They were at Dick’s Cafe or “Restaurant” or “Diner” on Water Street, he thinks it is, the one that runs perpendicular to Main Street, right off the bridge, in Ellsworth. Or maybe it was only called “Dick’s,” which is all they used to refer to it as, with no what-it-is after the name. Rosalind, at the time, was almost two. And why’s he bringing up all this? Well, he’ll see. They were having lunch there, as they had a number of times the last few years, when Dick, the owner and cook, came over and introduced himself and said to him “Don’t take this wrongly, but whenever I see you walk in here I think ‘Mr. Fishburger,’ because that’s what you always order,” and he said “I like it, think about it long before I get here, and the cole slaw that comes with it.” And to Gwen “And when I see you I think ‘Mademoiselle Quiche,’ because that’s what you always seem to order,” and she said “I’ve had other things. Lobster roll. Crab meat roll. And once a hamburger when my obstetrician told me to eat more food with blood.” “Then I apologize, but I know I’m not wrong with him. As for your daughter, so far she’s ‘Little Miss Grilled Cheese,’ and because last year you brought in your own food for her. But I want her to try something new,” and from behind his back he brought out a fork with two French fries on it, and Gwen said “Thank you, but we don’t think she’s old enough for things like frankfurters or fries. She has such a darling small mouth, she might choke.” “Trust me. I’ve had young daughters. She won’t. And I know a thing or two about a special gentle Heimlich maneuver for kiddies if she does.” Gwen looked at him and he gave an expression “I don’t know what to do; you decide,” and Dick said “It won’t kill her,” and held the fork in front of Rosalind’s hand and she took the fries off and ate one and then the other and said “It’s good. I didn’t spit it out.” “You see how she did it too,” Dick said. “One at a time; didn’t stuff her mouth. Smart girl. Her first French fry. I feel privileged to be the cause of it.” Next time they came in that summer Dick waved to them from behind the grill. “I should have something different than a fishburger,” he said, “but I don’t want to,” and she said “Then don’t.” “Maybe I won’t ask for mustard this time.” Dick came over after they’d been served and said “I’ve a new treat for my little pal,” and brought out from behind his back a milk shake with a straw in it. “It’s very kind of you,” he said, “but we don’t think she’s ready for it — no ice cream or extreme sweets,” and Dick said “Where’d you come up with that? French vanilla. From Hancock Dairy. She’ll love it and it’ll go down like water,” and held the glass up to Rosalind’s mouth and she sipped through the straw and then said “Me,” and took the glass in her hands—“Watch it!” both of them said and started to get up — and finished most of it. “There you go,” Dick said. “And I don’t mean to boast about your child, but she knew straight away what to do.” “Her first drinking vessel with no handles, Gwen said. “Her first straw too.” They next came in the following summer and Dick said from behind the grill “Welcome back, Samuelses, and congratulations.” He later came over to them with one hand behind his back, they talked about how their winters had been, then he said “What surprise you have for her now?” pointing to Dick’s hidden hand, and Dick said “Don’t worry. Nothing for the new one,” and produced a small dish of something they didn’t recognize. “Finnan haddie,” Dick said. “It’s got to be a first for her and it’s one of the house specialties. I make it myself. Doesn’t come from a supplier.” “Now that,” he said, “I have to put my foot down on. Too salty,” and Dick said “Not salty. It’s smoked. From wood. No chemicals,” and held some of it out on a spoon to Rosalind. “You folks going to give me a green light?” and Gwen said “Half of that.” He dumped most of it back in the dish, Rosalind ate what was left, spit it out and said “No good.” “Another first,” Dick said, wiping Rosalind’s chin with a napkin, “but not one to brag about.” So? So times when they always had a good time, isn’t that it? And when they ordered — he thinks this happened every time — Gwen asked Ruby — Dick’s daughter and their waitress on the side of the restaurant they always tried to sit on because it had windows and there were open tables and not confining booths — to save a slice of whatever was the seasonal pie on the blackboard: raspberry, blueberry, strawberry-rhubarb, and if they stayed into early September because both of them were on leave and the kids were still young enough to start school late, peach.
