Rachel had a flashback of that Eddie Murphy/Dan Akroyd movie – Trading Places.

No wonder the guys like this place.  Not that I’d consider them ‘genteel’, but the crazy wager thing…

Between the hotel and the restaurant alone, David had bet Richie they’d see at least one decrepit flamenco dancer (he won), a horse with a floppy straw hat (he lost) and three hookers (he won).  What they’d been wagering wasn’t clear to her because, also a la Trading Places, they’d merely gone with “the usual” bet.  What that meant, she didn’t think she wanted to know.

David smiled at the pretty blonde as her eyes roved keenly over the face of Botin.  Jon’s woman was undoubtedly beautiful and had, thus far, done quite well with their group of friends/family/co-workers.  She’d shown interest, but not too much, in each of them individually.  She’d respectfully kept her distance when she thought it was warranted.  Her personality was almost a freaking ray of sunshine, but had enough snark-shaped clouds to save her from being nauseatingly sunshiny. 

Yeah, overall, he thought Rachel was a good egg. 

However…  Up until this point, she’d only been with the group a few days at a time.  This month-long stint was going to stand as the real test of how well she could tolerate the Jovi nuts, of which he considered himself to have the biggest set – and second biggest dick, but he still argued the point with Sambora just for fun.

It was time to initiate Ms. Braden good and well into their ranks.  Whether she married the man who signed his paychecks or not, he didn’t care.  If she was riding shotgun in the jet, she must be put through the test of fire that would prove her mettle. 

Or that was his theory, anyway.  As usual, he didn’t much care if anyone else followed his line of logic.  As long as it made sense to him, he considered it…  Well – logical. 

Still, it was more fun with a partner in crime. 

So he graciously held the door for the lady, his blonde curls bobbing as he nodded his acknowledgement of her thanks.  The rest of the troops – Jon, Matt, Tico, Hugh, Obie, Bobby and Richie – followed behind, but just as Richie was about to step across the threshold, David snagged his elbow and muttered under his breath. 

“Usual wager says she lets me order for her and likes it.”

The darker man’s forehead wrinkled.  “What makes you think JB is going to let you order for her?”

“Because I’m me,” David replied with a careless shrug.  “He humors me unless it involves drugs, whores, jail time or bad press.  It’s easier that way and you know it.”

Clearly still skeptical, but unable to pass up the opportunity to win one of their countless wagers, Richie slowly nodded.  “You’re on, man.”

Excellent!

The group was immediately led through the main part of the restaurant and down a steep, narrow staircase that led to the cellar.  Their usual dining spot, because it was out of the way, this particular cellar had always reminded David of a subway tunnel.  With rough-hewn stone as the lower portion of the wall, aged bricks climbed above that and overhead in a tunnel-like arch.  The room was typically geared to seat about forty people, but they’d made arrangements to just have their small group in residence tonight.

“Here you go,” David invited Rachel, pulling out a chair as Jon scowled at him.  Richie gave their fearless leader a pat on the back and a wink.  “Sit next to me.  I’ll give you the skinny on everything from the menu that will keep you from being skinny.”

Her distrusting look was almost enough to wound him to the core.  It might have, if it hadn’t indicated that she was shrewder than a blonde was entitled to be. 

No matter.  He smiled his most ingenuous smile, making certain that his eyes sparkled with nothing but charming innocence, and....

Wait for it...  Wait for it...

Yes!  She sat, albeit mostly because of a prompting nod from her boy toy. 

Again, no matter.  The end result was the same and as long as she was handy, he’d have more luck with his bit of rapscallion subterfuge.    After all, this wasn’t just about amusing himself.  He had a bet to win, and a winning reputation to uphold.  It was one of the single-most things that kept him sane on these worldwide sojourns.

David scooted her in with a little bow as the rest of the behemoths around the table noisily lumbered into their own chairs. 

“Welcome to Botin, my lovely lady,” he welcomed with a sincere smile as he assumed his own seat beside her.  “My name is Dave and I will be your guide for this dining experience that compares to no other.”

An expertly kept brow slid up with renewed skepticism.  “Oh?  And how am I lucky enough to warrant that?”

He had to remember to keep the kiss-ass tone out of his voice.  It gave him away every time. 

“The rest of these yahoos only like their booze and burgers,” he confided with a simple shrug.  “If you want to truly experience this place the way it was meant to be experienced...  Well, you’ll trust me to educate you.”

“Hmm...”  She still wasn’t sure, but apparently didn’t see the harm in letting him ramble.  “Alright then, Dave.  Educate me.”

