Slow Burn Read Free Page B

consider themselves to be here under
duress."
    "What kind
of duress?" I asked.
    "The
threat of having their rating dirninished."
    "What
rating?"
    Miles and
Alomar shared a "poor soul" moment on my behalf.
    "You may
be aware," said Sir Geoffrey, "that I sponsor a publication
which—" "The Register," I interrupted.
    They seemed
relieved. "Ah, yes," Alomar said. "You have heard of The
Register."
    As I understood
it, The Register was the final, worldwide authority on food. The publication
rated restaurants on a scale, of one to five stars. One star indicated that
livestock would be joining you for dinner. Five stars was a ticket to legend. A
paltry one hundred five-star designations were assigned each year and the
competition was intense. Fortunes and careers hinged upon the annual
publication of The Register Hundred.
    "You
threatened to give them less stars if they boycotted?"
    Sir Geoffrey's
upper lip twitched. "Suppose we say I intimated that to be a
possibility." I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it.
    "These
rogues would, after all, be voluntarily distancing themselves from the very
heart of the industry which has nurtured them. That type of unprofessional
estrangement would most certainly be noted by a publication such as The
Register. I do not believe it could be cogently argued that matters such as
this were not well within the ken of such a publication."
    "Certainly
not," I agreed.
    "I'm sure you
understand, Mr. Waterman, 77K Register is nearly two hundred years in its
existence. I am merely its present steward. Its founder, the Marquis de la
Maine, fought three duels in defense of his ratings; surely I can be expected
to do my small part."
    "How'd he
do?"
    "Who?"
    "The
Marquis."
    Miles pursed
his lips and tilted his head. "A regrettable two out of three. His last
opponent . . ." He searched his memory banks. "A Romanian sallcier
whose name escapes me at the moment put a musket ball through the Marquis's
right cheek. The poor sot survived but completely lost his sense of taste as a
result of the scarring."
    Alomar and
Miles shared a moment of sensory lamentation.
    "So some
of these people were coerced into coming to Seattle."
    "No, no,
no," Alomar corrected quickly. "Coerced?" He wagged a stiff
palm. "Certainly not! Persuaded, perhaps. "Induced," indeed,
might also be more accurate. I would prefer to think that they had been
enlightened as to the importance of mamtaining a global-village type of
perspective."
    "Sort of
like, it takes a village to raise a souffle."
    Alomar eyed me.
"Perhaps," he reluctantly agreed.
    Sir
Geoffrey
retrieved the thread. "So, Mr. Waterman, it is within this quite
contentious atmosphere that we begin this year's conference. Senor
Alomar and I
believe we have put together an outstanding conference program.
Superior to its predecessors in every way. I myself will be giving the
keynote address on
Friday evening and supervising the awards banquet," he crowed.
    Alomar broke
in. "Such an honor, Sir Geoffrey." He turned to me. "Sir
Geoffrey has never consented to our repeated pleas. This is a groundbreaking
moment. This is—"
    He would have
blubbered on, but Miles cut him short.
    "We are
out on the proverbial limb here, Mr. Waterman. The last thing we can afford is
any sort of embarrassing spectacle to lend any credence whatsoever to our
detractors. Unfortunately . . ." He let it hang.
    At last we were
at my area of expertise. Embarrassing Spectacles Are Us. "What is it I can
do for you, Sir Geoffrey?" I prodded.
    He took a full
breath. "Here it is, then. You have here in this country two rival chains
of steak houses. One is called Del Fuego's FeedLot."
    "Sure,"
I said. I knew Del Fuego's. Less than a month ago, while visiting
Portland, I'd wandered into one and put away a two-pound T-bone and a
baked potato the size
of an NFL football.
    "The
operation is run by a pitiable creature who calls himself Jack Del Fuego."
' "I've seen him on television."
    "With that
hat and the . . . what do