“Okay. I think we have usable stuff here,” Cynthia says when she feels like she’s gotten enough of Vera’s family history.
“If you have some Visine, I can make it look like thoughts of fried chicken are making me cry,” Vera, ever the smart aleck, offers.
“Get out of here, would you,” Cynthia says with a chuckle. “You’ve caused enough mayhem for the time being.”
“I do my best,” Vera replies, and Wavonne and I follow her as she steps into the Era of Segregation exhibit.
Chapter 9
“You better be careful. I heard you talkin’ about the crispiest fried chicken ‘you’ll ever have’ around this one.” Wavonne points toward me. “Halia likes to think of herself as the Fried Chicken Queen.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but my fried chicken is from a family recipe as well. I make it the same way my grandmommy did, and it does get rave reviews, if I do say so myself.”
“Are you challenging me to a chicken fry-off, Halia?” Vera jokes.
“That’s one contest I’d be glad to sign up to judge,” Wavonne offers.
“I guess we should focus on the contest at hand for the time being,” I say, and turn to Vera. “So how did you end up part of this whole spectacle called Elite Chef?”
“I’ve been watching the show for the past couple of years, and I made a career change recently—I left my job at a health insurance company and opened my own food truck: Vera’s Fried Chicken and Doughnuts.”
“Fried chicken and doughnuts? Two of my favorite things,” I say.
Vera smiles and talks about the trials and tribulations of getting a business off the ground as we take in the displays about the great migration of African Americans from the South to other parts of the US, the original sign from a bed and breakfast in Maine that catered to black tourists called Rock Rest, and an old COLORED SECTION sign from a segregated train car. The subject matter is not as troubling as the slavery exhibit, but in some ways it hits closer to home as it really wasn’t that long ago that events depicted within these walls unfolded. I see the dress Rosa Parks wore when she was arrested for refusing to give up her seat on an Alabama bus and think about how that happened only about twenty years before I was born. I take in an obsolete tape recorder used by Malcolm X and realize Momma was already in her twenties when he gave his powerful speeches. These displays are definitely emotion-evoking but, somehow, when compared to the slavery exhibit, the mood, and maybe even the lighting, are just a tad lighter. No one is clowning around with a selfie stick or talking in raised voices, but unlike the almost complete silence we experienced downstairs, talking among ourselves in a measured tone doesn’t seem inappropriate in at least certain areas of this exhibit. We are, however, quiet when we come upon a fragment from the stained glass window of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Alabama that was blown up in 1963 and, of course, we observe a moment of silence when we stand before Emmett Till’s coffin. But as we take seats at the interactive lunch counter and begin tapping on the screens, Vera resumes chatting with Wavonne and me. “My daddy helped me a lot when I started my business,” she says. “Not only was he an excellent cook, he was pretty knowledgeable about the food service business in general. You’d be surprised how much he learned working in restaurants forty years ago still applies today.”
“What’s it they say: The more things change, the more they stay the same?” I reply. “We have so much more technology to track inventory and expenses... and relay information from the front of the house to the back of the house, but in the end, just like forty years ago, good food and good service at a fair price are what keep customers coming in the door.”
“Daddy told me almost the exact same thing when I was debating whether or not to move forward with my venture.”
“So, there was some hesitation?”
“Yes. Big time. I had a steady job with an insurance company... a regular paycheck... medical and dental... paid time off... a 401K. But boy was I bored. I wanted to do something more interesting and more active. I was tired of sitting in front of a computer at a desk all day. I love to cook and have always wanted to get into the restaurant business, so one day, I decided to just take the leap and go for it.”
“I’m guessing you’re not bored anymore,” I say. “That is one thing about the food service business—it’s never boring.”
“Ain’t that the truth. I’ve definitely learned that since I started my fried chicken and doughnuts venture. From day one it’s been a challenge. I thought a food truck would be a way to ease into the business—that it would be less overhead and less of a commitment... and require less man power than a full-service restaurant. And I guess that’s true, but it’s still been so much more difficult than I could have imagined. I found a good deal on a truck, but then it cost me a fortune to make the modifications to meet fire and health regulations, and I didn’t budget enough for insurance . . . and the rent for the kitchen I use to do a lot of the prep work keeps rising. As soon as I feel like I’m starting to get ahead, something else comes up. But, at the same time, I love it—every day is different, and people really appreciate my food—they follow me on Twitter to find out where I’m going to park each day.”
“So, what happens if you win this whole thing, and Russell hires you as executive chef at his new restaurant? Will you give up your truck?”
