Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Oh, that can’t be true. Where do you see that?” I peered over at his menu, hoping it was somehow completely different.

He pointed at an item under a column entitled “Specialities of the House.” “Here’s another one. Lemon Tripe. I forget what that is. Could be stomach or bowel.”

“What’s the big deal with organ meats?”

Rosie had completed her circuit and she now headed back to our table. “I hef idea. I prepare for you special. Big surprise.”

“No, no, no,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. We’ll just order from what’s here. My goodness. So many interesting dishes. What are you having, Kinsey?”

“Me? Oh. Well, actually on a night like this, I’d love a nice big bowl of soup and maybe noodles on the side. Could you do that for me?”

“Easy. Of course. I give Shepherd’s Soup. Is already make,” she said, pausing to pencil an elaborate note on her order pad. She turned to Henry.

“I think I’ll hold off for now. I just had a bite before I came over here.”

“Little plate of dumplings? Jellied pork? Is fresh. Very good.”

“Don’t tempt me. Maybe later. I’ll just keep her company for now,” he said.

Rosie pursed her lips and then shrugged to herself. I thought she’d insist, but apparently decided to let him suffer. Neither of us said a word until she’d disappeared.

I leaned forward. “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing that? I could have said the same thing.”

“I blurted out the first thing that occurred to me. You were quick about it, too. Soup and noodles. That’s safe. How can you go wrong?”

My gaze strayed toward the kitchen. Mere seconds had passed, and Rosie was already using her backside to push her way through the swinging kitchen doors into the dining room, bearing a wide tray that held a shallow bowl of steaming soup.

I said, “Oh, geez. Here she comes. I hate service this quick. It’s like eating in a Chinese restaurant. You’re in and out on the street again twenty minutes later.”

She crossed the room, setting the tray on the adjoining table, then placing the bowl in front of me. She tucked her hands under her apron and looked at me. “How you like?”

“I haven’t tried it yet.” I fanned some of the steam toward my face, trying to define the odor. Burnt hair? Dog hide? “Gee, this smells great. What is it?”

She peered at my bowl, identifying some of the diced ingredients. “Is parsnip, ongion, carrot, kohlrabi—”

“I love vegetable soup!” I said, with perhaps more enthusiasm than I’d ordinarily express. I tipped my spoon down into the depths, bringing up a rich cargo of root vegetables.

She was still peering. “Is also head, neck, lungs, and liver of one lamb.”

The spoon was already in the air by then, soup sailing toward my mouth as though of its own accord. As the spoon reached my lips, I caught a glimpse of porous gray chunks, probably minced lobe of lung, along with some floaters of something I was too fearful to ask about. I puckered my lips and made a slurping sound, sucking up the broth while deftly avoiding the little knots of offal. I made insincere Mmm noises.

“I come right beck with noodles.”

“Take your time.”

As soon as she left, I put my spoon down, craning to check all four corners of the room. “I wonder if I have time to scoot to the toilet and put this back where it belongs. She doesn’t even have planters where I can dump the stuff.”

Henry leaned closer to the bowl. “Is that a nostril? Oh no, sorry. It’s probably just a little cross-section of heart valve. Head’s up. Here she comes again.”

Rosie was returning to the table with a dinner-sized plate in hand. I made a big display of stirring my soup and wiping my mouth with a napkin as she set the noodles in front of me. I patted my chest as though overwhelmed, which I was. “This is filling. Really rich.”

I stole an apprehensive look at the dish as she placed it on the table beside my soup bowl, experiencing a flash of relief. “What’s that, manicotti?”

“Is call palacsinta tészta. Like what you call crêpes.”

“Hungarian crêpes. Well, that sounds wonderful. I can do that.”

“I fill with calf’s brains scrembled with egg. Very dainty. You’ll see. I can teach you to make.”

“Okay then, I’ll just chow down,” I said. She stood by the table, as though prepared to monitor my every bite. I leaned to one side, focusing my gaze on the far side of the room. “I think William’s calling you. It looks like he needs help.”