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Shea made a call to Fuego, and we all met up at Grumpy’s Bar and Grill, around the corner from my house. It was a regular winner of Phoenix Living’s “Best of Phoenix” awards in the Bar & Grill category.
Grumpy Russell, the owner, was a pudgy Vietnam vet with silver mutton chop sideburns and an ever-present unlit cigar stub dangling from his lips.
He wasn’t a fan of finicky customers. All those half-caf, no-foam, fat-free latte-type requests would elicit a string of vulgarity from Grumpy that could ignite wildfires. Even ordering dressing on the side was a risky move.
When Fuego, Dragon, Savage, and four other members of the Athena Sisterhood joined Shea, Byrd, and me, I feared Grumpy would have an aneurysm.
“Y’all couldn’ta called ahead o’ time?” Grumpy growled, the cigar stub bou
