We ended up back near Central Park, searching for a place to eat. A diner on Fifty-seventh Street looked good, but there was a half-hour wait. Then, off the street inside the park, we saw a restaurant. Millions of tiny blue lights covered the oak trees that surrounded it. The sign said, Parking for Garden Tavern, This Way. Plunked among the trees was a huge building with tons of plate glass windows overlooking the park.
Gazzy said excitedly. "This looks great!"
It was also the last place on earth I wanted us to go. Too big, too flashy, too expensive, and no doubt full of trendy grown-ups. We were not going to blend. We would not be inconspicuous.
And yet, the Gasman wanted to eat here. And I had promised him pretty much anything he wanted.
"Uh, okay," I said, already feeling dread and anxiety seeping from my pores. Fang pulled open the heavy glass door, and we stepped inside.
"Whoa," Nudge said, her eyes wide.
From the reception area, we could see three different dinning rooms. There was the Prism Room, which was dripping with crystals, basically: chandeliers, candelabras, faceted windows. Door number two led to the Garden Room, which was like a lush, overgrown rainforest, but with tables, chairs, and waiters. The third one was the Castle Room, for those of us who needed to feel regal while we chowed. They all had soaring ceilings with rafters. The Castle Room had an open fireplace big enough to roast a steer.
I was glad to see we weren't the only kids-though we were the only ones without a grown-up.
"May I help you?" A tall, blond, modelly woman glanced at us, then looked to see who we were with. "Are you waiting for yourparents?"
"No," I said. "There's just us." I smiled. "Can we have a table for seven, please? I'm treating everybody with my birthday money." Another lie, another smile.
"Um, okay," said the hostess. She led us to a table in the Castle Room, way back by the kitchen. Since the kitchen would be a useful escape route, if necessary, I didn't quibble.
She passed out large, very fancy menus as we scrambled into our seats. "Jason will be your server today." With one last, uncertain glance, she left us.
"Max, this is so, so great," Nudge said excitedly, clutching her enormous menu. "This is the nicest place we've ever eaten!"
Since we've Dumpster-dived for lunch on many occasions, this was an understatement. Fang, Iggy, and I were miserable. Nudge, Gazzy, and Angel were ecstatic.
Actually, the Castle Room would have been neat, if I didn't hate crowds, sticking out, grown-ups, feeling paranoid, and spending money.
On to the menu. I was relieved to see that they had a kids' section.
"Are you waiting for your parents?" A short, stocky waiter with slicked-back red hair-Jason-was standing next to Iggy.
"No, there's just us," I said.
He frowned slightly and gave us a once-over. "Ah. Are you ready to order?"
"Anyone know what they want?" I asked.
The Gasman looked up. "How many chicken tenders are on a plate?"
Jason looked almost pained. "I believe there are four."
"I better have two orders, then," said the Gasman. "And this fruit cocktail. And two glasses of milk."
"Two orders for yourself?" Jason clarified.
The Gasman nodded. "With fries. To start."
"I want a hot-fudge sundae," said Angel.
"Real food first," I said. "You need fuel."
"Okay," Angel said agreeably, then blinked and looked up at Jason. "We're not spoiled rich brats," she said. "We're just hungry."
Jason started, then his face flushed and he shifted his feet.
"I want this prime rib thing," Angel said, looking at the adult side of the menu. "And all this stuff that goes with it. And a soda. And lemonade."
"The prime rib is sixteen ounces," our waiter said. "It's a pound of meat."
"Uh-huh," Angel said, wondering what he was getting at.
"She can handle it," I said. "She's a big eater. Nudge? What do you want?"
"This lasagna primavera," Nudge decided. "I might need two. It comes with salad, right? And bread? Some milk. Okay?" She looked at me, and I nodded.
Jason just stood there-he thought we were pulling his leg. "Two lasagnas?"
"You might want to start writing this stuff down," I suggested. I waited till he had noted their orders, then said, "I'll start with the shrimp cocktail. Then the maple-glazed roast pork loin, with the cabbage and potatoes and everything. The house salad with blue cheese dressing. And a lemonade and an iced tea."
Jason wrote it all down, as if he were enduring an hour-long eye-poke.
"The lobster bisque," Fang said. "Then the prime rib. A big bottle of water."
"The spaghetti and meatballs," Iggy said.
"That's on the children's menu," our waiter said, sounding tense. "For our patrons twelve and under."
Iggy looked ticked off.
"How about the rack of lamb?" I said quickly. "It comes with potatoes and spinach, and a merlot-rosemary sauce."
"Fine, okay," Iggy said, irritated. "Plus a couple glasses of milk and some bread."
"Hey, Cook. What do you want?" Fang asked Cookie who had been dozing on his lap. Damn this kid sleeps a lot.
"Um, can i just have some bread and water? My tummy doesn't feel very nice." Cookie said quietly, burring her face into Fang's shirt.
"She'll have a kid's macaroni, some bread and an iced tea." Fang ordered for her with a worried glance at Cookie.
Jason lowered his pad and looked at us. "This is a great deal of food for just the seven of you," he said. "Maybe you've overordered."
"I understand your concern," I said, my tension starting to get the better of me. "But it's okay. Just bring it, please."
"You'll have to pay for all of it, whether you eat it or not."
"Yeah, that's usually how a restaurant works," I said slowly, with exaggerated patience.
"This is going to really add up," he persisted unwisely.
"I get it," I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep my cool. "I get the concept. Food costs money. Lots of food costs lots of money. Just bring us what we ordered. Please."
Jason looked at me stiffly and stalked away toward the kitchen.
"I love this place," Fang said with a straight face.
"Did we order too much?" Angel asked.
"No," I said. "It's fine. I guess they're not used to hearty eaters."
An underling brought us two baskets of bread and set out small dishes of olive oil. Even she seemed skeptical.
My fingers curled into claws on the white tablecloth. And it all kind of went downhill from there.