Restaurant Weeks Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  I made a small inspection of the guest stairs this morning instead of my usual route through the hidden pantry. Down on the second landing, I almost tripped over Figaro, who was making a beeline for Miss New Jersey’s open bedroom door. Seriously. No wonder he keeps getting in there. Miss New Jersey came out of her adjoining bathroom next door, buck naked with her hair wrapped in a towel.

  I averted my eyes. “Oh! Um. Good morning. You know, anyone could come out of their rooms at any time into the hall.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I see. I think I just saw Figaro go into your bedroom.”

  “Ah! Not again.” She placed her hands on her hips without a bit of shyness.

  “Um. I think maybe if you’d close your door when you leave the room, that might help to keep him out.”

  “I could try that.”

  “Yep. Yep. That’d be good. Okay then.”

  I tried to make a quick getaway, but she stopped me. “Oh Poppy. I just want gluten-free toast this morning. Bess throwing up all night has totally, like, turned me off.”

  “Of course. Did you tell me you had food allergies? Do you have celiac?”

  “What’s shellac?”

  “Celiac. You know, because you want gluten-free toast.”

  “I’m just going low carb this morning.”

  “Um . . .” I started to tell her that gluten-free bread still had carbs, just not gluten, and that the two were not synonymous. But it seemed unlikely to make any kind of difference, so I just said, “Okay, sure.”

  I continued toward the kitchen. When I got to the bottom landing I heard a thud. “Stay out, dumb cat.” A door slammed. And Figaro bounded down the stairs ahead of me.

  Aunt Ginny was in the kitchen making coffee. “The baked oatmeal is almost ready, and I’ve got the melon balls in mint sauce in the pink crystal.”

  “Thank you. I think we are going to need to add toast this morning. Miss New Jersey has requested it, and Bess either has a wicked hangover or a stomach virus.”

  “How in the world is she going to judge a cooking show if she’s throwing up?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Ivy has a backup plan.”

  “She’d better.”

  “I’m going to send a note to Mrs. Galbraith to let her know to disinfect Bess’s room today.”

  “She hasn’t been able to get in there yet.”

  “At all?”

  “I think Bess is afraid of being robbed by the staff, so she keeps the DO NOT DISTURB sign up all the time.”

  I took a mason jar of gingerbread syrup and a bowl of fresh cream out to the dining room table. Horatio and Ashlee were already waiting, even though breakfast had just begun. Aunt Ginny brought in two carafes of fresh coffee and placed them on the buffet. By the time I came back in with the melon salad and juice, Norman and Tess had joined the group. When Miss New Jersey rolled in last, wearing a pair of thigh-high boots and a burgundy sweater as a dress, she had to shoo Figaro out of her seat to sit down.

  I cringed when I saw the pile of gray fur on the tufted seat. I should have checked that before bringing in the food. I left them to their meal while hiding in the kitchen and eating with Aunt Ginny. We ate quietly while listening for snippets of gossip.

  “Which chef do you think is the most likely to be behind it?”

  “I think Chef Tim. Like, seriously. He’s gotten off too easy.”

  “D’no way. Chef Tim is hot. I think id Louie.”

  “He doesn’t even belong in an event like Chopped. He just makes burgers.”

  “My money is on Philippe. Did you see the way he just stood there with his duck while the other chef was on fire? I can’t even.”

  “I think it’s the production team. They are the only ones who can get in there after hours.”

  Aunt Ginny and I shook our heads at their wild assumptions. We never did see Bess for breakfast, which wasn’t a surprise. I just hoped Ivy had a replacement worked out in case Bess was too sick to get out of bed. We quickly cleaned up and called the judges their Ubers to take them to the college. Aunt Ginny and I would follow in Gia’s silver sports car.

  Aunt Ginny had one hand on the driver’s side door handle. “How’s about I drive?”

  I laughed. “You’re hilarious.”

  “What? I want a chance to take this hot rod on the road.”

  “I’d rather be the suspect in another murder investigation.”

  “Famous last words.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aunt Ginny took her place in the stands, and I stowed my purse in the locker room. Upon entering the kitchen, I heard, “Whoop-whoop-whoop.”

