“I have a few friends who work at Dauphine. They say she’s a total pill,” Wavonne says. “My girl Nicki... she’s a server there . . . calls Twyla ‘the Wet Hen.’ And Adam... he works in the kitchen... calls her ‘Twyla the Hun.’”
“Wow,” Cynthia says. “She seems so nice in the TV clips I’ve seen of her and has been so pleasant when I’ve talked with her on the phone.”
“She’s sweet as molasses when it suits her, especially when she’s on camera,” Wavonne replies. “But once the cameras are off, or she’s in the kitchen out of earshot of her customers, she’s suddenly Evillene trying to get her sister’s shoes back from Diana Ross in The Wiz.”
“She’s not that bad, Wavonne,” I defend. “She eventually made me a sous-chef at Dauphine even though I’d never had any formal culinary schooling. I’m grateful to her for that. I learned a lot working for her... even if it was more about what not to do rather than what to do. My experience at Dauphine was immensely helpful when I opened Sweet Tea.”
“So how are things between you and Twyla now?” Russell asks.
“They’re fine.”
“Ahem... liar... ahem,” Wavonne mutters.
“What? We are fine.”
“Halia might be fine with Twyla, but Twyla’s still got a beef with Halia. I saw her fuming at the Rammys last year when Halia won in the casual brunch category.... Bitter as a Brussels sprout, that one.”
“Bitter about what?”
“About her restaurant going the way of Mariah Carey’s music career. You know... still around but not terribly relevant or successful. Even her silly little cooking segments on the local news got canned a few months ago.”
“What’s Halia have to do with that?”
“She left Dauphine and took all of Twyla’s customers with her.”
“I did not,” I protest. “At least that was never my intention.”
“When Halia left Dauphine, the place went back to bein’ the second-rate eatery it was before she worked her magic in the kitchen.” Wavonne turns to me. “Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t let me have mine on me when I’m workin’ the floor.”
I hand her the phone. “What do you want it for?”
“I bet it’s still online,” she says, tapping a few keys and scrolling. “Here it is. This is what the Post critic said shortly after Halia left Dauphine.” Wavonne begins reading. “‘Without the talents of sous chef Mahalia Watkins, who recently left to open Mahalia’s Sweet Tea, Dauphine has, once again, become mundane . . . ordinary... not awful, but the food has lost that something extra that abounded when Ms. Watkins was manning the kitchen. It’s unclear whether or not Dauphine will survive Ms. Watkins’s exit. Proprietor and executive chef Twyla Harper kept the doors open prior to Ms. Watkins’s employ with some good old-fashioned southern charm and a knack for garnering publicity. Without some significant retooling in the kitchen, Dauphine will, once again, have to rely on Ms. Harper’s flair for hospitality and her weekly television appearances—and perhaps a regular supply of DC tourists who have not already paid a ‘one and done’ visit to the establishment to bring in customers and keep the lights on. It certainly will not be the quality of the food that fills the seats at Dauphine.’”
“Ouch,” Russell says. “That had to hurt.”
“Boy, did it ever. This was back when people actually read newspapers, so having the Washington Post tell the entire DC area that someone else was responsible for the success of her restaurant did not go over well with Twyla the Hun. And, not only did the Post say Dauphine had gone in the dumper following Halia’s exit, it also told them where to go to find Halia. The one mention of Halia leaving to open her own restaurant brought all the Dauphine regulars to Sweet Tea... and they’re still comin’.”
“You’re tempting me to play up this angle during the show,” Cynthia says. “It could be good for ratings.”
I laugh. “There’s no angle to play. Really. Twyla and I are fine. Wavonne likes to dramatize everything.” I turn to Wavonne. “And shouldn’t you be getting back to work?”
“Yeah,” Wavonne grumbles, getting up from the table.
“Interesting dynamic you have with your wait staff,” Russell says with raised eyebrows. “Do your servers always pull up a chair and start gossiping with customers?”
“Not my entire wait staff... just Wavonne. She’s family . . . for better or worse. She—”
Before I can finish my sentence, I hear someone calling from the front of the restaurant. “Yoo-hoo!” I catch someone bellowing and feel little need to divert my eyes from the Mellingers to find out who just entered my dining room as I don’t know anyone other than Twyla Harper who uses the word “yoo-hoo,” unless they’re asking for a chocolate soda.
Chapter 4
“Yoo-hoo” pings through the air again as I turn my head to see a mature woman sashaying toward us underneath a mound of teased platinum-blond hair—your guess is as good as mine as to whether her vivid locks are her own or on loan from some woman with a shaved head in Peru. In my opinion, blond hair on black women isn’t always a flattering look, but her golden tresses, like anything that makes Twyla conspicuous, seem to work for her.
As she teeters on three-inch heels in our direction, in a royal blue dress, her face shrouded in heavy makeup, I look past her out the front windows and see that she’s still driving the same ginormous white Cadillac Coupe de Ville from 1970-something that she had when I worked for her. Much like her hair and her clothes... and her shoes, her car screams “notice me!”
