Chapter 31: A Call from Hemingway (Please Add It to Your Library! Please Keep Reading!)

"Mr. Reese, please wait outside the restaurant for a few minutes. Very shortly, an important person will call the Corridor Restaurant where you are located. When that happens, you will be able to enjoy this dinner without any trouble."

With that, Weeks hung up the phone with an air of mystery.

...Edward Weeks was truly a veteran editor-in-chief of *The Atlantic Monthly*, well-versed in the art of writing. What was the difference between cutting off a conversation like that and a writer who leaves readers hanging on a cliffhanger? Ernie muttered to himself, waiting on the spot, brimming with curiosity.

A few minutes later, the payphone in the Corridor Restaurant rang. Ernie snatched up the receiver without delay.

There were no pleasantries or polite exchanges. The person on the other end possessed the brisk, decisive manner of a soldier, and said in a raspy voice:

"Listen up, it's me, Hemingway. Weeks tells me you need a place to eat? I've handled it for you. Just tell them it's booked under Hemingway, and they'll give you a good table."

Listening to that raspy, rugged voice, with the faint sounds of a typewriter and clinking glasses in the background, Ernie was momentarily stunned. He was quite excited and was just about to say something to express his admiration, but Hemingway cut him off, speaking rapidly:

"Don't say so much. If you're a good enough writer, we'll meet sooner or later. Besides, they have the best Beef Wellington, or if you want fish, I've already ordered the Dover sole. The meat must be rare, otherwise, it's a waste. Pair it with a Bordeaux. Tell them to open a bottle from Château Mouton Rothschild, '29 or '30—a good vintage. The war has started, and every bottle of fine wine is one less in the world. Don't worry about the money; it's on me."

Clearly, as a wealthy writer and war correspondent, Hemingway was quite confident in his taste for food and drink. He was a man of action who didn't give Ernie any options, simply ordering the entire dinner for him. Moreover, as a war correspondent who had been to the front lines, Hemingway was clearly not optimistic about the current state of the war, his words carrying an attitude of seizing the day.

"Thank you, sir..." Ernie started, but changed his tone mid-sentence; from the brief exchange, he gathered that Hemingway likely disliked formal etiquette. "I will enjoy it thoroughly."

"That's better," Hemingway seemed busy with something; one could hear the sound of him smoking. "Alright, I have to go; I'm writing. Also, if you see those pretentious fools in tuxedos lecturing you on how to eat politely, ignore them. Hypocritical manners are for fools to follow. Enjoy your food—that's what's real. That's all."

*Click.*

Before the words had even finished echoing, the line went dead. The conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Ernie held the receiver, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu... It was too much like his past life, when he was broke and homeless, going on blind dates where the woman would talk incessantly. The only difference was that the blind date would try to boss him around without having any real capability, whereas Hemingway was actually getting things done for him!

"Mom, Missy, guess who just called?"

Mary and Missy: "?"

Ernie: "Hemingway!"

Hearing that household name, known to everyone in America, Mary and Missy were both astonished, feeling as if it were all a dream. Their meal... booked by Hemingway? Good heavens, it was unbelievable.

Ernie calmed his inner excitement, also feeling a sense of unreality. Come to think of it, at this point in time, shouldn't Hemingway be in Havana, Cuba, writing *For Whom the Bell Tolls*?

"Sir, sorry to keep you waiting!"

"Your table and dishes are all prepared. Please, follow me!"

Just as Ernie was lost in thought, the restaurant manager, dressed in a suit, trotted out with a smile. He respectfully ushered Ernie's family into the restaurant, leading them to a private booth partitioned by a screen, situated by a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the street view.

Although Ernie had always been indifferent to "power," he had to admit that having influence was truly enjoyable.

Once seated, exquisite dishes were promptly served by the waiters. Beyond the Beef Wellington, Dover sole, and the bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild, there were many classic Corridor Restaurant specialties: chicken toast, creamed diced chicken on waffles, Waldorf salad, strawberry shortcake...

Missy's favorite was the Waldorf salad. This famous dish, which originated at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York, was made with diced apples, celery, walnuts, and mayonnaise—clearly the kind of sweet dish women favored.

After the meal, although Hemingway had already settled the bill, Ernie still asked for the check, wanting to know how much the meal had cost. He was shocked to see it came to a full 180 dollars! The most expensive item was the bottle of '30 Château Mouton Rothschild, which cost 149 dollars alone—enough to buy a cheap automatic washing machine.

While Mary felt the pinch, she sighed, "I never imagined the lives of the rich could be like this. Tonight, we finally got a taste of it."

Missy looked on with anticipation: "Ernie, if you keep up the quality and write ten thousand words a day, even if you don't surpass Hemingway, you could at least let me eat at fancy restaurants every day."

Ten thousand words a day? Even a mule at a labor farm wouldn't dare do that!

While the family was happy, they didn't forget George. Ernie paid to have steak and dessert packed up, along with the half-bottle of Bordeaux left over, planning to bring them home for George to eat after work.

On the bus ride back, through the window, Ernie saw long lines of people waiting outside bookstores to buy the latest issue of *Amazing Stories*. On the bus, people were discussing his work, *The Morning of the World*. It sounded like... because of him, *Amazing Stories* had become a scarce and sought-after commodity. Even many who usually scoffed at science fiction had been drawn in and stunned by *The Morning of the World*.

When the three of them returned home, they hadn't even opened the door when George, who had just returned from work, opened it impatiently upon hearing their footsteps. "Why is there an extra washing machine in the house?"

"Oh! It’s already installed?"

*Thump, thump, thump.* Mary ran into the house, eager to admire her washing machine. After buying it at Macy's during the day, she had told the delivery workers to have the landlord open the apartment door and install it.

Now, that "Whirlpool" washing machine sat quietly by the kitchen sink, its galvanized metal casing gleaming under the lights. Without a doubt, this precious automatic washing machine would firmly secure a place in the top three of their household hierarchy.

"Ernie, did you buy all this?" George asked, suddenly realizing, and looked at Ernie.

Ernie nodded and handed George the paper bag containing the watch. "Wear this Rolex instead."

"A Rolex?" George was surprised, his eyes widening. His son was truly far more capable than he ever was!

George quickly began fiddling with his new watch, not even bothering to eat the steak that had been brought home.

Just then, a neighbor downstairs called up, asking Ernie to come down to take a call. The neighbor told the descending Ernie, "This person has called several times looking for you, saying he is... the editor-in-chief of *Strange Stories*?"

"Oh, it's Mr. Campbell!" Ernie realized and went to pick up the receiver.

Once connected, John Campbell didn't waste any time. His tone was full of joy as he got straight to the point: "Thanks to you, *Amazing Stories* is sold out!"