For people who love jazz, good food and a live-and-let-live attitude, no city can surpass New Orleans. Of course, “The Big Easy” is a gastronomic delight for any professed gourmand, and W.S. and I were looking forward to some classic face stuffing. However, the caper we encountered was not the green pickled flower bud of a Mediterranean bush, but rather the kind of event one would expect when going anywhere with the mountain man, Dick England.
The three of us were relieved that the recognition ceremony for W.S.’s and Dick’s scientific research was short, because we had dinner reservations at a superb restaurant. We hadn’t eaten lunch, and no one can eat an award. The chef’s signature recipe was deboned fish, so W.S. and I ordered the recommended dish. Dick ordered chicken
The meal was delicious and we were relaxed, and laughing, and eating, and talking when suddenly W.S. grabbed his throat and started hacking and coughing. “Can you breathe?” I shouted. He gave an affirmative nod. “Is there a fish bone stuck in your throat?” asked Dick. Another affirmative nod. By now his antics were attracting the attention of other customers in the restaurant.
One man at the bar suggested, “Give him a lemon to suck on.” I fished a piece of lemon out of my water glass and handed it to W.S. who sucked on the lemon, made a sour face and kept clearing his throat. “Try a piece of bread,” yelled a guy at the other end of the bar. I handed W.S. a piece of bread. He buttered it, bit into it, chewed it, swallowed it and kept on making guttural sounds. “Let’s go into the Men’s Room,” Dick suggested. “Maybe you can cough it out.”
Thirty minutes later, they exited from the Men’s Room. W.S. was rubbing his head. “Did you get it out?” I asked. “No,” W.S. croaked. “You are talking,” I said, ”That’s an improvement. What’s the matter with your head?” “You tell her,” said W.S. pointing to Dick.
“I thought that if he laid down on the floor I might be able to do some compressions and push the bone out.” “You were lying on the floor in the Men’s Room?” I said, turning to W.S. He just pointed to Dick. “I was trying to loosen his tie,” said Dick. “You were making it tighter,” W.S. growled. “Then,” Dick continued, “Some guy decided to come out of the stall and bounced the cubicle door off of W.S.’s head.”
Still clutching his throat, W.S. whispered, ”I’ve got a bone in my throat, men are coming in and out of that bathroom and no one even looks concerned.” “We’re in New Orleans,” I said. “What did you expect? Enough of the home remedies, it’s time to go to the hospital and get that bone removed!” After a few; “I don’t want to goes” and “You are goings,” we piled into a taxi and ordered the driver to proceed to the closest emergency room.
It was Saturday night, and most of the real doctors must have been out partying, because the 12-year old in the white coat, who met us at the door, gleefully exclaimed, “Ooh, a fish bone in the trachea. I’ve always wanted to do one of those! Wait here while I get my instrument.”
“Are you a doctor?” I yelled, as he dashed down the hall. “Don’t worry,” he shouted. “I’m an intern.” I watched the color drain from Dick’s face, so I told him to put his head between his knees. The fledgling doctor returned carrying a long, thin instrument that suspiciously resembled an expensive fishing pole. As he got closer and closer to his prey, W.S. clamped his hand over his mouth, gulped a couple of times, jumped off of the examining table and said, “All better. Let’s get out of here!”
Leaving a very disappointed doctor, holding a pole, we returned to the restaurant for dessert. It took awhile to convince the maitre d that we had a reservation, which had been interrupted by a bone from the deboned fish, but twenty dollars later, he finally relented and gave us a table by the kitchen. To celebrate W.S.’s recovery, we ordered a decadent flambé and a bottle of champagne.
“Here’s to the doctor with the magic fishing pole,” said Dick. Lifting my glass and smiling at W.S., I said, “I’d rather offer a toast to the one that got away.”
Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006