Mr. Donaldson immediately broke into laughter. Overly tickled, tears of laughter ran down his face. Even his wife came alive. She too found my comments funny. Unfortunately Langston wasn’t laughing quite as hard. Shortly thereafter we were once again around the corner in a heated sidebar.

“What in the hell was that?!”

“That was a joke.”

“Collard greens?! Neck bones?!!! Montana, you just took our entire race back five hundred years. It wasn’t funny.”

“Mr. Donaldson thought it was funny. He was laughing.”

“Yes, he was. But he wasn’t laughing with you, he was laughing at you. Laughing as he reminisced over our ancestors serving his ancestors, while we waited for the scraps, the leftovers to be served from Massa’s table. Think about that next time you want to coon at my expense. Okay, Stepin’ Fetchit!”

Cooning at his expense? Okay, he was just a little too uptight for me. So much so that it was starting to make me uptight. Uptight and very annoyed. Taking the advice of my aunt, who said when you get overwhelmed and upset you should count to ten, I began counting. One, two, three—pull it in, Montana. Four, five, six—hold it together, girl. Seven, eight, nine. This is his night, Montana. Ten. Exhale, breathe, and exhale.

“Langston, I apologize.”

“Good.” We headed back to the table for round three.

“Hello, I hope everyone has had a chance to look at the menu.” It was Luis, returning to take our order for dinner. “Might I recommend the osso bucco, the seared ahi, or our three-pound lobster topped with chilled mango sauce. For the ladies?”

Mr. Donaldson ordered for himself and his wife. “My wife likes to keep it simple. She’d like the grilled salmon. I’ll have baked chicken with the garlic mashed potatoes.”

“And for the lady?” The waiter stood, awaiting my reply. I paused, looking at Langston, allowing him the lead.

“The lady would like the osso bucco.” Osso bucco? I didn’t even know what that was.

“Are you sure you want osso bucco?” Mr. Donaldson asked. “It sounds good, but it’s not exactly the best tasting dish in the world. You look more like us, Montana. Our taste buds aren’t quite as refined as Langston’s.”

“Actually, Montana loves osso bucco. She orders it almost everywhere we go. Not only is she classy, but might I also add, very expensive. After dinner I might need you to contribute to more than my campaign fund.” He laughed a phony laugh. I returned an even phonier laugh, snarling within.

“So, Madam, how would you like your osso bucco prepared?”

Langston quickly started to respond, “Prepare it—”