They arrived at the golf club and presented themselves at the door of the dining room—Qwilleran in his blue linen blazer with a tie, Chrysalis in her jogging shoes and toreador hat. The tables were dressed for dinner with white cloths, wine glasses, and small vases of fresh flowers. "Reservation for Qwilleran, table for two, nonsmoking," he told the hostess.
"Oh . . . yes ..." she said in bewilderment as she glanced at her chart and then the roomful of empty tables.
"We're a little early," he said.
"Follow me." The hostess conducted them to a table for two at the rear of the dining room, adjoining the entrance to the Off-Links Lounge, where golfers were celebrating low scores or describing missed putts with raucous exuberance.
Chrysalis said, "It sounds like a Tater horse auction." "May we have a table away from the noise?" Qwilleran asked the hostess.
She appeared uncertain and consulted her chart again before ushering them to a table between the kitchen door and the coffee station.
"We'd prefer one with a view," he said politely but firmly.
"Those tables are reserved for regular members," she said.
Chrysalis spoke up. "The other one is all right. I don't mind the noise."
They were conducted back to the entrance of the lounge. Dropping two menu cards on the table the hostess said, "Want something from the bar?"
"We'll make that decision after we're seated," Qwilleran replied as he held a chair for his guest. "Would you like a cocktail or a glass of wine, Ms. Beechum?"
"I wish you'd call me Chrysalis," she said. "Do you think I could have a beer?"
"Anything you wish . . . and please call me Qwill."
"I learned to like beer in college. Before that I'd just had a little taste of corn liquor, and I didn't care for it."
A waiter in his late teens was hovering over the table. "Something from the bar?"
"A beer for the lady—your best brand," Qwilleran ordered, "and I'll have a club soda with a twist." The drinks arrived promptly, and he said to his guest, "The service is always excellent when you're the only customers in the place."
"Want to order?" the young man asked. His nametag identified him as Vee Jay.
"After we study the menu," Qwilleran replied. "No hurry." To Chrysalis he said, "I see you're wearing something handwoven. There's a lot of artistry in your weaving."
"Thank you," she said with pleasure. "Not everyone really notices it. The women in my family have always been weavers. Originally they raised sheep and spun the wool and made clothes for their whole family. I was weaving placemats to sell when I was seven years old. Then, in college I learned that weaving can be a creative art."
"Do you ever do wall hangings? I like tapestries."
"I've done a few, but they don't sell—too expensive for the tourist trade."
Consulting the menu she decided she would like the breast of chicken in wine sauce with pecans and apple slices, explaining, "At home we only have chicken stewed with dumplings."
Qwilleran ordered the same and suggested corn chowder as the first course. He asked the waiter to hold the food back for a while and to serve the salad following the main course.
The chowder arrived immediately.
"Return it to the kitchen," Qwilleran said to Vee Jay. "We're not ready. We requested that you hold it back." Vee Jay shuffled away with the two bowls.
Chrysalis said, "You know, just because the Taters cling to some of the old ideas like stewed chicken and dirt roads and no telephones, it doesn't mean that they're backward. They maintain old values and old customs because they know something that the lowlanders don't know. Living close to the mountains for generations and struggling to be self-sufficient, they develop their minds in different ways."
"You're probably right. I'm beginning to believe there's something mystical about mountains," Qwilleran said.
When they were finally ready for the soup course, the waiter returned with the two bowls. By this time the chowder was cold.
Qwilleran addressed him stiffly. "Vee Jay—if that is really your name—we would have ordered vichyssoise or gazpacho if we had wanted cold soup. Take this away and see that it's properly heated." To his guest he said, "I apologize for this."
In due time the chowder returned, accompanied by two salads. "We asked to have the salad served after the entree," Qwilleran complained, losing patience.
The sullen waiter whisked the salads away and, before the diners could raise their soup spoons, served two orders of chicken in wine sauce, maneuvering the table setting to find room for the large dinner plates.
Now angry, Qwilleran called the hostess to the table. "Please look at this vulgar presentation of food," he said. "Is it your quaint custom to serve the entree with the soup?"
"Sorry," she said. "Vee Jay, remove the soup."
