I signal for Wavonne to come back to the table.
“Twyla and Cynthia would both like the grilled chicken salad.”
“The dressing on the side,” Twyla says.
“And for you?” Wavonne asks me.
“I’ll have the salad, too.”
“The salad? For you?” she questions. “Are you feelin’ okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“I ain’t never seen you eat a salad in your life. You’ve been eyein’ those pork chops all evenin’.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes moving from me to my tablemates and back to me again. “Oh, I get it,” she says. “Beyoncé and Kelly are having salads, so Michelle’s gotta order one, too.”
“Just bring the salads, Wavonne.”
“As you wish,” she replies sarcastically. She’s being a smart-ass, but an honest one. I was planning to indulge in the evening’s special—seasoned bone-in chops, seared on both sides before taking a simmer in a bath of chicken broth, honey, and vinegar. But I think I’d feel odd eating pork chops covered in sauce while my guests nibble on salads across the table from me.
I continue to chat with Cynthia and Twyla, and I can honestly say that the energy at the table has changed since Russell left—we are all more relaxed without him barking orders at Trudy or into his phone. When our salads arrive, we eat them with little enthusiasm while Cynthia tells us a bit more about the inn and Russell’s plans for Sunfish. We’re getting an earful about riverfront dining, arrangements Russell is making with local watermen to ensure a fresh supply of rockfish, and two restaurant designers he’s fired, when Wavonne shows up to clear our plates and take a dessert order.
“Can I interest you ladies in any coffee or dessert? Red velvet cake? Peach pie?”
“Would you two be up for sharing something?” Cynthia asks.
“Sure,” Twyla says.
“That sounds fine,” I respond when what I really want to say is, “No, I don’t want to share anything—I’m a grown-ass woman who’s practically starving from having nothing more than a salad for dinner, and I want my own freakin’ dessert.”
“Which one do you recommend?”
“I would probably go with the peach pie. The peaches came in fresh from Georgia this morning.”
“Peach pie it is then,” Cynthia says.
“With ice cream,” I add.
“Sure thing,” Wavonne says to all of us before directing her eyes at me. “Remember, Halia. You said I could jet at ten.” She looks at Cynthia and Twyla. “It’s Reggae on the Roof night at Eden Lounge,” she adds, before directing her attention back to me. “Once I bring the pie, can you close out the check when you guys are finished?”
“Sure. No problem.”
As Wavonne departs to fetch one slice of pie to be shared by three adult women, Cynthia goes over a few more details about the show until she clears her throat. “So, Halia,” she says as if she’s about to broach an uncomfortable topic. “Elite Chef is not scripted or anything, but we do like our guest judges to be entertaining—you know, have some personality.”
“Personality?”
“Yes.” She looks at Twyla. “Like how Twyla has this whole sort of southern thing going on. She’ll play that up with lots of ‘I’m fixin’ tos’ and ‘bless her hearts’ and ‘hey y’alls.’”
“I’m ‘fixin’ tos’?” I ask.
“Yes. You know—‘I’m fixin’ to fry up some chicken.’ ‘I’m fixin’ to go to the movies.’”
“Okay... ?” I say, wondering if I look as bemused as I feel. “Surely you don’t want me to act like a southern belle?”
“No, but we thought you could be a little more... more brash... sassy... just to keep things entertaining.”
“Um... I don’t think...”
“Just throw in a ‘Girl!’ every now and then... or a ‘oh no he di’int.’ Maybe dress a little snappier.”
“So, you want me to be Madea?”
“Madea,” Cynthia says, like I’ve just given her an idea. “That’s not a bad plan. You adopt a sort of Madea-ish personality—”
“Yeeeah.” I cut her off before her ludicrous idea goes any further. “That’s not going to happen. With me, what you see is what you get.”
Cynthia looks disappointed until her eyes look past me and she smiles.
I turn around to get a look at where Cynthia is staring and see Wavonne coming toward us with a slice of peach pie. She must have put the order in before doing a quick change into her club wear in the ladies’ room. Wheels seem to be turning in Cynthia’s head as Wavonne sidles toward us in steep black heels, tight jeans, and a low cut sequined top with spaghetti straps.