“Listed by Guinness World Records as the world's oldest restaurant, Botin has been turning out impeccably roasted meats from its original Castilian-style cast iron wood burning oven since 1725.  That’s nearly three centuries.  Its renowned guests have ranged from Hemingway to the painter Goya to countless European royalty to yours truly.”  He waved an open hand at the group seated around the tables.  “It remains very popular with visitors, locals and especially Spanish politicians. Conveniently close to the city's central Plaza Mayor, its four floors are packed with diners every night of the week, and no visit to the Spanish capital would be complete without a delicious meal here, which also makes diners a part of living history.”

Her laughter bounced off the brick, echoing in the cozy tunnel along with the snorts of derision from his male counterparts. 

“I didn’t realize you were a certified tour guide,” Rachel chuckled, her spine relaxing as she leaned back into the seat.  “Or maybe just an incredible bullshitter?”

That elicited guffaws from the other men, but David was unfazed.  “Pshaw!” He tapped his temple with a single finger – the middle one, directed at his buddies-slash-coworkers.  “I have a mind like a steel trap.  I retain more information under these dynamic curls than most people manage to forget in a lifetime.  Therefore, no need to bullshit anyone.”

She turned to silently question Jon with a look, and he lazily lifted one shoulder.  “True story.  We quit playing Trivial Pursuit with him almost as soon as the damn game came out. “

“His head is full of useless shit,” Richie chimed in.  “And his mouth refuses to stop being an outlet for it, the gabby mothafucker.”

“I feel it’s my duty to enlighten the ignorant, no matter how futile the effort,” was David’s defense as the waiter arrived. 

“Good ebening, I am Miguel.  I will be serbing you tonight.” 

As was customary, the Spaniard made a move to present the first menu to the lady of the group, but David had other ideas and put an intervening hand between Rachel and the secret delicacies that the menu held. 

“Thank you, Miguel, my fine man,” he replied to the server’s look of surprise.  “But the lady won’t be needing that.  I’ll be guiding her culinary experience tonight.”

“Step off, Lema,” Jon growled.  “Let her order her own damn food.”

“Now, really.  Why would she want to take pot luck on ordering something when I can guarantee that she gets something that she will never forget?”  David turned to woman in question with an encouraging smile.  “Right, baby?”

Her pretty mouth turned upside down for a split-second frown.  “If you quit calling me baby, I guess I can be adventurous enough to let you order for me.”

“But of course, m’lady,” he immediately acquiesced, briefly scowling at Jon who looked like he was going to intrude.  With an imperceptible shake of his head, David conveyed the message that he didn’t want his toes stepped on.

Jon simply rolled his eyes, accepted his own menu and ordered a bottle of wine from Miguel.

Relieved that his prophecy of Jon allowing him free-reign had been fulfilled, David quickly scanned his own menu to ensure that he’d remembered the offerings correctly.  It took every fiber of his being not to grin in such an evil way that Jack Nicholson as The Joker would look innocent by comparison.  He had remembered everything perfectly. 

“Miguel, my fine man....  The lovely senorita will start with the lechuga y tomate de ensalada.  For an entrée,  she’d like the chipirones en su tinta accompanied by espárragos blancos.  For myself, the filet mignon Botin.”

“Lema... what the fuck?”  Tico’s dark eyebrows were knit with unhappy confusion.  Having a drummer of Cuban descent was currently a pain in David’s ass, because he was the only one who understood what Rachel would be dining on that evening.

But David did his best to play it off with a look of wide-eyed innocence.  “What?  I know I should eat the fish, but I really like the filet.”

After receiving a subtle elbow from Richie, the elder statesman of the band relegated his protest to a quietly growled, “Asshole.”

It was David’s personal opinion that Teek was just jealous of his highly advanced sense of humor.  Most mere mortals were.

“So Rachel, since you’re going to be practically living with us for the next month, why don’t you tell us a little more about yourself?”

Thank God for Hugh.  He took the conversation away from the dinner selections that had been made and the wine that followed shortly thereafter did its job in easing any remaining awkwardness in the room.

When the first courses arrived, Rachel was visibly surprised to see a simple lettuce and tomato salad.  He’d really wanted to order the anchovies with red peppers or the garlic soup with egg for her, but it would ruin the surprise of the piece de resistance.  So he went with something simple.

There are no droids here.  Move along.

Then the glorious, fabulous Miguel arrived with the main courses – filet mignon, sirloin, veal were all passed around to a soundtrack of appreciative murmurs and groans from the men.  The charred bovine delicacies smelled every bit as good as David knew they would taste.

