Lauren Bacall just shot dagger eyes at me for sitting at her table, number nine. My friend, the inscrutable and handsome John Mar, head waiter seated her at the opposite end of my bank of booths. John owns a Chinese restaurant in the valley, which I frequent once a week.
I'm still sipping my first zombie, jiving to the Polynesian music and decor, and perusing the menu. There's a huge barbecue pit in the center of the joint and the smell of barbecued meat makes me hungry. I'm thinking about ordering the barbecued squab. When I look up, the boozehound in the booth next to snake eyes has his head in the soup.
Squab. I'm definitely ordering the barbecued squab.