“This one.” Cynthia gives Wavonne a good once-over as she sets the pie and three forks on the table. “Maybe she can be your personality.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re lovely, Halia, but you’re a bit . . . um... inconspicuous.”
“Borin’,” Wavonne says. “She thinks you’re borin’.”
“I do not,” Cynthia counters. “She just seems very... stable... genuine. They are great qualities, but they don’t exactly bring in ratings. What’s your name again?”
“Wavonne.”
“Wavonne, how about we bring you on with Halia? You’re quick with a quip.” Cynthia gives Wavonne a long look. “And outfits like that would bring some flash to the show.”
“You want me to be on TV?!”
“Yes. We’ll just say you’re Halia’s assistant or something.” Cynthia turns to me. “How does that sound?”
“I suppose it’s fine, especially since, apparently, I’m less interesting than watching paint dry.”
“Don’t be silly. You two just make a good pair. Viewers will get a kick out of your banter.”
“There’s my ride.” Wavonne looks out the front windows. “Wait until I tell Melva and Linda that not only am I gonna get to stay at Russell Mellinger’s new hotel, but I’m gonna be on TV!”
As Wavonne hurries to tell her friends the news, Cynthia, Twyla, and I pick up our forks and begin to share the pie. While we chat a bit more about the plans for tomorrow I find myself eager for them to finish our dessert. I’m tired, and I want to start the closing process so I can get home before midnight. But mostly, I want them to leave so I can make a run to the kitchen for a helping of my pork chops, and my own damn slice of peach pie.
RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN
Halia’s Corn and Crab Chowder
Chowder Ingredients
4 slices bacon
2 tablespoons salted butter
1 cup chopped onion
2 large potatoes, peeled and sliced into cubes
1½ tablespoons of Sweet Tea House Seasoning
1 teaspoon salt
4 cups chicken broth
4 cups fresh corn off the cob
1 pound crabmeat
1 cup half and half
1 tablespoon finely chopped chives
Sweet Tea House Seasoning
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon paprika
2 teaspoons onion powder
1½ teaspoons red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon dry mustard
• Fry bacon over medium heat until crisp. Blot on paper towels and chop into small pieces.
• Add bacon drippings and butter to a large saucepan and heat over medium heat. Add onion and simmer for 5 minutes.
• Add potatoes, House Seasoning, salt, and chicken broth. Simmer for 10 minutes.
• Remove 2 cups of the chowder and puree in a blender. (Allow chowder to cool if blender is not heat-safe.) Stir the pureed mixture back into the pot.
• Add corn, crabmeat, and half and half. Stir over medium heat until corn and potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes.
• Serve chowder in soup bowls sprinkled with chopped bacon, chives, and a sprinkle of House Seasoning.
Chapter 6
“This is ni
ce... the leather is so soft. I’ve taken taxis and Ubers, but I’ve never been picked up by a hoity-toity ‘car service,’” Wavonne says as we approach the National Museum of African American History and Culture in the city. We’re in the back seat of a black Lexus with our own driver and everything. The show arranged for our fancy pickup this morning, and now we’re maneuvering up Fourteenth Street as the imposing building, on five acres of precious National Mall real estate, comes into view. I’ve passed by the museum numerous times, but it’s only now, with immediate plans to view the interior, that I really take it in. Oddly, it looks both ancient and contemporary. The architecture reminds me of artists’ renditions of the Tower of Babel. It’s as if someone took the bottom third of three pyramids, turned them upside down, layered them on top of each other, and covered the whole thing in a bronze mesh. I have a vague memory of hearing something on the news a while back explaining how the bronze lattice pays homage to ironwork crafted by enslaved African Americans.
The museum has only been open for three or four years. I’ve always wanted to pay a visit, but you have to get timed tickets in advance and, with all I have to do at Sweet Tea, there is not a lot of time for exploring the city’s cultural attractions.
“I’m excited to finally see the inside,” I say to Wavonne as I step out of the car.
