November 2001. Antoine’s in New Orleans.
He arrived fashionably late, and, really,
we weren’t expecting him, but when the door
opened, there he was. He may not remember,
but I do, though I couldn’t tell you what
he ordered, and don’t recall one word
he spoke that night. I do know I didn’t order
the fifteen-hundred-dollar bottle of wine,
and the bill for seven really wasn’t that bad,
given it was Antoine’s in New Orleans.
It would have been nice if he’d have joined us,
but maybe he was a bit shy—not that one would
expect that of Nicolas Cage. Of course, we didn’t
get a chance to invite him to sit down before he disappeared
into some other, farther room. Still, we ate under
the same roof. That was dinner with Nicolas Cage.
This article appears in February 2014.
