Page 68 of Keller

I leave the engine running and step inside.

Through a curtain of wooden beads is a narrow dining room with four tables and a counter that doubles as a host stand. A woman with silver threaded through her dark hair looks up at me over a pair of reading glasses.

“For pickup?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Name?”

“Keller.”

She turns to a tablet propped beside the register and scrolls once. “Pad Thai, green curry, extra rice. One spring roll. No peanuts on the Pad Thai.” She looks up. “Two of the same. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Sixty-two fifty.”

I hand her my card. While she runs it, she studies me in that unapologetic way older women sometimes do when they don't feel the need to fill the space. I appreciate it.

“You new,” she says matter-of-factly, not a question.

“Yes, first time. You guys come highly recommended.”

She nods like that confirms something. “You order careful.”

“Careful?”

She gestures toward the screen. “No peanuts. Some people forget. Then woman get sick. Then I hear about it.”

I don’t correct her assumption.

“She allergic?” she asks.

“No. She just doesn't like peanuts.”

“Good you remember.” She hands the receipt back to me for a signature. “Men forget small things.”

I sign. “Noted.”

She disappears through the beads and returns with two neatly stapled brown bags. She sets it on the counter but keeps her hand on it a second longer than necessary.

“First time you come in,” she says. “I like to see customer. Don't send driver.”

I nod awkwardly, not exactly sure what to say to that. I do usually send an Uber Eats driver, but no need to burst her bubble.

“I was nearby.”

She tilts her head slightly, unconvinced. “Bring food yourself, better. Show face.”

I take the bag from her. It’s warm through the paper.

“You cook for her next time,” she adds. “Then she know you serious.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She gives a short, satisfied nod, like she’s just issued instruction rather than advice.

“Drive safe,” she says, already turning back to the tablet. “Food good when hot.”