Rickie’s had one of the best menus in town courtesy of her chef, Monica Meyer, a temperamental young woman who once worked for Wolfgang Puck. I liked to tease her because, well, she was so teaseable. If Monica had been there, I probably would have said something about going to Taco Bell to get some real food, but she wasn’t, so I said, “This is fantastic.”“I’ll tell Monica you said so.”“If you do, I’ll only deny it.”“What is it with you and Monica, anyway?”“She’s incredibly good at what she does.”“So you harass her?”“Yep.”“Huh?”“One of the things that I admire most is competence,” I said. “I don’t care what you do as long as you do it well—you could be an accountant, a janitor, a cook, the guy who sharpens my hockey skates, if you’re really good at what you do, you get my admiration and respect.”“You tease Monica because you admire and respect her?”“You’ll notice I never pick on people I don’t like.”“McKenzie, if you were a woman you’d be a blonde.”“Are you teasing me, Nina?”“Never.”“I wonder if I should take a sandwich out to the guy who’s following me.”Nina stopped chewing her salad and stared at me from across the booth.“Someone is following you?”
