"I never meant to end up like this," she said. The pale green clothing hid her features, and her reek kept me a table's length away. When I walked in, the odor had hoisted me upside-down like a pig that was ready to butcher.

Her presence wound its way into my face: she never gave me a chance to ignore her. "You know," she said — as though I'd asked — "I used to live up on the hill with my sisters Broccoli and Asparagus, the bitches. They always get everything: heirloom silver, fancy china, engraved napkin rings, you name it. They go to all the best places," she continued, "while I get to hang out in this Alsatian inn. Accordion music! What did anyone ever do for me? Threw me as much shit as I could take. See this dress? Only one I ever had that was new: now just look at it." And her dress was awfully shredded and tattered and washed-out, although it looked like it had once been a rich pale green color.

I dined on a big plate of choucroute and tried to ignore her, but her words wrapped themselves around my fork. I took a big swallow of Kronenbourg and looked at her again. She was a salty thing, all right: stringy hair, a sour look, a runny nose, little wens and imperfections that resembled caraway seeds. Still, she had something well-preserved about her.

"And what am I doing in this crock?" she asked, ready to supply her own answer. "Wiping pig grease off platters. Getting chewed on by rude customers. I tell you..." she trailed off.

She didn't tell me everything. Such as how, late into the night, she gave herself cheaply on these rough tables to any boor who had a fork and knew how to use it. And how, more than once, she had used a douche of brine to kill whatever she was afraid of conceiving. But there was something self-reliant about her, something earthy and unafraid, that I liked in spite of her bitterness and her sharp tongue. So I thought, "Let's dig into this and see what's there." And I knew it was going to be trouble.