Clint tuned his car’s satellite radio to Fox News to keep up on news while he drove to interview an anonymous tipster about a meat processing violation in Gainesville. She had agreed to meet privately with an FSIS investigator and Clint got the call.

“We’ve got a great guest this morning. Nick Vegas, acclaimed chef and restaurateur, is with us from our Atlanta studio. Good morning Nick.”

Clint used the buttons on his steering wheel to increase the volume.

“One of the hottest trends in the restaurant business is the concept of underground supper clubs,” Gretchen began, “or secret dinners. You can find them happening in pretty much every city at this point and the routine is always the same. You sign up for an email list, the chef sends out an email announcing precisely when registrations will begin and diners have only seconds to secure a spot. The day of the event, those who are lucky enough to get a spot receive an email with the address of the secret location, usually a house or a farm.”

None of this was news to Clint. He was well aware of these clubs operating all over the country, popping up in every little town as a way to operate restaurants without calling them restaurants and therefore not needing licenses or inspections. He didn’t like it one bit, but it was out of his jurisdiction. That was the territory of local and state health departments. Silos, he thought.

“But Nick Vegas has introduced a new concept that takes these underground supper clubs to a new level. It’s a membership only club called 50-Forks that combines supper clubs with executive-level networking. Can you tell us about it, Nick?”

Nick had been told moments before that this would be his first question. He knew he had thirty seconds or less to answer and had no idea what the questions would be beyond that. “50-Forks is about relationships,” Nick began. “Each group is open to fifty high-level business executives, and each group focuses on a different area. For example, one group is called 50 Pharma, another is 50 Financial, there’s 50 CEOs, and so on. Membership is by invitation-only and the goal is to encourage private conversations among business leaders, with exquisite dining experiences as the backdrop to facilitate the discussions.”

“So when you say exquisite dining experiences as the backdrop, what do you mean? Are these held at your restaurants?” The question had come from Steve Doocy.

Nick smiled broadly, confidently at the camera. “No. Given our clientele and the objective of these business events they are held in private locations, not in restaurants. They—”

Gretchen interrupted. “Do underground supper clubs hold their events in private residences purposefully so that they can operate without the oversight of the health department or inspectors?” Clint thumbed the volume up a little more. Nick didn’t care for the question. He agreed to the interview to discuss the concept of 50-Forks, not to get trapped in a made-for-TV news drama.

“No, of course not. In our case we operate ten restaurants, all in full compliance with all regulatory bodies. We’re very comfortable operating that way. 50-Forks operates outside of that because it’s a business club, not a restaurant.”

“Nick, my understanding is that members pay $75,000 per year for membership. Just doing quick math on the napkin here, fifty members at $75,000 times ten clubs, that’s closing in on $40 million per year in revenue.” Steve Doocy had brought up numbers that Nick wanted people to hear, but didn’t want to confess. Clint’s eyes grew wide as he heard the number and veered left on I-985 toward Gainesville.

“We don’t publish details about 50-Forks,” Nick began, “but as I said, it’s an exclusive club with fantastic benefits to everyone involved.”

Gretchen took the lead again. “Nick, we know you’re a very successful businessman, but that you’re a chef at heart. Can you tell us about anything special you’ll have...cooked up for your guests?” Both Gretchen and Nick smiled at the pun.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to give away the surprises for our guests, but let’s just say I’ve been preparing one of the dishes for two years now.”

Nick couldn’t see Gretchen and Steve look at each other with puzzled bewilderment on camera. Finally, Gretchen closed by saying, “There you have it, folks. A new twist on the world of underground dining.”

Steve added, “And a new twist on the phrase slow-food! I can’t imagine what the members of 50-Forks will get that took two years to cook up.”

Clint stared ahead at the road that meandered north toward the Georgia mountains and wondered the same thing.

Chapter 13

POP! POP! Thumpa-thumpa-THUMP! Pop! Pop! It wasn’t a smell that woke Ozzie from his nap. It was the rhythmic thumping that came on gradually as Hal’s thumper keg began to heat up, like popcorn starting to pop. Ozzie peeled his eyes open and rolled his head to the right. Hal took a swig from his cup and began dancing to the beat of the thumper keg.

“Hey Ozzie,” Hal said as he caught glimpse of Ozzie’s eyes. “Watch and I’ll teach you how to do the old thump keg waltz.” Hal continued clogging like a man who was hoping to audition for a remake of the movie Deliverance. Ozzie noticed the lumpy shape draped over Hal’s shoulders, but couldn’t make it out in the darkness. “If this world goes to hell in a hand basket all I need is a bit of grain and this here moonshine still, Ozzie, and I can keep us fed.”

Hal took another slug right off the worm of his moonshine still.

“Back in the old days, every village had themselves a preacher, a carpenter, a well-witcher, and a moonshiner. Hell, that’s all you need for a community right there.” Hal said, before adding the obvious. “I’d be the moonshiner. I figure Rex here would be the preacher. Which one would you be Ozzie? The well-witcher?”

Hal walked over and took a seat in the glow of the fire. Ozzie twitched his head and made out the lump on Hal’s shoulders. Hal saw Ozzie’s gaze and looked to his shoulder at Rex’s head. “This here’s Rex,” Hal said, nodding toward the opossum that sat on his left shoulder with its tail draped around Hal’s neck. “Hell, Rex here LOVES the ’shine! Sometimes Bambi comes up and drinks the shine. I done told you Ozzie, this here’s all you need to feed your family. Just ask these critters. They could eat anything in the woods, but they keep on coming back when they hear that thumper keg a’going.”

Ozzie groaned and grimaced but managed to right himself.

“Atta boy, Ozzie!” Hal said with wild enthusiasm. “Let’s drink to that!”

Hal gave Rex a few slurps of shine and then took a swig for himself from the same cup. He stood up, a little too quickly as it seemed to Ozzie that he had lost his balance, and then made his way over and plopped down next to Ozzie. Rex crawled behind Hal’s neck, as he was unsure of Ozzie’s character. Hal put the cup to Ozzie’s lips. He took a small sip and was able to really taste it for the first time. Hal started to remove the cup to check Ozzie’s bandages, but Ozzie wanted more.

“All righty then,” Hal said. “Let’s set you up, boy! Barkeep,” Hal called to himself as he walked to refill the cup. He gave the full cup to Ozzie who, partly out of hunger, partly out of thirst, but mainly out of the need for remedy, slugged every last drop. Hal burst out laughing. Ozzie appeared a little dazed, as if he was either unsure what he had done or not sure what happened to the moonshine. He just stared into the empty cup.

“Hell, Rex, that boy can drink!”

“Looks like you’re getting ’round better every day there Oz. Hell, it’s only been...well let’s see, don’t much have a calendar ’round here. I’d say about five or six weeks from your death bed to you scampering around camp during the day. Yep, moonshine, moss, and rest, that’s the recipe.” Hal leaned over and poured Ozzie a little more ’shine, which Ozzie slurped with enthusiasm. “C’mon boys, let’s have ourselves a party!” Hal said as he picked up his guitar and started picking. “We need us some women folk, though. It’s a sausagefest around here—uh, no offense there, Ozzie,” Hal said.