Jul. 31st, 2008

orbis_non_sufficit: (Head Tilt)
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The plate arrived piled incredulously high with meat, all glistening and criss-crossed with grill marks. A smaller plate with thick slabs of toasted white bread accompanied it, along with a brown longneck bottle of Budweiser. Bond blinked once, twice, then looked up at the waitress, a dessicated woman of indeterminate age, as if the smoke that had cooked the food served to preserve her, as well.

"What," he asked slowly, "is this?"

"Dinner plate, hon," the woman drawled back impatiently.

"But I haven't ordered."

With a snap of her gum, "Glynnis" rolled her eyes. "Said you was here for dinner. There's dinner."

When Bond's junior agent had driven them here and pronounced "Bobby's Smokehouse" as having the "best steaks in the county", Bond had been looking forward to a petit cut filet adorned with sauce Bèarnaise, or at least a thinly crusted au poivre and a bottle of fine Cabernet Sauvignon to wash it down with. Not... this pile of meat.

Sighing, Bond eyed his food and then his beer forlornly. "Then can I at least get a mar--"

From the corner of his eye, Bond caught the suspicious glance of some of his fellow diners.

"More toast?"

"Comin' right up, sugar."

Bond took a drink, winced, and swallowed the ice-cold Bud. He was happy to find a fork beside his plate, at least.

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James Bond

May 2010

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