Page 92 of Backslide
“That’s Cool Water!” I say, giggling.
Neither man seems amused.
But when we finally sample the oysters, everything else melts away. They taste like sea, salt air, something ephemeral and hard to grasp—days of leisure, of easy breezes, of escape.
I must groan out loud because Mike says, “You know, some people say oysters are aphrodisiacs.”
Then he makes eyes at me.
“You don’t say,” I reply.
“Maybe you want to try one with hot sauce? Something a littlespicy?”
“She doesn’t like hot sauce,” Noah practically barks.
“How do you know?” I am tempted to ask as annoyance rises in me. Maybe I’ve changed! Maybe I’m a new and exciting hot-sauce-loving woman now!
But he’s right. And I will not relive the gummy episode or the cold plunge by dosing myself to prove a point. I down the rest of my wine instead.
It’s begun raining again and there’s a definite chill.
Time to move on.
Before we leave, Mike takes us—well, me, with Noah trailing behind—around to see the various machinery. The farm is small and rustic, but mighty, supplying oysters to some of the highest-end restaurants in Northern California.
“Wow,” I say, as Mike lists the recipients of their harvests, eateries helmed by James Beard award winners and the like. “That’s impressive.”
“Oh, yeah,” he agrees. “The chefs around these parts are next level. Everything is local too. They source their milk from Straus Family Creamery down the road and the oysters from here and cheese from another farm up the way…”
“Yum!” I say, with maybe a little too much enthusiasm. Mike is clearly very proud of this operation and I want to seem suitably impressed, especially because Noah—usually so charming and chatty—has gone uncharacteristically silent.
It is possible he wants to kill Mike.
“You know,” Mike says, stepping toward me and pushing his hat off his head, so that it dangles by the neck strap like he’s a Boy Scout. “I know all the best spots. If you’re in the area for a few days, I’d love to take you to try some of my favorites.”
I chance a glance up at Noah, who rolls his eyes so wide I’m surprised they don’t fall out of their sockets.
“Unfortunately, I’m only here for the day,” I say, letting Mike down easy.
“We’re actually leaving,” Noah says at the same time, placing a hand on my shoulder and nudging me toward the car.
“Too bad,” Mike says. “It could have been great.”
And I will never know if he means us or the food.
We leave with a cooler full of oysters and Noah’s bad attitude.
“That was so unprofessional!” he says, once we’re in the car.
I raise my eyebrows. “Would it have been unprofessional if Mike was a hot lady?”
“Are you calling Mike hot?”
Touché.
The oyster farm had its own shop. And, before we left, I tried to convince Noah to buy himself a hoodie, since he was clearly cold, goose bumps rising on his arms, but he refused. Would not give Mike the satisfaction. Though, as I pointed out, Mike was not likely pocketing the cash.
Noah would not give in.