  A little bald hobbit danced his way over and my handyman stood before me. “Heya, Boss.”

  “Smitty, what are you doing here?”

  “The college called me in to make some repairs before the event today.”

  We’re doomed. “Did you figure out what made the deep fryer flare up like that?”

  “Someone tampered with the thermostat. They also fed the condensation hose back into the bottom of the fryer. Once things got hot enough, the bottom of the oil basin filled with water. You all were lucky this whole place didn’t catch on fire.”

  “So, it definitely wasn’t an accident?”

  Smitty thought so hard, his forehead gave birth to a giant, furry unibrow. “Not a chance in a million. Hoses don’t cut and move themselves. Someone sawed through the electrical wiring of that first range over there too. The igniter won’t spark without electricity.”

  “Were you able to fix everything?”

  “Everything that I found.”

  We’re all gonna die.

  “Itty Bitty Smitty!” Ivy walked into the arena with Roger by her side.

  Smitty turned and gave a backhanded salute. “Reporting for duty, ma’am.”

  “Did you finish?”

  “Yes ma’am. Everything is rewired and repaired. Except for that one mixer. I can’t find anything wrong with it.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one in the far-right kitchen by the judges’ table.”

  Hmm. That’s the mixer Philippe’s pastry chef was kind enough to swap with Louie’s team.

  So, it wasn’t really broken.

  “Good work, Smitty. Can you hang around today just in case something else breaks?”

  “Nyah-nyah.” Smitty made wobbly moves with his left hand, then shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Great. Why don’t you go make yourself comfortable in the audience, if there are any seats left. On day one, I couldn’t give tickets away. Now they’re being scalped on Facebook for fifty dollars each.”

  Smitty saluted again and took a seat over by Aunt Ginny and Sawyer. As soon as he sat down, Aunt Ginny was on him. She shoved a flyer in his face. He peered over his glasses to read it then took out his wallet.

  What is she up to now?

  Everyone was in the right place, except for Bess, who hadn’t arrived.

  Ivy stood in the center of the arena and tapped on her microphone. “Can I have everyone’s attention please? I’m sad to report that Marco Ubruzzi is out of the competition due to second degree burns up to the elbow from yesterday’s accident. The good news is, he is expected to make a full recovery. Since Chef Oliva is down a man, she has been allowed to replace him with a new sous chef. For the remainder of Restaurant Week, we will be joined by Chef Oliva’s son, Giampaolo Larusso.”

  Tim’s breath caught in his throat, and he coughed.

  My heart gave a flip. What? My Gia? Does he even know how to cook? I craned my neck to see who was making an entrance over by the cameraman. Then, a tall, dark Italian with icy, blue eyes and hair that curled at the base of his neck strode into the arena in a starched, white chef coat.

  Ashlee dropped her microphone, and the feedback reverberated throughout the room.

  Tess threw catcalls like a construction worker.

  Miss New Jersey loudly blew her nose in a tissue. Not the most effective come-on—but I guess
when you’re a pageant winner you’re not as impressed with other people’s looks.

  Norman sat up straighter and complained to Ivy. “No fair. You promised I would be the most handsome man in the room. It’s in my contract.”

  “I said you’d be the most handsome weatherman in the room,” Ivy shot back.

  Gia took his place next to Momma, I mean Chef Oliva, and threw me a wink.

  I giggled, caught Tim watching me, and tried to cover it by clearing my throat. I was unsuccessful.

  Gigi took notice, and, seizing the opportunity, linked arms with Tim.

  Ivy called the room to attention again. “It looks like we are short a judge, so . . .”

  “I’m here.” Bess staggered over to the judges’ table.

  Horatio twisted the handlebar of his mustache. “Really? She is in no condition for this. She needs to be replaced.”

  “I agree. With another older woman,” Norman said, still apparently stinging from Gia’s entrance.

  Miss New Jersey pulled out her cell phone. “Maybe I can get Donald Trump to fill in. I’ve worked with him on the pageant circle in Atlantic City. He loves to be in charge.”

  Ivy blinked a couple of times. “I’m pretty sure he’s all tied up, Brandy.”