“Twyla,” I say, getting up from the table while Russell and Cynthia remain seated. “What a pleasure. It’s been forever. How are you?”
“Hi, darlin’. I’m fantastic.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Busy busy... You know, Dauphine, my volunteer work, trying to stay fit.” She looks me up and down. “I wish I could carry extra weight the way you do. You make it work.”
I swallow and remind myself to let her petty jibe go. “Thank you. I like to think a little thickness takes a few years off.” I scan her from head to toe the same way she did me. “As you get older you can start to look like a bag of bones if you get too skinny.” Okay, so I didn’t exactly let her little barb go. “Let me introduce you to—”
“I know Russell and Cynthia. I dined at the Barbary in New York last year.” She shakes hands with both of them. “You remember me, right?”
“Of course,” confirms Cynthia, but her eyes say she has no recollection of ever meeting her.
“Please have a seat,” I invite.
Twyla pulls out a chair. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she says, taking a napkin and sweeping some nonexistent crumbs from the seat before sitting down. “Are the rumors true?” She slides her chair closer to the table. “I heard you were having some money issues and sold out to Cracker Barrel.”
I laugh. “No. Sweet Tea is still all mine.”
“Hmmm... Wonder how that gossip got started. Maybe because Sweet Tea has a similar feel to Cracker Barrel . . . all folksy and informal.”
I’m about to respond when I notice that somewhere during Twyla’s exchange with me, Russell’s eyes lit up. “This is ratings gold,” he says.
“What’s ratings gold?” Twyla asks.
“The two of you. Like Mariah and Nicki behind the American Idol desk.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Twyla says. “I love Halia.” She puts an arm around me. “And there’s plenty to love.”
“That’s because the food is so good here.” I look at her petite figure, up and down. “You have to wonder about the food quality of a restaurant owned by a wisp of a thing.”
Twyla is about to speak when Wavonne reappears at the table, hands everyone a menu, and goes over the evening’s specials: corn and crab chowder, honey-braised pork chops with homemade applesauce, and a blackberry cobbler for dessert.
After Wavonne takes Twyla’s drink order, I ask her to give our guests a few minutes to lo
ok over the menu, and once some decisions have been made, Russell starts talking about the show.
“So tomorrow we’ll do a little dog and pony thing at the African American museum. We’ll get some footage of us walking around with the three remaining contestants, and you can get to know them. Then we’ll all meet up in the museum café for lunch and to announce the challenge for this episode. You’ll have a nice break while production assistants take the contestants to the store to get any necessary ingredients for the evening’s competition. We’ll need you at the inn no later than six.”
“The inn?”
“Yes, we’ve been filming all the episodes at my new hotel, the Willow Oak Inn. Sunfish, my latest restaurant, will be on-site there. The lucky winner of this season of Elite Chef will be executive chef there.”
“Trudy had mentioned you were getting into the hotel industry, but she didn’t say we’d be filming at the new property.”
“Of course we’re filming there. Half the reason I do the show is to get my restaurants... and now my hotel, heaps of exposure.”
“Trudy said it was near National Harbor?”
“Yes, not far. It’s a boutique hotel in Fort Washington. It’s on ten secluded acres along the river. Half of the rooms have water views. I had hoped to open something a bit grander, but given the rural preservation ordinances in the area, I could only secure a permit for a smaller venue, so I decided to make the best of it. Thirty rooms on three floors, appointed with the best of everything. I expect five-star ratings all around. We’ll be vying for Four Seasons and Ritz-Carlton clientele. My restaurants have always been destinations and attract people from all over the country. Now customers will be able to make a weekend out of a visit to Sunfish. And, during the week, we’ll cater to smaller conferences.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“We’re not officially open yet. The restaurant is a few weeks away from completion, but we’ve had a soft opening of the inn while final touches are added. I’ve invited friends and business associates to stay while we train the staff and finish the build-out... and Cynthia and I and the Elite Chef contestants have been staying there while we film,” Russell says. “You and Twyla are welcome to stay the night as my guests after the taping tomorrow. We tend to go pretty late, and we’d like you on-site the next morning as we see off the eliminated contestant.”
“What a nice invitation, but I don’t live far from Fort Washington, and I generally prefer to sleep in my own bed.”
“Did I hear something about the Willow Oak Inn?” Wavonne says, setting a cast iron skillet filled with sour cream cornbread on the table, before she makes eye contact with me. “And did I hear you turn down an invitation to stay there? For free?” She turns to Russell. “It is free, right?”
“Of course.”
“Have you lost your mind, Halia? That place has been the talk of PG County for months. Word is that it’s gonna be off the chain luxurious. Melva and I have been watching it come up from the marina when we go there for drinks. Looks like it’s almost finished.”
“Off the chain luxurious,” Cynthia says to Russell. “Maybe that should be the inn’s tag line.”
Russell doesn’t appear to be amused by Cynthia’s little quip and doesn’t bother to acknowledge it. Instead he looks at Wavonne and says, “Yes, it is almost finished. The rooms on the main floor have been ready for occupancy for weeks—that’s where we’ve been staying, along with the contestants, since we came to town. At this point we’re down to just a few final cosmetic projects in the other rooms and some of the common spaces. We’ll have a grand opening gala once both the inn and the restaurant are fully ready for prime time.”
