Son of Stone

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Elaine’s, late.

Stone Barrington and Dino Bacchetti sat, sipping what each of them usually sipped, gazing desultorily at the menu. Elaine came and sat down.

“Having problems deciding?” she asked.

“Always,” Dino said.

“Are you being a smart-ass?” she asked.

“I’m torn between the pasta special and the osso buco,” Dino said.

“Yeah,” Stone said, “Dino is always torn.”

“Are you being a smart-ass?” Dino asked.

“I’m just backing you up, pal,” Stone said.

“Oh.”

“Have the pasta,” Elaine said. “It’s terrific.”

“How can I pass that up?” Dino asked, closing his menu.

“Dino,” Stone said, “you’re veering toward the ironic again. Watch yourself.”

Elaine looked at Dino. “You’re lucky there isn’t a steak knife on the table.” She flagged down a passing waiter. “Two pasta specials,” she said, her finger wagging between Stone and Dino.

“I’ll have the osso buco,” Stone said.

“I just sold the last one,” the waiter replied.

“Tell you what,” Stone said, “I’ll have the pasta special, with a chopped spinach salad to start.”

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