It was posh, it was uptown. It was an eatery that catered to the well-to-do. Besh felt they deserved the best the King’s seal could afford. Beasley looked at home as he seated himself. Raul seemed excited to be among so many well-dressed citizens of higher rank. Sam just wanted food.

As Besh seated himself at their corner table, a young maitre d’ in a tight tux ran over and said in a worried tenor voice, “Sirs, You must not. This corner has been spoken for.”

Sam took the young man by the collar and lifted him from the floor. Besh could see the fear in the young man’s face as Sam pulled it close to his own. The large dim room fell silent as all eyes turned to the big man with a missing sleeve.

Sam’s baritone voice spoke with no reserve. “Food. Now,” he said glowering.

As he dropped the man, Besh stood and had the fearful maitre d’ scan the royal seal. Instantly, his face changed. He returned the seal, bowed his head curtly, snapped his heels, and said, “Right away, sir.”

“Wow,” said Raul. “I need one of those.”

A nervous waiter came to set the table. Empty white cups were removed and replaced with small crystal goblets. Iced water was served and the proper napkin and silver were set precisely around large white plates.

Beasley said, grinning, “For a humble secretary, this is a step up.”

Raul cheered, “Fine dining at its best.”

The waiter finished and said politely, “Our Master Chef prepares the very best for honored guests. Please be patient.”

Besh spoke into the absence of the waiter. “After what we’ve been through, we deserve something nice.”

The table fell silent, the only noise the drumming of the Captain’s fingers. Beasley sat at his Royal Secretarial straightest and waited happily. Raul looked around, sipped water, and fussed with his white cloth napkin. Besh noted the surreptitious glances given by customers from their booths and tables. He could well imagine what their whispers entailed.

An older man in uniform rolled a shiny cart to the corner table and rolled back the dome. He placed a small plate in the center of the large plate before Besh. There was meat in the center and vegetables placed artistically.

“Lamb Salad with Fregola,” said the dour-looking server in a nasal voice.

“Thank you,” said Besh with a genuine smile.

The server put an oblong plate before Raul, and said, “Smoked pork jowl with pickles.”

Raul rubbed his hands vigorously and said to Besh, grinning, “Chicharrones.”

The server then served Beasley, naming the dish, “Pappardelle with sea urchin and cauliflower.” Beasley clapped his hands and pulled it close to inhale the aroma.

Finally, the server set a plate before the Captain. “Scallop Sashimi with Meyer Lemon Confit,” pronounced the server.

“No,” said the Captain in a menacing tone. He pushed the small plate away and said, with narrowing eyes, “You better put some food on my damn plate.”

“But . . . Sir,” stammered the server.

Sam stood and turned the cart to him, rifling in its depths. Disgruntled, he shoved the shiny cart from him and stormed toward the kitchen, the server trailing in confused consternation. As Raul giggled, Besh could hear noises that kitchens rarely produced. There were loud clangs and calls of alarm, then fearful silence. Sam returned to his seat with a large plate filled with meats, beans, potatoes, and greens. He shook a fork from his napkin and began to eat without further ado. Raul crossed himself in Catholic fashion, and, with a wink for Besh and a nudge for Beasley, he happily plied his smiling face with smoked pork.