This is the text story behind the "What's Cookin" series of photographic submissions.

What's Cookin' was a frequent haunt of mine until I turned thirty, that magical age at which I suddenly decided I needed to grow up. During the seven years I spent "growing up", though, What's Cookin' decided to take seven hours to burn down.

Like the now-infamous Galveston County gambling dens of the 1920s-1950s, Cookin' was an obscure place you wouldn't know was there unless someone told you it was there. And you weren't likely to be told unless your proverbial cloth had a certain cut. It was the original Kemah boat-crowd; old salts and coast bums who often bordered on eccentric, people who desired a place to eat and drink where you had to wear shoes but didn't have to carry a yacht club card. Any one of the regulars would have suffocated had they breathed anything but salt air.

Looking back, I fondly recall my friends: Christine the owner, with whom I downed dozens of Jagermeister shots to shouts of "ziggy zaggy, ziggy zaggy, oy oy oy, motorcycle, motorcycle, vroom vroom vroom." Christine never charged me for a single shot provided I was shouting that tuneless drinking anthem along with her. Then she'd tell me I was too skinny and needed to eat more bratwurst and spaetzle in the dining room. I'd respond by going behind the bar and retrieving another bottle of brew from the walk-in cooler. There was never any question that my tab would reflect every last self-served beer; Christine knew I knew better than to insult her hospitality by abusing my privilege.

There was also Grace, one of the two bartenders, who would have nothing to do with my carte blanche privilege. She made it known, in the way only a bartender can, that if Christine wasn't there I'd better keep my ass out of that cooler. You didn't mess with Grace if you were smart, so I complied. Grace later died from something I now don't remember, but I remember she was 38. It was a subdued night, that night we all found out.

Then there was Bruce, the regular Thursday night bartender, who became my bud. Bruce had no problem with me in the cooler, encouraged it in fact, considering it meant fewer beers he'd have to retrieve. I came factory-equipped with arm candy back then, on whom Bruce was typically sweet. He'd take every opportunity to ogle and schmooze her while I was in the cooler. I loved him in spite of it, and in spite of the fact he wouldn't sell me Monique (or at least let me sneak out the door with her). "Monique" was a photograph, a photo with a story behind it, a story that will come a little later.

Of all the regulars with whom I traded lies, I remember only one by name: Larry: Larry "Denver", in fact, so nicknamed because he reminded my girl of John Denver. Like Bruce, Larry was sweet on her, but neither ever sang her a rendition of John Denver's "Annie's Song". She was too busy filling up my senses back then.

I miss Larry a lot. As I do Christine, Grace, Bruce and Monique. With the exceptions of Grace and Monique, to my knowledge they're all still kicking somewhere because no one was injured in the blaze. Speaking of Monique, however, I'd better get on to that part of the story...

The photograph on the back wall of the dining room was "Monique with Her Clothes On"; at least that's what we used to call it, with the vocal stress on "on" because there also existed another photograph of Monique, one with her clothes off.

"Monique with Her Clothes Off" was a black and white figure study that had hung in the men's head since What's Cookin' had first opened for business. She was sultry with lots of directed, high-key lighting, but also with plenty of shadows (to leave something to the imagination). And of course I wanted her on my wall. My first offer was a hundred bucks. Bruce said no way, Christine will have my ass. Up my offers went over time, to somewhere in the range of five-hundred dollars. One night when I'd had a few too many and reconvened the unsolicited bidding war, Bruce shot back that Christine would let her go for a grand. I rolled up the next week with ten Franklins in my hand. Bruce just shook his head because I'd called his bluff.

Like I say, I'm pretty sure nude-Monique burned up in the fire. The substitutions I have hanging on my walls are very nice, but there will only ever be one "Monique with Her Clothes Off". Come to think of it, there will only ever be one What's Cookin'. Christine hasn't rebuilt. Even if she did, it just wouldn't be the same.