The return to work had everyone in town sort of dazed. I got a call from the 14th Street Bridge by a former colleague who felt she was spending the better part of the day looking at brake-lights. The pool gate remained stoically locked. The temperature hovered in the mid-nineties with comparable humidity.
In short, we had the weather we should have had in August in September, and vice versa. It was a relief to get done with the petty stuff I needed to get done and climb into the saddle of the Bluesmobile and motor over to Fairfax Drive to dock the thing and stroll into the cool late afternoon dimness of Willow.
Old Jim was camped out in his usual place, and I took the seat next to him around the corner of the bar. We were talking about the latest beheading when Renee appeared and told us that Robert was experimenting with something new in the kitchen.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Polpette di Baccala,” he said and slid the plate in between us.
Jim scowled and looked at the five golden fried morsels in the square plate in front of him. “Cod Balls. I have no idea how they swim with those things.”
“Ouch,” I said. Sammie the Moroccan Bartender slid a couple little plates in our direction and topped off my happy Hours White.
“How are these different than the Cod Sliders?” I asked. “Jim loves those things.”
Renew adjusted the flat brim of his ballcap in a preceise 45-degree angle away from his face. “These are not whole fillets. Robert soaked salt cod overnight, covered in cool water, and then changed out the water every few hours once he came in to do prep for the evening. Then you drain the salt fish, pat dry, and chop the cod into cubes and put it into a bowl with eggs, currants, pine nuts, bread crumbs and parsley. Then Season with salt and pepper, to taste and then combine into balls. Then fry them.”
“They look delicious,” I said, and Jim was hungry. He cut one in half and sampled it.
“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”
I took a knife and did the same thing. The texture was interesting, the taste not at all salty or fishy, and the golden fried cloak was delicious. I had a late salad, so I did not dispute Jim as he went for more.
By this point the regulars had begun to fill up our end of the bar: The Former Long Hair Mike, Jarhead Ray, TLB and Jon-without all arrived in short order- as did a surprise guest, the Lovely Jamie.
As you may recall, Jamie decamped to the wilds of Spotsylvania County to spend the summer at her Grandfather’s house as he transitioned from living by himself to the assisted facility, and since Jamie abruptly found herself between jobs, it seemed like a perfect place to camp out and avoid paying rent at the apartment in ritzy close-in Rosslyn.
“I am back,” she said, handing me a heavy book bag.
“I guess so. That looks suspiciously like work,” I said, trying to hook the handles of the bag on the hook under the bar while not dislodging Jim’s bulldog-headed cane.
Jamie smiled. “I have a job, a new apartment and a triumphant return. Plus, Gary is coming down from Baltimore this afternoon, so life is grand.”
“Baltimore is much closer to Arlington than Spotsylvania,” I said. “This is a complete win-win.”
“Well, Except for my Grandfather,” she said. “But I will go down every couple weeks to look in on him.”
“Life is good,” I said. “Considering the times and the alternatives, really good.”
Jamie just smiled, happy to be back.
Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303