That’s the name of this chic, new creole-Asian fusion spot in the Garden District owned by hotshot Miami restaurateur Lucas Bryant Dodd. When he heard about my little mishap in the parking garage—like thousands of other New Orleans residents who read the next day’s Times-Picayune or caught the morning news on one of our four local TV stations—he reached out and invited me and Marlene to visit his famed restaurant, on the house.

Apparently, he felt an ex-cop with a nearly fractured rib, a bruised spleen, a busted hand, and a minor concussion could go for a fancy four-course meal.

Sure.

Plus he was insistent on me saying yes, which is typical for restaurant kings like Lucas Dodd. Like everyone else who owns high-class establishments in the Big Easy, he and others love to sprinkle movie stars, athletes, and newsmakers in the dining crowd, to get good news coverage and keep a buzz going.

So I eventually said yes, which also gave me a chance to put on a nice suit and tie and take my business partner out on the town. I figured, why not?

Marlene sees me sneak the Tylenol and says, “Have any to spare for an aching lady?”

“Damn, I’m sorry, I don’t,” I say. “What’s hurting you, Mar?” She takes a sip of her water. “Ah, you know what it is. Standing on your feet all day, moving your arms back and forth, chopping and cutting. Some days you slide by, other days, you don’t.”

I reach over and touch the back of her near hand, noticing her muscular forearms marked with scratches and small burn marks from splattering hot oil. All part of the glamour of working in a famous food truck.

“Plus it hurts more when you have to work harder because your business partner is flat on his butt at Tulane Medical Center,” I say.

Before Marlene can reply, another man’s voice is heard behind us, confident and smooth. “Ah, Mr. Rooney, Ms. DiPietra. I’m so glad you could join us this evening. I trust you’re feeling better?”

Dodd is a short man of about forty-five. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back like a helmet. He’s got on a light-blue designer sport coat over a cheap white thrift-shop tee. And his permanently tanned skin somehow looks at once glowing and prematurely wrinkled.

“I sure am, thanks,” I say, shaking his silky-soft hand. Dodd may be a successful restaurant owner, but I can tell he’s never worked a day in a real kitchen in his life. “And thanks for inviting us. We’re looking forward to trying everything. I’m famished.”

“Then I’ll send your food out right away,” he says, gently touching my left shoulder. “Have any arrests been made in connection with your brutal attack?”