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“Oui.” The French waiter yanked a chair from an adjacent table and sat down right next to Jackson. His chair creaked as he leaned back, folding his hands across his vast stomach. His black shiny buttons strained against his vest. A big sausage finger scratched his puny little moustache and began to pick his nose.

Jackson looked at Meeka nervously. “What are you going to eat?”

Meeka shrugged. “I’ve already tried everything, so I’ll just have what you’re having.”

“What do people usually order?” Jackson asked the rotund waiter.

The waiter’s beady black eyes looked at him steadily. “Zey ordair what zey need to eat.”

“What they need to eat? That doesn’t make any sense.”

The waiter huffed. “Pouf! Zat ees a reedeekulous seeng to say. Of course eet make sense.”

“Well, can you explain it to me?” asked Jackson.

The waiter’s shiny black buttons strained.

“Please?”

The waiter blinked slowly and toyed with his moustache.

“All right” he said graciously (see how important it is to mind your manners?). “You ordair what you need. Zome peepel, zay need lots of courage, so zay ordair prime rib weeth thick sausage gravy and garleek mashed potatoes.”

“Of course,” murmured Jackson. “But I don’t eat meat, you see.”

The waiter’s chest puffed a little bigger. His French face turned pink. “Bah, qu’est-ce que vous me dites? From whair else do you get your courage?”

Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know. What else do people order?”

The waiter sulked. “Zome peepel ’oo need lots of energie, zay ordair wheat pasta weeth sausage and sliced zucchini and parmesan.”

“What if someone wanted to do well on a test?” Jackson quizzed.

“Feesh, of course! C’est bon, le poisson! Greelled salmon weeth steamed green beans een thyme-butter!” the waiter sniffed.

“And what if someone wants to make friends?”

“Nahsing weeth garleek, of course.”

Jackson thought for a moment. “And what if one were to embark on an adventure?”

The waiter slicked back his thinning hair, his pinky ring twinkling.

“Zen I recommens a greelled shrimp angel hair pasta weeth asparagus and mushrooms in a light garleek cream sauce weeth a few chilies. So,” he sniffed, lifting his bulk out of his chair, “you weel be requiring zee meal of adventure?”

Jackson shrugged. “It’s just a tour. Maybe I don’t need it at all.”

“Quoi?!” A shiny black button exploded off the waiter’s chest and dented the wall. “Zen you weel stop wasting my time and ’ave zee buffet,” he growled, whipping the menus from their hands with his big sausage fingers. He stomped away, smashed the menus on the bar counter, and disappeared behind the swinging door.

Jackson just sat there, a bit confused and a little dumbfounded. That didn’t mean that Jackson was dumb or he was becoming dumber. He just didn’t know what to say or think in that particular situation. So he said nothing.

Meeka stood up, pulling Jackson’s hand eagerly. “Come on, I love the buffet.”

Jackson followed Meeka to the other side of the cafeteria to a long table of assorted foods. Meeka grabbed a black-and-white-checkered tray and shoved it into Jackson’s hands.

Oh…

…my

…goodness.

Chapter 19

In Which There Is a Lot of Meat

I want you to take a moment and imagine the longest table you’ve ever seen. Imagine this superlong table is filled, I mean, fiiiillllllllleddddddd with food. Every kind of food you can imagine. How on earth are you possibly going to decide?

“How on earth am I possibly going to decide?” said Jackson half to himself, half to Meeka.

Meeka shrugged. With skill born of practice she sauntered down the buffet, selected a few things, placed them on her tray and returned to their table.

Jackson approached the buffet table cautiously.

There was meat.

A lot of meat.

You can’t begin to understand how much meat there was.

There was grilled steak, broiled beef brisket, barbequed sirloin, rare tenderloin, chuck roast, mushroom hamburgers, fried pork chops, apricot pork tenderloin, grilled pork, stewed pig’s feet (eww!), boiled pig snout in apple-brandy sauce (double ewww!), barbecued ribs in thick