THINGS GET HOT AT HOME WITH EUNICE AND STAVROS

Stavros and I had a truly incendiary evening yesterday. It was a beautiful afternoon, and since Stavros’s plans were unexpectedly canceled, we decided to grill. Earlier in the day, I had been to the very expensive Plum Market where I purchased a pound of hot Italian chicken sausage and some corn on the cob, and Stavros loves hot dogs, so I figured I’d make a side of pasta and we’d have a genuine smorgasbord. (“Smorgasbord” is French for “full stomach.”)

We had a preprandial cocktail on the patio and tossed out a box of Carr’s Water Crackers to the squirrels, who had to then run around and dig up chunks of buried brie—a chore but worth it—and chatted about our respective days at work. Stavros is a busy manager for a highly-regarded showbiz firm, and I provide online content for some of America’s leading retailers of GDP-type items. Stavros, all in black, did not even glisten in the early-evening sun as he described his day. I remarked that we would likely soon run out of propane, and with that gripping observation, I turned on the grill and we went into the house to prepare the meat and corn.

I unwrapped the sausage while Stavros took his hot dogs from the freezer and lay them on a plate. I had high hopes for these sausages. Not only did I expect them to be good, I demanded it. My trip to Plum Market had put me in a rotten mood because it wound up being horrifically expensive and so far, not worth it. I originally meant to get lunch—I woke up wanting salad from a salad bar. Perhaps unwise in the season of Swine Flu, but that’s what I wanted and I had had a vague memory of Plum Market having a superior salad bar. So at lunch I drove down to ritzytown and was seduced into buying a few additional things by the subliminal messages in the muzak, among them, these grossly overpriced sausages. The salad bar turned out to be about one thin hair (I was going to say “pussy” instead of thin) better than the one in my cafeteria at work, and the potato chips were revolting—I think they had sugar on them—and cost $1.79, I realized once back at work. So I felt consummately gypped by the entire experience and pinned my salvation on these hot Italian chicken sausages. If they were good, the trip and expense would have been worth it. Capice?

I put the corn and the sausage on the grill and came back inside to make the pasta. Stavros assisted by way of attempting to make out with me constantly. As I filled the coffee pot and set the timer for this morning, I glanced out the kitchen window at the grill, from which huge, poisonous-looking clouds of black smoke were suddenly billowing.

“STAVROS!” I cried, placing the coffee pot on the sideboard. “Look at the grill!”

We raced outside and I yelled, “What do I do?”

“Put the fire out!” yelled back Stavros.

“With the hose?” I asked, in keeping with my new habit of asking the dumbest possible questions.

Without waiting for an answer, I sprang like one of Charlie’s Angels and grabbed the hose, conveniently located apprx. six inches from the smoldering grill, and squatted in front of it, aiming the water into the drip pan, which was fully ablaze from a year’s worth of collected olive oil and assorted lard. I held down the trigger of the spray nozzle and crouched in front of the grill like Jacklyn Smith taking down a rogue pimp and finally the fire died down. I dropped the hose and reached under the grill to turn off the flow of propane from the tank while Stavros extended a delicate hand to turn off the ignition knob.

“Holy shit,” said I.

Stavros opened the grill. The hot Italian chicken sausages had been reduced to anthracite. The corn was still vaguely cornlike, but with a greasy, gray sheen and speckles of soot. Smoke rose in foul breaths and blackened the cobwebs and soffit vents under my eave.

I gotta say, I took this pretty hard. I almost never ruin dinner. Especially by way of a giant fire. Stavros was kind enough to remove the drip pan, which had finally been extinguished, and I dropped the charred remains of the sausage and corn into the garbage. Luckily, Stavros had grilled and removed his hot dogs prior to the fire, so all was not totally lost. Plus we still had the pasta. So I had some pasta, and Stavros had his hot dogs and pasta, and we decided to go for a walk and get an ice cream to make up for the tragic loss of 800 calories.

We live very near each other, Stavros and I, and thus we patronize the same party store. (For those of you not in the Detroit area, “party store” means “liquor store.” Not “balloons and streamers”; booze, etc.) I should also point out that I have lived in the neighborhood for about three times as long as Stavros, which is why what happened next was amusing.

We walked into the party store. I noticed that this evening’s clerks were the two older men, not the twenty-something sons of the proprietor. I approached the ice cream vault and heard, “Hi, Stavros.” I turned around in time to see Stavros raise his hand in a wave and reply, “Hey, Pete.”

Hey, Stavros? Hey, Pete? What’s going on here? Are these two pals on Facebook now or something? Stavros looked quite proud of himself as we wrapped up our purchase, and the minute we were outside I demanded, “How does he know your name!”

“I go there every day,” he said. “He sees my credit card. He started saying, ‘Thanks, Stavros,’ so I asked him his name.”

I didn’t quite buy this and I watched him with suspicion as I ate my Good Humor strawberry shortcake bar.

By the time we got home, there was no lingering smell of grease fire and the evening had somewhat redeemed itself by virtue of the ice cream and the discovery of a 1992 Ford High School yearbook lying the road.

I will not, however, be returning to Plum Market.