“Word is the rooms are going to start at six hundred dollars a night,” Wavonne says.
“That’s about right.”
Wavonne looks at me. “You’re not seriously passin’ on stayin’ at an exclusive hotel for free?”
“You really should stay, Halia,” Cynthia says. “You’ll be on the concierge level. You can get a good night’s sleep on a plush-top mattress with thousand-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. Perhaps after watching a movie on the seventy-inch TV with Bose Surround speakers or taking a soak in your own Jacuzzi tub. You can have your morning coffee on the patio with a view of the river.”
“Can she bring a guest?” Wavonne asks.
“I suppose that would be fine.”
“Wait until I tell Melva that I’m gonna stay the night at the Willow Oak Inn!”
“Who said anything about staying the night anywhere? This is the first mention I’ve heard of this thing rolling into two days.”
“Not two days,” Cynthia says. “We’d like you on-site the morning after the taping so you can be part of the contestant departure segment. We usually get some footage of the eliminated individual packing their suitcase, offering some final commentary on the patio with the sun coming up in the background, and saying their good-byes to the other contestants and judges. We can have you out of there by seven a.m.”
“Seven a.m?” Wavonne says. “I have not been up at seven a.m. since TJ Maxx opened early for a super sale the day after Thanksgiving.”
“Wavonne, I think one of your other tables needs some drinks refilled, or some plates cleared, or something.”
“I’m not really a morning person either with my late nights here,” I say, as Wavonne grudgingly walks off. “But if I can be back here by the late morning that should be okay.”
“Perfect. So, we’re all set.”
Right then, Russell’s cell phone rings. “Russell here.” After giving what sounds like a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone a chance to speak, he says, “Okay, I’ll be right there.” He lowers his phone clad hand. “I have to cut this short. Something has come up at the inn.” He looks across the table at me and Twyla. “I’m sure Cynthia can answer any further questions you have.” Then, in what appears to be true Russell fashion, he gets up from the table without another word and heads for the door.
Chapter 5
“How will you get back to the hotel?” I ask Cynthia as Russell exits Sweet Tea.
“He’ll send the car back for me and Trudy,” she says, making me feel silly for thinking that Russell Mellinger actually drove himself here... or drives himself anywhere. “Now, what other questions do you have?” she asks, and I wonder if I’m the only person at the table who thinks it’s strange that a woman’s husband was called away at eight o’clock at night by what sounded like a female voice, said woman’s husband leaves with barely a word, and said woman does not seem to be even slightly concerned about his impending whereabouts. Most women I know would have a hundred questions for their spouse and possibly sneak in the car and follow him to make sure whatever answers he gave were actually true. But I guess if it doesn’t bother Cynthia, it shouldn’t bother me.
“Now that you mention it,” I say, “since I’ve already admitted that I’m not really familiar with the show, may I ask what the challenges, like the one we’ll be part of tomorrow, typically involve?”
“We give the chefs a task that they have to complete within a certain amount of time. Last week we visited the Kennedy Center and the contestants were asked to prepare one of President Kennedy’s favorite foods. When the local cherry blossoms were in bloom, we toured the tidal basin and all the contestants thought the challenge would involve cherries. But we like to keep them on their toes, so back at the restaurant we reminded them that DC’s famous cherry blossoms don’t actually produce any cherries. In recognition of the trees being gifts to the US from Japan, we went with a Japanese food theme.”
“So, what’s tomorrow’s challenge?”
“We like to keep that under wraps, even for the judges. Prior to the competition each judge is paired with select contestants. Since we only have three chefs left, you, Russell, and Twyla will only be paired with one contestant each. You’ll be able to offer some guidance to your contestants, so we like you to be as surprised
by the challenge as each of them. Russell is not even in on the challenges.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Twyla says.
“Really. He isn’t. Russell has very limited involvement in the production of the show. That’s all left up to me and my team. He’s got four restaurants to supervise... a fifth one opening in a couple of months and a brand new hotel to get up and running. He barely has time to show up for the tapings.”
“I guess I have a bit of a leg up—Trudy already told me the episode was going to have a soul food theme.”
“Oh, she did?” Cynthia darts her eyes in Trudy’s direction and then back at me. “Well... let’s just say the challenge will involve soul food, among other things.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “Speaking of soul food, are you ready to order?”
“The braised pork chops special sounds delightful to me and so does that chowder,” Cynthia says.
“My crab and corn chowder is one of my favorite soups,” I say. “This is the best time of year for crab meat. We get it locally and work it into a bath of bacon drippings, butter, pureed potatoes, and half and half. It’s divine, if I do say so myself.”
“You’re making my mouth water, but, sadly, I think I’d better stick with a salad. My metabolism is not what it once was. I’d have to take three spin classes tomorrow if I went with the pork chops,” Cynthia says.
“Just a salad for me, too,” comes from Twyla.
Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits Page 3