“I’m excited to meet Leon Winfield,” she replies, lifting herself from the back seat after her red stilettos make contact with the pavement.
“Are you seriously going to walk around a few thousand square feet of museum in those things?”
“Don’t be hatin’ on my shoes. They’re Tory Burch. Even the bottoms are groovy.” Wavonne steadies herself by grabbing on to me, lifts up one foot, and shows me the glitter-covered sole.
“Tory Burch? Isn’t her stuff really expensive?”
“I got them ‘gently used’ off Poshmark. Four hundred bucks.”
“Where did you get four hundred dollars to spend on shoes?”
“Outta your purse,” Wavonne jokes. “Relax. I charged them. I’ll have them back up and sold on Poshmark for three ninety-five before the bill comes.”
“I hope so.” I take in the rest of her getup. “You do know this is a museum and not a night club?” She’s squeezed her size-sixteen figure into a size-fourteen black, knee-length, sheath dress with a red halter neckline sort of crisscrossing her ample chest.
“My flair for style is why they asked me to come along. I’m just trying to keep up my end of the bargain. We’re going to be on nationwide television. Maybe I’ll be discovered . . . become the next Taraji P. Henson. She’s a local girl, too, ya know,” Wavonne says. “Besides, someone has to show a little flash. You’re not going to get any camera time in that . . . What’s a polite word? Nondescript outfit. It looks like something Whoopi Goldberg would wear to host The View. I can’t believe you didn’t let me help you with your wardrobe.”
“Wavonne, you came at me with a low cut purple blouse with feathers on the sleeves. Forgive me if I shooed you away. And what’s so wrong with what I’m wearing?” I’m a bit unnerved as I did put a little more effort into my appearance this morning than I usually do. I blew out my hair and even put on a little makeup. My Kasper beige pantsuit isn’t exactly haute couture, but I thought it looked nice. And, yes, I’m wearing flats but, considering we’re going to do a lot of walking today, it’s a wonder I don’t have sneakers on.
“Nothing’s wrong with it, Halia. I don’t think anyone would notice it long enough to find anything wrong with it. It’s a beige pantsuit. A burka is about the only thing with less style.”
“Never mind,” I say as we lay our purses on a conveyer belt to be x-rayed and walk through a metal detector. “When did you have to start going through metal detectors to get inside a museum?” I ask no one in particular, but Wavonne takes it upon herself to answer.
“Since always.”
“We used to take field trips to the Smithsonian all the time in grade school. I don’t remember having to go through Security.”
“That was back when the only weapons available were clubs and spears.”
“Ha ha,” I bemoan as we enter the building, and I catch sight of Cynthia with Russell and Twyla and a few others huddled around her. “There they are,” I say to Wavonne, and we approach the group.
“Welcome, ladies,” Cynthia says as one of three cameramen turns his camera in our direction. “Don’t mind him.” She gestures toward the man. “They’ll be getting footage all day. We’ll only use some of it... show a few clips before the competition gets started.”
“I didn’t know we’d be on camera right away.” Wavonne turns to me. “Is Gladys on straight?” she asks, adjusting her wig.
“Yes. Gladys looks fine. You sure teased her up high today.”
“What’s it they say?” Cynthia asks. “The higher the hair, the closer to God? How did you get it fluffed like that?”
“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” Wavonne quips. “It’s a spectacle of curlers, a steamer, a good bristle brush, and about a gallon of hair spray.”
“Well, it certainly has... um... presence,” Cynthia offers. “Let me introduce you to the contestants. We’ll start with Sherry. Sherry Ashbury.”
We follow Cynthia toward a striking young woman sipping on a bottle of water. There’s something silly to me about using coffee to describe skin tones, but Sherry’s is somewhere in the mocha/latte realm. With her warm beige skin, wavy dark hair with golden highlights, and deep brown eyes, she’s what one might call ‘racially ambiguous.’ My guess would be she’s half Caucasian and half African American, but she could be a mix of any number of races. She’s about five eight, looks about twenty-something years old, and has a figure like a 1950s movie star—ample hips, a small waist, and generous bazoombas—in short, she is gorgeous.
