We were going to Angeline’s Louisiana Kitchen for dinner.

Kristina had asked, “Where should we go to celebrate Mother’s birthday in her memory? How about Angeline’s, because we went there on the Eclipse Trip when you couldn’t come, and she loved it.”

Southern Cajun food. I said, “Yes, she told me all about it, raved about the place and the food,” so we agreed and made reservations.

I always enjoy the drive through Berkeley, because it never gets old no matter how often or where we’re going.

We had my handicapped placard but didn’t need it because there was a parking space right in front, and we went in.

The hostess checked our reservation and led us to our table by the brick wall and Kristina had me sit where I could look through the rest of the restaurant and the window past the outdoor seating which would be full when the weather was more decisive, and I could look right across the street if I wanted, and we looked at the menu and decided quickly because we already knew.

Kristina ordered beer from Louisiana, Chaz ordered iced tea, and I had a “swamp water” (a Cajun Arnold Palmer), half iced tea, half lemonade. A tall glass, perfectly balanced, each half strongly flavored with the blended integrity you just never seem to find where other places just give you a watered-down token version.

It was, I’m sure of it, the best Arnold Palmer I’ve ever had.

I told the waiter this was for us a celebration in memory of my wife, he said, “I’m so sorry,” and I said, “She loved this place and raved about the food and told me all about it, and I verify that every time I come here,” and he was honestly pleased and thanked me for telling my story, and we ordered.

I whispered to Kristina and Chaz, “Was I too obvious?” and they said, “Yes.”

Kristina had the catfish, lightly battered and fried, arranged over something underneath, with a side of potato salad in a cup.

I added to the conversation by talking about the catfish episode in the wonderful book I just finished, James by Percival Everett, everybody should read it. It’s a surprising takeoff on Mark Twain. The runaway slave, Jim, Huckleberry Finn’s friend and companion down the Mississippi, went to catch a catfish because they were so hungry, and he stood in the mud in the water at the riverside and reached into the hole in the riverbank where the catfish lived with its open mouth and sharp teeth to grab any passing prospect for its dinner, and you stick your arm in, wiggle your fingers to attract its attention and open its mouth wider and you reach your arm through its open mouth down its throat and grab it by the inside and pull it out of the hole and try not to get too bloody from the teeth as you pull your arm back out and grab it by the tail and beat its brains out and cook it over a fire and hang strips up to dry out so you can take them on your journey for the hunger you’ll certainly face, and Kristina’s plate looked tasty delicious and she gave me a bite.

She ate all the fish, and there were still six brown golf balls on her plate. Hushpuppies which she ate one by one. She offered, but I already had more than I could eat, and that’s saying a lot, because I could always eat more than anybody, was famous for it, even legendary, but I’m trying to restrain myself.

Chaz got jambalaya because he’d had it before and really liked it so he already knew, and it came in a big bowl with its own big spoon, and he got a side of mac-n-cheese with bacon on top, because bacon, as we all know, is one of the basic food groups and makes everything better except maybe coffee. The waiter had asked, “Bacon?” and Chaz had said, “Yes.” I hear some people even like it on ice cream, but I haven’t tried it. [Footnote: I’m informed that they do put bacon in coffee in Portland, and it’s verifiably very good.]

Chaz gave me a taste of the jambalaya and I told him he made the right choice, I thought about it, maybe next time.

And then came my ribs. Stacked like a tower on a plate, a cup of red skin potato salad on the side. They could advertise “The best ribs since Adam.”

The ribs emitted a presence, with their dark bourbon sauce, and I started in right way, waiting for nothing and no one.

It’s hard to find really good BBQ ribs, and when you do, you stop looking. The best other places we’ve found may be good, but not this good, not spectacular.

I carry the memory as my standard of measure, in Altadena, Burnett’s Ribs, Texas style. We went there so often we became friends.

Ribs are not a competition like a dog show where you compete for Best-in-Show. There are different categories, and Best-in-Class tells you they’re at the same prime level so you have spaniels competing with spaniels, not poodles. So Texas and Louisiana bourbon, you can eat and like equally separately. The ribs, not the dogs.

I had ten ribs. I put two on the little side plate, one each for Kristina and Chaz as my contribution to sharing.

They said, “No, they’re your ribs, you’re the guest of honor by proxy,” and they only pried off a little smidge to taste, which they pronounced delicious as expected. They had eaten them before. They said, “We’ll get a container to take home left overs, if there are any.”

I had ten ribs in my order. I ate seven – you can count the bones – had one more on my plate and put it with the other two essentially intact, after giving up their sample, into the carry out box, folded the flaps, and slid-locked the top.

Dessert?

The waiter was remarkably attentive, said, “You don’t need your own candle you brought, I’ll take care of it,” and he did. He deserved every penny of his tip. I mentioned my blog and gave him my card.

We all agreed we were already full, hence the leftovers – Chaz got another box for the rest of the mac-n-cheese with bacon and the bit of jambalaya left in the bottom of the bowl.

We’re all good about leftovers and know them intimately. We leave nothing behind, never waste food, and sometimes lick the plate.

But this was a celebration, we had brought a birthday candle with us to light so I could blow it out by proxy, we ordered one bread pudding, whipped cream on the side by request.

Three little plates, three spoons, three napkins, and a bowl with a square of bread pudding covered by and resting in sauce, and on the edge of the bowl on opposite sides, two lighted candles, bottom melted to stick and stand upright, like Shirley and me looking across at each other, we sang “Happy Birthday” quietly, I ended my line as “Happy Birthday, Darling,” blew out the candles, and we dug in.

With my portion on my plate, whipped cream on the side, I took a spoonful, ate half, then turned the spoon around the other way and ate the rest.

Kristina raised her eyebrow quizzically, I said, “Shirley and I would feed each other.”

Kristina said for all of us, “Aww!”