  Miss New Jersey shrugged, and dropped her phone back into her Kate Spade designer bag. “Whatever.”

  Bess fell into her chair and slurred her words together. “You will do no sssuch thing. You were only allowed to film thiss little debacle here becaushe of my pull with sshthe board. If I go, the dealssssh off.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you some strong coffee, Bess?”

  Bess looked down her nose at Ivy.

  Ivy drummed her fingers against her clipboard. Then she snapped, and Roger ran off with the teapot.

  After a slight delay of game—one where I kept stealing glances at Gia only to find him grinning at me, then sneaking looks at Tim to find him looking straight ahead with his jaw clenched so tight his cheeks were white—the cameras were ready to roll, and Tess took her mark.

  “Okay chefs, yesterday we spent the afternoon in Provence. Today we celebrate an evening in Italy. Ashlee, bring on the Chianti. Ashlee?”

  Ashlee was staring doe-eyed at Gia. “You’re way hot.”

  Tess looked into the camera. “Amigos, chica has gone loco. If you are a loyal viewer of Wake Up! South Jersey on Channel 9 weekdays from ten to noon, you know my girlfriend here is cray-cray for the tall, dark, and hottie.”

  Ashlee let out a long, awkward giggle.

  “So, while we get the judges some wine, and Ashlee finds her voice, let’s open those baskets, chefs.”

  We threw open our baskets and took out our items while Tess told the viewing audience what our mystery ingredients were for the day. I had Amarena cherries, which were dark cherries in syrup, lemon liquor, and wonton wrappers.

  Tess turned away from the camera. “Are you sure the wonton wrappers are in the right basket? Jes? The producer say jes. Okay, chefs, start the clock!”

  We all ran for the pantry, smashing into each other to be first. I reached for a jar of candied orange peel, but Vidrine beat me to it. I took the ricotta, but Philippe grabbed it out of my hand. Are they doing this on purpose? I saw Tim in a rumpus with Adrian over a basket of mushrooms. It seemed the other chefs had decided to retaliate for their unfounded suspicions. I grabbed whatever I thought I could use to make limoncello cannoli and headed out of the pantry. On my way, I collided with a sexy Italian, and I don’t mean Momma.

  Gia plucked at his chef coat to show me his title. “Apprendista,” he said, proudly.

  I giggled. “Did Momma get you that?”

  “She insisted.” He wagged his eyebrows.

  I gave a small curtsy. “Well I’m wearing the yellow apron of punishment for not attending culinary school.”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “You are still cute.”

  “What are you going to make?”

  “I have primi piatti, or antipasti. There will be a lot of salads.”

  We both giggled.

  Tim came up behind me and spoke stiffly, “We’re on the clock, Mack.”

  “Sorry.” I gave an apologetic look to Gia and rushed to my station to begin my cannoli. I had to make some substitutions due to either bad luck or the vindictiveness of my competitors, but I was sure I could make it work.

  Ashlee was immediately in front of Gia with the microphone. “Chef Giampaolo, what are you making today?”

  Oliva rattled off instructions in Italian, and Gia responded to Ashlee, “I am making pancetta ravioli with fresh herb and mozzarella in espresso basil pesto.”

  “Ooh, that sounds dreamy. How do you make it?”

  Gia flashed her a sexy smile. “I have no idea.”

  Ashlee giggled and leaned on the counter, the microphone forgotten.

  Gia crudely chopped his pancetta while Oliva worked on her entrée and told him what to do. It was an impressive display of multitasking.

  “Ashlee,” Ivy sang out from beside the cameraman.

  “Hmmm?” Ashlee turned around, seemingly surprised to see anyone else there.

  “Could you please go around the room and talk to some other chefs now?”

  Ashlee dragged herself away from Gia with a tinkling finger wave, and peppered Adrian with halfhearted questions about his veal.

  “What are you making?”

  “I am creating a beautiful veal par-ma-jano with fresh herbs and . . .”

  “Mmhm. That’s nice.”

  Tim and Gigi were extra chatty today. For some reason Gigi had turned up the perky to a new level. “What you got there, chef?”

  “Veal piccata, a la minute. Whatchu doin’?”

  “Settin’ my meez.”

