13That night, Zelta cooked me a hot meal — Chicago comfort food, corned beef and cabbage. With a few boiled potatoes thrown in the pot for good measure, it was a cold-climate meal to be burped and savored all the way till morning. (I suspected she had the recipe from one of our Irish neighbors, which in that part of town could be almost anybody.)
Apparently I did not wolf the meal down as greedily as she had hoped. “In the Mood” was playing softly on the radio, and in other circumstances, a satisfying dinner and an early night under the sheets would have been just the thing.
I recounted for her the scene in Milt’s office. Or most of it.
“That’s it? That’s all you said?”
Actually I thought I’d said quite a lot. I mean, for me.
“Where did you get this recipe? It’s—”
“Cut the crap” was
