Sugaring Ben by R.W. Clinger

Author:R.W. Clinger [Clinger, R.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2016-03-04T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14: Friday Evening

We had the city all to ourselves; every part of it: Southside, SoHo, Uptown, Station Square, Marshall Square. And what a fun and exciting city it was. We spent Friday afternoon at the Andy Warhol Museum and took a short tour through Heinz Field where the Steelers played football and concerts were performed by Taylor Swift, Luke Bryan, and Jimmy Buffet. After those two events, we were starving and had dinner at an upscale restaurant on Liberty Avenue called Disco, which served a house drink with the same name; a mix of vodka, blueberry juice, lemon, lime, and Seven-Up.

The dinner at Disco turned into a minor fiasco because people everywhere had recognized Ben from Sugaring Ben, his cookware, and the covers of his many cookbooks. Our meal was interrupted four times by gawkers and his fans. Even the four-star chef at the restaurant, Paulo Churnio, introduced himself to Ben and explained that he was honored to have Ben in his restaurant.

Paulo was so excited about having the superstar pastry chef in his establishment and told the both of us, “I couldn’t possibly think of you paying for a meal at Disco.”

Again, pictures were snapped of Ben and Paulo together, a china plate was autographed by Ben, and Paulo ended up being the happiest man on the planet with bragging rights for the next decade or more.

After dinner, we took a clipper ride on Queenie, a seventy-eight-foot-long charter boat built from a tugboat and barge. Queenie had two decks and a mezzanine. The sightseeing tour cost each of us twenty-one dollars, which Ben picked the tab up for. Downtown became illuminated at twilight, showcasing its silver-blue-purple skyscrapers, assortment of colorful bridges, the city’s two inclines that climbed Mt. Washington, and all three rivers. I snuggled against Ben as Queenie floated down the Ohio River, turned around, and then up the Monongahela River. The wind was cold, but, fortunately, it had stopped snowing.

Tucked next to him, I said, “This town is beautiful.”

“There’s a place we can get a drink at after this. What do you say?”

“What’s it called?”

“The Lucky Lounge. We’ll feel comfortable there.”

* * * *

Three floors comprised The Lucky Lounge. Karaoke could be performed at an open mic on the first floor. The second floor sparkled with dancing go-go boys. And the third floor contained six private rooms where guests could get their rocks off with paid help, creating an assortment of performed and twisted love stories.

Ben and I were greeted by staring men of various ages and races, none of which recognized him, which was a surprise for me, since he had been questioned by numerous and curious fans about his identity and success all day long.

We curled up to a table that overlooked the stage on the second floor. A waiter, some nineteen-year-old Thor-lookalike with a muscled stomach and too much makeup, took our drink orders. Ben decided on a dry martini with two olives, and I went with my norm, a Long Island iced tea.

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