“Sherry, I’d like you to meet one of our judges for the episode we’re filming today. Halia Watkins. And this is her assistant, Wavonne.”
“Very nice to meet you.” I extend my hand.
“You too.” She shakes my hand and then Wavonne’s.
“Halia owns a local soul food restaurant in Maryland.”
“Aren’t we in Maryland?” Sherry asks.
“DC,” Cynthia says. “We’re in DC.”
“And DC’s in Maryland, right?”
“No. DC’s a federal district.... It’s not part of any...” Cynthia lets her voice trail off while Sherry looks at her with a blank glare. “You know what? Maybe it is in Maryland.” Cynthia says this in a tone I’m quite familiar with. It’s the same tone I use when I start to explain something to Wavonne and, mid-explanation, realize it’s just easier to let her go on thinking that the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution are the same thing... or stop my explanation short when she wonders out loud why, if The Sound of Music was filmed in... Austria, there were no kangaroos in it. “Go along with me on this one,” Cynthia mutters under her breath to me. “It’s just easier that way,” she adds before turning her head to speak with one of the camera guys.
“How are you?” I ask Sherry as Cynthia meanders off with her colleague. “All these cameras are a bit daunting. I guess maybe you have gotten used to them by now, though?”
“Yeah. You sort of forget about them after a while. I’m sure they will follow us around as we tour today.”
“Have you been here before?” I ask.
“No. I’m excited to see all the exhibits from Africa,” she says, with what seems to be genuine enthusiasm. “I’ve always found those ladies with the saucers in their lips so fascinating. But man, that looks painful! Do you think we’ll see any King Tut artifacts or stuff about Amazon tribes?”
“Um, no. I don’t think so,” I respond. “This is the African American museum. Perhaps you’re thinking of the Museum of African Art? But I don’t think they have a King Tut exhibit . . . not sure about the lip plates.” I want to also inform her that Amazon tribes are in South America rather than Africa, but somehow
that seems like too much to lay on her all at once.
“Oh.” There’s disappointment in her voice.
“I’m sure you’ll still enjoy it. I’ve heard there are some really amazing exhibits.”
“How about the Pygmies? Will we see anything about them?”
“Girl,” Wavonne says. “Pygmies are not in Africa. They’re in Austria.”
I take a breath and suddenly have a vision of Julie Andrews singing “Do-Re-Mi” in the Austrian Alps to a group of Pygmies while kangaroos hop around in the distance. I’m debating about whether it’s worth my energy to educate Frick and Frack about the difference between Austria and Australia and Pygmies versus Aborigines, when Cynthia reappears. “Let me introduce you to Trey,” she says.
“It was good to meet you,” I say to Sherry as Cynthia nudges Wavonne and me away from her.
“Sherry is not... how shall I put it... terribly quick witted,” Cynthia whispers to me. “But she knows her way around a kitchen. And our audience has historically been largely female—we thought a pretty face and some nice curves might up our male viewership and increase ratings.”
If words like “pretty face” and “nice curves” came from a male producer, I’d think it might be grounds for sexual harassment charges, but I’m not sure what to make of Cynthia saying those things. Not that I have much time to think about anything. I’ve barely escaped Sherry, and now Cynthia is corralling me over to have some forced quality time with the next contestant. Oh well, I suppose, after Sherry, I have nowhere to go but up, right?
Chapter 7
“Trey,” Cynthia says to a nicely built young man in a pair of snug jeans and a close-fitting polo shirt. He’s quite good-looking in a clean cut, preppy sort of way.
“Hey.” He looks up from his phone. “Do you think the camera guys can get some footage of me looking at my phone? When I hold it with my arm bent, my bicep really pops. Look.” He shows off an impressive muscle ringed by a tight shirtsleeve.
“I’ll see what I can do, Trey,” Cynthia replies. “In the meantime, let me introduce you to one of our guest judges for the day, Halia Watkins. She own’s Mahalia’s Sweet Tea, a highly successful local soul food restaurant. And this is her assistant, Wavonne.”
Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits Page 4
