The Visitor by Brent Ayscough

what my company does.”
    “I felt it was not my place to inquire. I thought that if you wanted to tell me, you would do so.”
    “My father built the largest chicken franchise business in the world. Now the majority of it is held in trust for me.”
    “Wow! It must sell a lot of chickens.”

    ***

    “There’s Roger.”
    Upon their return from London, Andrew waived excitedly at the comforting sight of his driver. Shanta came to the doorway of the Gulfstream. Andrew pointed to a white, stretch Lincoln limousine that had just stopped on the tarmac. Andrew led Shanta down the steps of the plane at the New Orleans airport.
    “So nice to see you, sir, and you, Madam Laxshimi,” Roger said. “I only received your change of destination to New Orleans yesterday, and I had to rush here to put things in order.”
    The limousine pulled up to the circular drive of the New Orleans Windsor Court Hotel. Andrew, familiar with the hotel, went right to the reception area, which consisted of several large, luxurious, private desks with comfortable chairs across from an individual host. A man behind one desk recognized him and stood.
    “It’s always a pleasure to see you again, Master Saunders.”
    “Thank you. It’s nice to be here again. This is my guest, Shanta Laxshimi.”
    “It is indeed a great pleasure to be introduced to such a charming lady,”
    With an enormous smile at being treated so royally, Shanta said, “Why, thank you.” She sat next to Andrew in the overstuffed, green leather seat beside his.
    “I heard that Mr. Eschmann is staying here full time now,” Andrew said. “I hope he’s in.”
    “He may be in his room. Shall I call on him to announce your arrival?”
    “No, not like that. That would be rude. Why don’t you give us rooms, and send him a written note that we’re here, and to call on me at his convenience if he would be so kind?”
    “Would you like a high room facing on the river side, as usual?” The receptionist remembered and kept on record what his wealthy guest preferred.
    “Yes, river view. But make that two adjoining suites please.”

    ***

    “Sautéed French Foie Gras with Aromatic Pearl Couscous Fig Demi-Glace and Cumin Crackers for my appetizer.” That was Mr. Eschmann’s choice. He turned to the lovely Shanta. “What would you like?”
    Mr. Eschmann was treating the couple to the Grill Dining Room in the hotel, a grand place to dine. He was in his own, in a world of the best foods anywhere.
    She was ready to read out from the menu. “Crisp Potato Galette with Smoked Salmon, Vodka and Caviar Crème Fraiche. That sounds soooo good.”
    “Andrew?” Mr. Eschmann turned to him.
    Looking to the waiter for help, as many of the menu selections were foreign to him, Andrew asked, “Is there a special tonight that you recommend?”
    “Sir, you might enjoy the Char,” the waiter said.
    No one explaining what Char is, Andrew felt dumb. “Isn’t Char what we do to new oak barrels before we put in bourbon for aging?” One thing he knew well was the making of Kentucky bourbon, common knowledge of those who grew up where he did, not to mention the fact that his trust owned one of the major distilleries and he had visited it often in the years prior. No one came to his aid. “In fact, our barrels are so much in demand that after we use them once, the discards are sold to Scotland for aging Scotch, which they use for aging for 12 or more years and then call it single malt, as though that was something special,” he said. “The used barrels are also sent to Jamaica for aging rum and also to Louisiana for aging Tabasco.”
    Eschmann finally came to his rescue. “ Char is fish but I’m not sure where it is caught.” He looked to the waiter for an answer.
    The waiter promptly complied. “That’s a fish similar to trout, normally found in the mountainous districts of Wales but, in this case, Alaska. It’s called Arctic Char, and I recommend it, as it’s splendid.”
    Andrew relaxed.