Foster sighed bitterly and stared out the windshield. It looked like he was in for a walk. In the teeth of November high in the Cascade Mountains, even. What a god damn fix I'm in now, he thought.The night was perfectly clear, with not much of a wind, and as a result the temperature had dropped from the mid sixties in Spokane all the way down to the upper thirties in the mountains. Snow capped peaks loomed in the distance, and alpine forests thrust their denuded branches into the sky nearby. It was beautiful scenery, but Foster would have much preferred to be enjoying it from behind the windows of his car, with his jazz CD's playing on the stereo and a warm heater blowing air gently around his legs.He wasn't even dressed for the weather. He was wearing a t-shirt that said I gave up sex and drinking and it was the hardest 20 minutes of my life, and jeans. No jacket. He wasn't expecting to have to walk, for chrissake."Well, if I'm gonna, I better get," he said to himself, and got out. When the waiter came in, the fellow gave him trout for everyone. Rog and Mike protested, but the men knew they would be fishing again tomorrow and there was no point in trying to keep the fish for a week when they planned to head home.The cook knew fresh fish. He breaded them in panko and fried them perfectly in butter. There are a couple things that the taste can't be duplicated. The taste of fresh corn taken right off the stalk still warm from the afternoon sun, steamed, and eaten with salt and butter is one. Another is trout, still cold when it hits the fry pan and served with lemon and tarter sauce. The girls were in for a taste treat.Mike and Roger were salivating since they knew what fresh trout was about. The girls were hesitant, thinking all fish had a 'fishy' taste. Little did they know that the fishy taste was old fish improperly handled. Fresh fish didn't taste fishy. Once they learned the secret of getting the flesh off the bones, they were hooked. A little lemon and.
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