“Hi Nick, this is Steve Doocy.” Nick instinctively looked around the room for the voice before he spoke into his lapel. “Hi Steve, this is Nick,” he said, rolling his eyes at the obvious.
“Ten seconds, Nick.” Nick stared into the camera as if waiting for it to attack. He realized that the smile had slumped so he scolded it to respond. The intro jingle began playing in Nick’s ear, indicating the show was returning from commercial break.
“Welcome back.” Nick could hear Gretchen speaking as he stared at the faceless camera. “We’ve got a great guest this morning. Nick Vegas, acclaimed chef and restaurateur, is with us from our Atlanta studio. Good morning Nick.”
***
As Clint Justice drove north on I-85 past spaghetti junction, he visualized an aerial view of the overlapping intersection of two major Atlanta highways resembling a bowl of Ramen noodles. He hadn’t eaten Ramen noodles in years, but as Senior Compliance Investigator for the Food Safety and Inspection Service, he knew they were safe.
It wasn’t Ramen noodles that kept him awake at night. It wasn’t even the gross violations the FSIS had detected and, for the most part, kept quiet. The fecal-coated intestines that were shoved into sausage grinders, the deep fried rats on fried chicken plates, the burgers at county fairs that were alive with more pathogens and harmful bacteria than they could count. For the most part, those violations were caught before they entered the food chain. For the most part. No, what worried Clint was pathogens that weren’t identified at inspection or, worst of all, animal products that somehow entered the food supply without undergoing inspection.
Clint tuned his car’s satellite radio to Fox News to keep up on news while he drove to interview an anonymous tipster about a meat processing violation in Gainesville. She had agreed to meet privately with an FSIS investigator and Clint got the call.
“We’ve got a great guest this morning. Nick Vegas, acclaimed chef and restaurateur, is with us from our Atlanta studio. Good morning Nick.”
Clint used the buttons on his steering wheel to increase the volume.
“One of the hottest trends in the restaurant business is the concept of underground supper clubs,” Gretchen began, “or secret dinners. You can find them happening in pretty much every city at this point and the routine is always the same. You sign up for an email list, the chef sends out an email announcing precisely when registrations will begin and diners have only seconds to secure a spot. The day of the event, those who are lucky enough to get a spot receive an email with the address of the secret location, usually a house or a farm.”
None of this was news to Clint. He was well aware of these clubs operating all over the country, popping up in every little town as a way to operate restaurants without calling them restaurants and therefore not needing licenses or inspections. He didn’t like it one bit, but it was out of his jurisdiction. That was the territory of local and state health departments. Silos, he thought.
“But Nick Vegas has introduced a new concept that takes these underground supper clubs to a new level. It’s a membership only club called 50-Forks that combines supper clubs with executive-level networking. Can you tell us about it, Nick?”
Nick had been told moments before that this would be his first question. He knew he had thirty seconds or less to answer and had no idea what the questions would be beyond that. “50-Forks is about relationships,” Nick began. “Each group is open to fifty high-level business executives, and each group focuses on a different area. For example, one group is called 50 Pharma, another is 50 Financial, there’s 50 CEOs, and so on. Membership is by invitation-only and the goal is to encourage private conversations among business leaders, with exquisite dining experiences as the backdrop to facilitate the discussions.”
“So when you say exquisite dining experiences as the backdrop, what do you mean? Are these held at your restaurants?” The question had come from Steve Doocy.
Nick smiled broadly, confidently at the camera. “No. Given our clientele and the objective of these business events they are held in private locations, not in restaurants. They—”
Gretchen interrupted. “Do underground supper clubs hold their events in private residences purposefully so that they can operate without the oversight of the health department or inspectors?” Clint thumbed the volume up a little more. Nick didn’t care for the question. He agreed to the interview to discuss the concept of 50-Forks, not to get trapped in a made-for-TV news drama.
“No, of course not. In our case we operate ten restaurants, all in full compliance with all regulatory bodies. We’re very comfortable operating that way. 50-Forks operates outside of that because it’s a business club, not a restaurant.”
“Nick, my understanding is that members pay $75,000 per year for membership. Just doing quick math on the napkin here, fifty members at $75,000 times ten clubs, that’s closing in on $40 million per year in revenue.” Steve Doocy had brought up numbers that Nick wanted people to hear, but didn’t want to confess. Clint’s eyes grew wide as he heard the number and veered left on I-985 toward Gainesville.
“We don’t publish details about 50-Forks,” Nick began, “but as I said, it’s an exclusive club with fantastic benefits to everyone involved.”
Gretchen took the lead again. “Nick, we know you’re a very successful businessman, but that you’re a chef at heart. Can you tell us about anything special you’ll have...cooked up for your guests?” Both Gretchen and Nick smiled at the pun.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to give away the surprises for our guests, but let’s just say I’ve been preparing one of the dishes for two years now.”
Nick couldn’t see Gretchen and Steve look at each other with puzzled bewilderment on camera. Finally, Gretchen closed by saying, “There you have it, folks. A new twist on the world of underground dining.”
Steve added, “And a new twist on the phrase slow-food! I can’t imagine what the members of 50-Forks will get that took two years to cook up.”
Clint stared ahead at the road that meandered north toward the Georgia mountains and wondered the same thing.
Chapter 13
POP! POP! Thumpa-thumpa-THUMP! Pop! Pop! It wasn’t a smell that woke Ozzie from his nap. It was the rhythmic thumping that came on gradually as Hal’s thumper keg began to heat up, like popcorn starting to pop. Ozzie peeled his eyes open and rolled his head to the right. Hal took a swig from his cup and began dancing to the beat of the thumper keg.
“Hey Ozzie,” Hal said as he caught glimpse of Ozzie’s eyes. “Watch and I’ll teach you how to do the old thump keg waltz.” Hal continued clogging like a man who was hoping to audition for a remake of the movie Deliverance. Ozzie noticed the lumpy shape draped over Hal’s shoulders, but couldn’t make it out in the darkness. “If this world goes to hell in a hand basket all I need is a bit of grain and this here moonshine still, Ozzie, and I can keep us fed.”
Hal took another slug right off the worm of his moonshine still.
“Back in the old days, every village had themselves a preacher, a carpenter, a well-witcher, and a moonshiner. Hell, that’s all you need for a community right there.” Hal said, before adding the obvious. “I’d be the moonshiner. I figure Rex here would be the preacher. Which one would you be Ozzie? The well-witcher?”
Hal walked over and took a seat in the glow of the fire. Ozzie twitched his head and made out the lump on Hal’s shoulders. Hal saw Ozzie’s gaze and looked to his shoulder at Rex’s head. “This here’s Rex,” Hal said, nodding toward the opossum that sat on his left shoulder with its tail draped around Hal’s neck. “Hell, Rex here LOVES the ’shine! Sometimes Bambi comes up and drinks the shine. I done told you Ozzie, this here’s all you need to feed your family. Just ask these critters. They could eat anything in the woods, but they keep on coming back when they hear that thumper keg a’going.”