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Page 92
Abby walked inside, wondering about the meaning of calories and cholesterol. Whatever they were, Mike must have dealt with them in a most suitable fashion, for the place looked delightful and smelled heavenlyof spicy meats and warm molasses and good, strong coffee. There were tables all around covered with red-and-white-checked tablecloths. At the front was a counter where young men and women bustled about serving people who carried their food on trays to the tables and ate while sitting on wooden chairs.
Mike took Abby's elbow and led her to the counter. A young girl in a pink shirt and white skirt looked at them expectantly, her fingers poised over a machine similar to some in the clothing shops that tallied purchases. She had blond hair of a pale shade Abby had never seen before pulled back inside a little white cap. She wore enough face paint that Abby thought her father ought to take her home and scrub it off.
Mike asked, "What would you like?"
Before Abby was an expanse of polished metalthe kitchen. A sign describing the menu hung above. There were things like Arlen stews and meat pies and soups. Arlen Danziger had been most helpful to the settlers traveling west, spicing otherwise bland foods cooked hastily over open campfires. Could these really be the same dishes she knew? She decided on a veal stew. She loved the way Arlen had tossed in just a touch of salt pork for flavor.
The girl pushed colored spots on the machine

 
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