Blake raised his glass, took a long sip, and savored it as he drowned himself in misery.

At first he had just denied the extent of the injury. As the reality set in, he focused his anger squarely on the running back that failed to pick up the block on the safety that put an end to his shot at the NFL. Then the blame shifted to the safety, who later became a first-round draft pick and claimed his fortune with the Baltimore Ravens. Then the doctors and therapists were to blame. Surely it was someone’s fault. Somebody had to be accountable for costing Blake the only future he had planned on.

“I tell you, the Dawgs could sure use someone like Blake Savage these days,” the announcer said. “But, I believe Blake is now residing in the ‘where are they now’ category”. Blake turned his attention back to the screen. He raised his hand at the waitress.

“Hey, do you mind changing the channel?” Blake asked the bartender.

“To what?” she asked with a flirtatious smile.

“Anything,” Blake responded. “News, whatever. Not sports.”

“Not a sports fan, huh? Sure thing. Let’s try CNN.”

His face remained staunch, unchanged, but his mind relaxed and the drink instantly began working its magic. Why the hell do they say alcohol is a depressant? Damn it feels so good, Blake thought to himself. He didn’t understand such notions too well, never was interested in learning about it in school or in life. Learning wasn’t his thing. Getting to the NFL was...had been. Now, he wasn’t sure what his thing was. He just stared at a crossroad every day doing what he did the day before, all the while digging himself a little deeper into a depression.

He took another sip of the martini and peered at CNN. Most of the time, he wouldn’t have been able to hear it with all the bar chatter, but before 5:00 p.m. on a Saturday game day when most people were in sports bars, it was quiet enough, as Blake was fond of saying, “to hear a mouse pissing on cotton.” Normally Blake couldn’t care less about the news, other than ESPN, but the headline caught Blake’s attention.

The graphic below a talking head read, “Secret Supper Clubs All The Rage,” and Blake tuned in. A reporter said underground dinner clubs were the hottest ticket in major cities across the country. As she spoke, video footage played of private residences where hot and trendy chefs served up unlicensed five-star dinners complete with wine pairings. She said sometimes the dinners were held in warehouses, on farms and anywhere in between. It was all secret until it was announced a day or two before the event. There was no menu and no charge, according to the report. Had the chefs charged for the meal then it would be classified as a restaurant and would require a license, health permit, the works. Instead, the chefs suggested “donations” as well as an amount, usually one hundred dollars a person or more. No one ever dared to refuse the suggested donation.

“Can you believe that?” one man at the bar said to another, after both had turned their attention to the news.

The segment broke to a live interview with a retired, married couple, Kevin and Monica Colbert, of Sutton, Massachusetts from CNN’s Boston studio. They looked like the “after” picture shots for a Charles Schwab commercial. Fit, gray, dressed sharply and now enjoying their success, just like the fairy tale ending promised to those who invest and save.

“We go anytime we can get in,” Monica responded to the CNN reporter when asked if they attended the “secret” clubs. “Of course it’s hard to get in. We never know where it’s going to be until an email invite shows up giving the time that reservations can be made, but there’s only room for thirty per dinner,” she continued. “Most of time we can’t get in even though we click right when it opens. We even synchronize our clocks with time dot gov just to be sure we’re on time!” she added.

“Heck, we’d pay to be on the short list if there was one,” Kevin blurted before the talking head could ask the next question. Exactly, Blake thought. Don’t worry; Nick will take your money with 50-Forks if you want in.

The second man at the bar responded to the other man’s question. “I not only believe it, I’ve been to one of those secret dinners! Right here in Athens, a secret dining club...well, it isn’t really a secret. I mean they have a website and all, but you know, there’s no schedule and you just get an email the week of the event, sign up on a Friday and if you get in the dinner’s the next night inside someone’s home,” he said. “Four course dinner and everything! But that’s IF you get in.”

The CNN segment switched from the Colberts back to the talking head where the caption now read “Food Safety Questions.”

“Joining us now from The Southern Nevada Health District is inspector Tom Masterson,” the reporter said, “and from the Food Safety Inspection Service in Atlanta, Senior Compliance Investigator Clint Justice.” An image of the guests appeared on each side of the talking head as the screen split into three sections. In a live interview, the reporter asked Mr. Masterson if these impromptu dinners were safe.

“Well, we just don’t know. If it’s a private event for friends and family there’s no requirement to regulate, but the minute strangers attend or are invited we believe they should be regulated. But they’re not, and if they’re not regulated then we don’t know where they get the food, or whether it’s properly labeled, stored, inspected, or handled.”

“Who is responsible for regulating these dinners?” the talking head demanded.

The health inspector repositioned himself in his seat and went on a rampage about local health departments, the USDA and the FDA, but the talking head summed it up best.

“So, no one inspects these dinners?” she asked the inspector directly.

“No, not exactly,” he confessed.

“What about that, Clint,” the reporter began, “does the USDA or FSIS inspect these dinners?”

“Well, that’s not part of the USDA’s jurisdiction. That’s really a local health department issue. The Food Safety Inspection Service, or FSIS, ensures the safety of meat, poultry, and egg products. Our aim is to monitor inspections and require that all food items pass inspection with the resources we have.”

“Resources you have?” the reporter asked.

Clint stared at the camera and said nothing.

“Can you elaborate on that, Clint?”

Clint shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Silos. That’s what Clint called them, silos. Every entity to itself, no one working together. But he had been coached on what to say and what NOT to say so he measured his response.

“Well,” Clint began, “it’s just that we have our job at FSIS, which is ensuring meat is inspected at the federal level. Of course, each state can also oversee inspection for meats that don’t cross state lines. But FSIS doesn’t deal with the restaurants or supper clubs. The local health departments oversee that.”

“What about the FDA?” the talking head asked.

“The FDA deals with product labeling, fruit and vegetables. They don’t actually inspect dairy farms, the states do that. But, then again, the FDA must verify that they comply with regulations...does that make sense?” Clint stopped talking and held his best smile, which on camera looked like a perfectly straight line across his lips. Different people, different standards, different agencies, different objectives, no communication. Silos, Clint thought to himself as his face began to redden.

The producers switched to a split screen with the talking head on one side and the Colberts on the other. Monica was smiling at the camera as if she had been coached or had made a point to Kevin that we must be sure to smile all the time because we won’t know when the camera is on.

“Mrs. Colbert,” the reporter asked. “What do you think about the fact that neither the food nor the dining establishment is regulated and hasn’t been inspected?”