Amy & Roger's Epic Detour

I saw Roger give me a little smile across the table, though it faded when he heard Lucien order for all of us, something called a Hot Brown.

“You guys do eat meat, right?” he asked when three skillets were placed in front of us simultaneously by three waiters. “I should have checked, with you being from California and all.” We’d done the basic introductions while we’d waited for the worrisomely named food to arrive. We’d found out that Lucien was eighteen and beginning college at Vanderbilt in the fall.

“No vegetarians here,” Roger said.

“Good,” Lucien said, “then dig in.”

I looked down at the skillet that had been laid across my plate. One of the waiters had explained the dish: A Hot Brown was a turkey breast on big pieces of soft-looking bread, covered with parmesan cheese and a creamy sauce, flanked by tomato slices and finished with parsley and two pieces of bacon laid across the top. I had just been taking it in, wondering where to start, when I realized Lucien hadn’t started eating yet. He was looking at me expectantly, and only after I’d raised my fork did he raise his. I’d heard about Southern manners, but I’d assumed they’d died out a hundred years before. Apparently not. The proof was sitting in front of me, waiting for me to take a bite before he would begin to eat.

The silverware was surprisingly heavy, and I cut a small piece and took a bite. It was fantastic. I took another bite, and saw that across the table, Roger was eating with gusto. I realized as I ate more that these were all foods I liked—why had nobody except people in Kentucky realized how good they might be when combined and covered with melted cheese?

Roger had ordered a Coke, since root beer was not on the menu. But I’d taken Lucien’s lead and ordered what he had, something called sweet tea. I took a small sip, then another one, realizing that cream soda might just have been eclipsed as my favorite drink. It was iced tea, but very sweet, with the sugar not grainy and mixed in, but part of the drink itself. Between this and the NuWay, I decided that from now on I would always follow the recommendations of the locals, as I hadn’t been steered wrong yet. Lucien said that he would take care of ordering dessert, and I was happy to put myself in his hands.

I headed to the ladies’ room, leaving the boys in an intense discussion of sports movies. I only hoped, for Lucien’s sake, that he would have the sense not to bring up Hoosiers. As I washed my hands, I looked at my reflection. I thought back to the me reflected in the bathroom mirror at Yosemite. I looked different, and not only because I hadn’t just been crying, then rubbing my face with paper towels that felt like they’d been made from some kind of bark. I was more tan now, and I had a new wardrobe. But it wasn’t that, entirely. I looked at my reflection a moment longer, pulling my shoulders back.

When I returned to the table, the boys stopped talking immediately, which worried me. But before I could say anything, dessert plates were presented. “Derby pie,” Lucien said. “A Louisville tradition. Enjoy.” He motioned the waiter to come closer, then said, “And a glass of Maker’s Mark, please.”

The waiter looked from Roger to me and back to Lucien again, who just stared back at him coolly. “Absolutely,” the waiter said, leaving.

“Did you just order a drink?” I asked, baffled, wondering if Kentucky was somehow exempt from the drinking laws of the rest of the country.

“Dude,” Roger said reverently around a mouthful of dessert. He saluted Lucien with his fork and went on eating. I took a bite myself. The pie was a mixture of chocolate and strawberries and pecans, and it was great. I found myself wishing that Kentucky was better about exporting their local dishes to the rest of the country.

The waiter placed a short glass half-filled with two ice cubes and a dark brown liquid in front of Lucien.

“What is this?” I asked. “Do they not card in Kentucky?”

“Not always,” Lucien said with a smile. “We have in front of us a glass of genuine Kentucky bourbon. You know that bourbon is the only drink native to America?” Roger and I shook our heads. “It is,” he continued. “And unless it’s made in Kentucky, it can’t be called bourbon. Otherwise, it’s just called sour mash.”

“Like champagne,” I said, recalling the fact I’d once learned while rehearsing a Noel Coward play. “Unless it’s made in the Champagne region of France, it’s just called sparkling wine.”

“Well, exactly,” said Lucien. He set the glass of bourbon in the center of the table. “So who’s driving?” he asked. “I’m happy to, if y’all are comfortable with that.”

Roger glanced at me and took a sip of his soda. “I’ll keep driving,” he said. “Not a problem.”

“Oh,” Lucien said. “Okay.”

“I’m not really driving right now,” I said after a moment of silence, feeling like some explanation was called for. But after I said it, I realized this explanation hadn’t actually clarified anything. “Just … not,” I said, stopping when I realized that without going into why, I wasn’t going to be able to make myself any clearer.

“Well, whatever works,” Lucien said. He gestured to the bourbon. “Would you like it?”

“That’s okay,” I said, drinking my second glass of sweet tea.

Lucien raised his eyebrows at me. “You’re turning down a glass of our authentic local bourbon?” he asked.

“Oh,” I said, glancing over at Roger, who for some reason was looking up at the ceiling, smiling. “Um, sure.” With both of them watching me closely, I slid the glass toward me and lifted it up. It was surprisingly heavy, and I sniffed the liquid, then stopped, wondering if you were only supposed to do that for wine. At any rate, it smelled kind of like a stump. I took a tentative sip and almost spat the entire mouthful across the table. It tasted like stump too. Smoky stump. It was kind of like what I imagined it would be like to drink a forest fire. I forced myself to swallow it, and it burned my throat going down and made my eyes water. “Mmm,” I choked out when I was able to speak again. “That’s … smooth.”

I looked up and saw that both Roger and Lucien were laughing. “Sorry about that,” Lucien said, moving the drink away from me and into the center of the table again. “We just wanted to see if I could get you to drink it.”