Page 10 of The Grumpy Side of Paradise

Because of course. What else would a restaurant in Paradise be called? It’s perfect!

The name is corny enough, I have to love it. My instantaneous affection is only confirmed when I open the door, and I’m hit with the sound of guitar and drums mixed with the aroma of flame-broiled meat. There’s nothing better than a dive that serves up amazing food and music. Second to an excellent dive, is expectations getting thrown out the window, like not being able to find good food in a small town and planning to live off of granola bars and PB& J. I’ve got a feeling Paradise has a lot of surprises up her sleeves.

The surprises continue as I walk into the dimly lit room, expecting to be greeted by dirty industrial carpet and sticky vinyl booths. Instead, I’m welcomed by a tall, smiling woman with straight white teeth, and the blondest hair and bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Her nametag says Britta, and everything about her and the functional, yet beautiful, interior design makes me feel like I’ve been transported straight to Denmark.

“Hi there! Just one?” she asks, looking behind me like I might be hiding someone.

“Yep. Just me.” I follow her to a dark wood table with light, modern-looking chairs at either end. There’s not a booth in sight. Even though the lights are low, the room feels bright, with cool walls and minimal décor. I’m taking it all in, getting ideas for Grandma Rose’s, when my eyes land on a makeshift stage at the back of the restaurant.

Mics and speakers are set up in a ten-by-ten square of light-colored wood raised a couple inches higher than the rest of the floor. At the center of it all, a familiar-looking, long-haired and bearded grump plays guitar. A bigger version of the same guy, but with short hair, is on drums. They’re not playing a song, just jamming.

I slide into my seat without taking my eyes off the demo man from a few hours ago. Zach’s brother is cleaned up, and he’s not wearing the all-important hard hat, but it’s him. I can tell by the scowl.

“You passing through? Or visiting?” Britta says over the music, drawing my attention back to her. There are no other servers. In fact, I’m the only customer. Maybe the uninviting exterior of the restaurant scares people away. But her questions are friendly and curious rather than intrusive, and I like her already.

“I’ll be in Paradise for a little while.”

She opens a menu and hands it to me. “This is my favorite.” She points to an open-faced sandwich with pork, plum, and brown butter and pulls an order pad from the pocket of her apron. “What brings you to Paradise this time of year? We don’t get a lot of visitors off season.”

I glance from the menu back to the stage and catch Demo Man watching me. His eyes meet mine, then quickly dart away. I suck in my cheeks to keep from smiling. If I’m not mistaken, his ears turn pink. I hope from embarrassment for being so rude today.

My eyes drop back to the menu. I won’t be able to choose. Everything sounds delicious. “I’m doing some interior design work on a friend’s house.”

I barely have the words out before she squeals, “I knew it! Georgia told us you were coming. I’m Britta Thomsen. Those are my brothers on stage. And you’re Evie!”

“My name is actually Evelyn.” I’ve gone by Evie most of my life until I moved to New York. I don’t mind it, but it seems important not to go by anything close to Eve in a town named Paradise, and especially not in a restaurant called The Garden of Eatin’.

But Britta is already flagging down the guys on stage. “Adam! Bear! Get over here! This is Evie!”

The drummer puts down his sticks and hurries over. The guitar player stops strumming long enough to look up and scowl, then goes back to playing a lower chord.

“Hey, Evie,” the giant sticks out his paw. “I’m Bear.”

Of course you are,I think. But he’s so gentle when he takes my hand, that he should have a Teddy before his name.

That leaves the name Adam for the man who seems more fitted for tearing things down than pulling a gentle melody from a guitar. Adam is a nice name. I was expecting him to be called something like Elon or Vladimir. Maybe Adolf.

“Adam! Put down your guitar and make this girl some dinner!” Bear yells back to my grumpy demo guy the way only a sibling could.

Adam scowls at Bear, then swings the guitar strap over his head and sets the instrument on its stand. “What does she want?”

The words,I’m right here,dart through my head at the same time Britta says, “Ask her yourself,” while tucking her order pad back into her pocket.

“Pardon our older brother,” she says to me.

“Adam’s not real sociable,” Bear adds.

“Yeah, I gathered that when we met this afternoon.” My eyes ping from Adam back to my menu. I consider picking the thing that says it requires an extra twenty minutes to prepare, but they look ready to close for the night, so I don’t. Besides, it’s the pork thing Britta told me about that sounds the most delicious. “I’ll take the…”

That’s when it hits me. I drop my menu and turn my attention back to Adam, who’s passing my table on his way to the kitchen. “Hold up!”

He slows, but my words come out fast, before he can escape the hilarious discovery I’ve just made. And I can’t be the first one to make it, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less funny.

“You live in Paradise, work at a place called The Garden of Eatin’,andyour name is Adam.” I state it as the happy fact it is.

Now he stops and slowly turns toward me. He doesn’t return my smile, which only makes me put more effort into mine. Everything has gone still around us, but I can feel Britta and Bear trying not to laugh.

I suck in my lips to hold back my own laugh. Adam scowls harder. So, so hard. In an ACT analogy, he would be to scowling what The Rock is to flexing. He’s the master.

---