And then Rachel’s meal was presented to her. 

“Okay....” she pondered speculatively, cocking her head and peering at the food on her plate.  “I see...  rice.  Beyond that I have no idea what this is.  Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, woman?” David scolded, waving his fork at her.  “Don’t you trust me?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Not as far as I can throw you.”

The room exploded in an uproar of laughter, and he had a tough time dredging up an offended look through his own impulse to laugh.  This woman was going to have to turn in her blonde card because she was certainly no dummy. 

“Fine,” he mock huffed and pointed to the nearly white serving of food on the small side plate.  “That’s white asparagus in a special mayonnaise sauce, which is far more appetizing than it sounds.  With the rice...  Well, that’s just seafood.”

 The egg-sized fleshy clumps that were currently stewing in a puddle of brownish black liquid could never be readily identified as seafood.  Or food in general, for that matter, despite the side-serving of rice.  It looked good and truly disgusting, as a matter of fact.

“What kind of seafood?  And what is the dark liquid on part of the rice?  Soy sauce?  Do they use soy sauce in Spain?”

“The kind of seafood you eat, so stop analyzing it to death and eat it before it gets cold.  Nothing worse than cold Spanish delicacies.” 

“I’m not eating this...  stuff until you tell me what it is.”

“Seriously? Didn’t you sit right there and listen to me order?  It’s chipirones en su tinta.”

“English, please.”

She was a persistent little cookie.  He would give her that. 

“It’s kind of like calamari,” David finally hedged with a half-truth. 

“Squid?”

“Baby squid in its own ink,” came a deep voice from David’s other side. 

“Dammit, Tico, she wasn’t talking to you!”

Green eyes were as round as saucers as Rachel’s gaze darted between David and her dinner.  “Are you kidding?  You ordered me baby squid in its own ink?”

“Nay nay,” he disputed with a raised palm, trying like hell to figure out a way to get her to still eat the nasty mess.  “I ordered you a Spanish adventure.  Any subsidiary label is a mere technicality.”

“And I thank you for it.”

She what?  She knew what it was and she was thanking him??  That was great for his wager, but it ruined half the damn fun.

“You do?”

“Oh yes.”  The crazy woman beamed, for all the world looking as though he’d given her a dozen roses.  “I’ve read about this and I’ve always wanted to try it, but I’ve never been able to find it.  I’m beyond delighted.”

Sambora’s evil cackle echoed off the ceiling and the walls.  “You just got handed your ass, Lema!”

Okay, so some of his fun had been waylaid.  That was true.  Who the hell would ever think baby squid swimming in ink was on somebody’s bucket list?  But the end result was the same. 

“Doesn’t matter, asshole.  I still win.  She let me order for her and she liked it.  That was the full extent of the wager.”

“Wait.  What?  You bet on me??”

Rachel seemed far more disturbed by a friendly little wager than she was about infantile tentacles on her dinner plate.  Weird. 

Jon replied before David could, saying, “David has a gambling problem.”

“It’s not a problem,” David disputed.  “Merely a hobby to keep things lively.  A way to distinguish one city from another.  That’s all.”

“Okayyyy.”  Rachel’s lips pursed, reminding him a whole lot of his high school librarian.  Mrs. Oglethorpe had always gotten that look when he neglected to maintain the sanctity of the library by not whispering.  “I’m not sure how I feel about being the object of one of your bets.”

“There’s no reason to feel anything.  It wasn’t personal.”

Not really. 

“Whether it was or it wasn’t, you still made me some kind of unwitting pawn for your entertainment.”

“I... Uh...”  For once in his loose-lipped life, he was speechless.  What she said was true, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it.  Did she want him to apologize?  His nuts on a platter? 

“And seeing as though I was made to be an unwitting pawn,” she continued, obviously not expecting him to defend himself.  “I deserve to be compensated, don’t you think?”

“What the...?”  She wanted compensated?  As in cash, furs, jewels or sexual favors?  “Define compensation.”

Her smile was innocently angelic.  Deceptively angelic.  She was no angel.  She was one shrewd she-devil who flapped her figurative gossamer wings to distract you from the fact. 

He liked that in a woman. 

“I want whatever the winner of the bet was to get.”

David snorted.  “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“No.  Seriously.  You don’t.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, obviously not believing him.  “Why not?”

David leaned back in his chair and arched one eyebrow at her, informing her dryly.  “I doubt you’ve got any use for a box of rubbers.”