  “All day long, son.”

  What the heck are they talking about? I hadn’t felt left out like this since lining up to choose teams for field hockey in high school. I wrapped my last wonton around a metal cannoli form and got them ready for the deep fryer.

  Gigi’s smirk at my ignorance let me know she was putting me in my place again. “Oh, sorry. This is chef language. You would understand if you’d gone to culinary school, Poppy.”

  I didn’t have time for Gigi’s petty aggression. I focused on my cherries and chocolate chips. “Whatever you say.”

  The clock was counting down. I zested some orange into my mascarpone and added the limoncello. I looked over at Gia. He was shaking the dough off his hand. He was struggling to make ravioli, but he had a huge smile on his face. It made me grin to myself.

  I heard Tess doing the shtick with the judges. “It’s eerily quiet in the kitchen arena today. Many of the chefs appear to be tiptoeing around each other in nervous caution. Except for, of course, Chef Oliva’s team. But it doesn’t appear that there is any sabotage. What do you think about what you’re seeing, Channel Eight’s sexiest weatherman, Norman Sprinkler?”

  “I really like the technique Chef Adrian is using on his herbs. I believe that’s called chiffonade, isn’t it, Chef Adrian?”

  “No, it’s called chopping.”

  Norman blushed.

  “Well there you have it. Chef Adrian is chopping.” Tess moved on to Miss New Jersey. “What do you think, Brandy?”

  “Everything looks so pretty and fresh. Especially what Chef Tim is working on. Just gorgeous.”

  “Do you hear that, Chef Tim? What are you making that is so beautiful?”

  I looked over at the pile of fuzzy brown clods of dirty mushrooms Tim was peeling on his cutting board and crinkled up my nose.

  Tim flashed a grin for Miss New Jersey. “I’m making a porcini and white bean risotto with sautéed monk’s beard.”

  “Monk’s beard is a basket ingredient today. Chef Tim, can you tell us exactly what it is?” Ashlee shoved the microphone back under Tim’s chin.

  Tim held up the thin, spiky, green vegetable. “It’s a Tuscan green that tastes a little like spinach, or chard.”

  As
hlee recoiled. “Eww. It looks like a bunch of pine needles and grass had a baby. Is that in all the baskets?”

  Tim trimmed the fine leaves. “I’m going to lightly sauté them and toss them in olive oil. They’ll be delicious.”

  I looked around my workstation for my spice jar and realized I’d forgotten it with the petty drama in the pantry. I went to look for cinnamon in the spice rack, but there was none left on the shelf. I returned to my station and asked Tim and Gigi, “Do either of you have the cinnamon? I can’t find it.”

  Tim shook his head no.

  Gigi said, “Eighty-six the cinnamon.”

  “I’ll take that as another no.”

  Gia appeared by my side waving ajar of cinnamon. “You can take ours. We are finished with it.”

  I thanked him and couldn’t keep my face from breaking out in a huge smile. “You need to go pay attention to your ravioli,” I teased.

  He returned to his kitchen where Momma swatted him angrily with a dish towel and complained vehemently in Italian.

  Tim sidled up to me, still holding the green stems. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “Thanks for being such a good sport this week. I know it’s turned out to be a lot more than we bargained for.”

  I gave him a grin. “It’s been an adventure.”

  “Why don’t we go for an early dinner tonight? Something easy.”

  “Don’t you have to cover Maxine’s?”

  “If we go early enough, Carlos can handle the prep. I’ll be there in time for the reservations.”

  “Okay, that’ll be nice.” And very conspicuously timed. I slid my eyes to Gia, who was whacking at the garlic cloves rolling around on his cutting board.

  I placed my cannoli shells in the deep fryer and started on my mascarpone filling. You could slice the tension in the arena with a hacksaw. The chefs were silent, and the audience was scanning the kitchens like the health department inspecting for roaches.

  I overheard Aunt Ginny say. “Twenty-to-one odds that someone gets sick eating that clump of grass.”

  A couple of the biddies held up dollar bills. Thelma Davis held up a stack of coupons for the Acme. Oh Lord. She’s running numbers on the competition. No wonder she’s been so flush with cash.