“I might try to keep it going on the side. Honestly, I hadn’t given it much thought until recently. I never thought I’d make it this far into the competition. I’m a good cook, but we all know how these things go—the people who last the longest are not necessarily those with the highest skill level. The ones who survive the longest are usually the ones who are the prettiest, or loudest... or create the most drama. I’m nearly fifty years old and even some of the men in the competition are prettier than I am. And don’t get me started with the women—my left thigh weighs more than most of them. I figured my network TV lifespan was one to three episodes. Once I got in the door, I was really only hoping to stay in the game long enough to get some publicity for my truck. I figured they’d send the token frumpy middle-aged lady on her way a few weeks into filming. I would have been happy with an upsurge in business, once the few episodes I was in aired. Being part of the final three is quite a surprise.”
“I don’t find it that surprising,” I say. “You’re likable and have a quick wit, and it sounds like you know your way around a deep fryer. Once the shows start to air, I suspect much of America will be rooting for you.” I believe every word that just fell from my lips. Vera seems like a kind soul. She has a good story. And it’s admirable that she keeps a pleasant demeanor despite obviously not feeling well.
“Thank you. I appreciate you saying that,” Vera says before she starts playing around with the interactive screen on the counter in front of her, and I get up to check out an old Southern Railway passenger car with a partition to create separate seating areas for white and black passengers and, later, make my way to the end of this gallery. As I leave the area and walk underneath an actual seventy-year-old plane, apparently called a Stearman PT-13D Kaydet, flown by Tuskegee airmen during World War II, I think about how I told Vera that America would root for her. I almost told her that I was certainly rooting for her, but figured that since I’m a judge and cameras are rolling all around us... and there’s a microphone clipped to my shirt, I’d better keep that little bit of information to myself.
Chapter 10
As I step up toward the third and final floor of the History Galleries I see Trey and Twyla on the ramp ahead of me.
“Do you mind giving me a little support? These shoes are not meant for inclines,” I hear Twyla say as she locks her arm into Trey’s and leans into his shoulder. “I should have worn flats but, then again, if I had, I wouldn’t have gotten to cozy up to such a handsome young man.”
Twyla has a good thirty years on Trey and maybe she meant her words to come across the way a grandmother might innocuously speak to her grandson, but there was a tone or a
n inflection... or something in her voice that made her “cozy up” comment sound sort of, for lack of a better word, “unseemly.” There’s a cameraman next to me, getting the two of them on film from behind. Twyla interlacing her arm through Trey’s seems to have caught his attention—he picks up his pace and tries to catch up with them as they enter the A Changing America: 1968 and Beyond exhibit.
I follow them into yet another vast space and try to focus on the exhibits, but Twyla’s behavior is distracting. She and Trey are no longer climbing a ramp (that was not that steep anyway), yet Twyla hasn’t removed her arm from his as they walk around on a flat surface. I step behind them, and we all view a pamphlet about Soul City, North Carolina, a planned community first proposed in 1969, which was to be open to all races, but placed an emphasis on providing opportunities for minorities and the poor. I’m reading about how the development was sort of a bust and the town never really grew into what it was envisioned to become, when Twyla finally unlocks her arm from Trey’s, only to grab his hand. “Look at this,” she says, leading him toward a large metal basket used to rescue people caught in the Hurricane Katrina floodwaters. “I remember watching the whole tragedy on the news... seeing little children air-lifted in these things... so sad,” she adds, and leans her head on Trey’s shoulder.
As I’m watching this interaction unfold from a distance I hear the click clack of Wavonne’s heels approach from behind. She edges up next to me and, I’m embarrassed to admit it but, at the moment, we are both finding Twyla’s lecherous behavior more interesting than the sweatshirt about the 1995 Million Man March or the boom box carried by Radio Raheem in Do the Right Thing... or any of the other memorabilia on show around us.
“Oooh, girl.” Wavonne’s eyes are locked on Twyla and Trey. “Looks like the cougar has come down from the mountain and found herself some prey.”
“Twyla’s clinginess does seem a bit inappropriate.”
“A bit inappropriate?” Wavonne questions. “If a mature man in a position of power was actin’ like that—all touchy-feely with a young girl—he’d be ‘me-too’d’ straight to a courtroom. Seems like an ole crow like Twyla shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it either. But, I can see the draw—Trey is quite the little snack.”
“He’s definitely handsome.”
“And definitely knows that he’s handsome. What’s the old song... from your generation... by that skinny white lady with the giant teeth? ‘You’re So Vain’?”
“My generation? I’m not even sure I was born when that song came out.”
“Whateva’. It’s been runnin’ through my head since I laid eyes on him. I think he spends more time on his makeup than I do . . . and he’s poured into those jeans like Jell-O in a plastic mold. I bet he had to liquify himself to get into them . . . and then go sit in the freezer to become solid again.”
“You would know.” I give Wavonne’s own snug outfit a quick look.
“This dress is supposed to be form-fittin’, Halia. If you ever shopped anywhere outside an L.L. Bean catalogue, you might know that.”
“I shop L.L. Bean online these days, thank you very much.”
“Really?” Wavonne retorts. “Did they finally teach you how to use a computer at the senior center?”
I laugh and am about to reply, but I’m stifled when I catch Cynthia out of the corner of my eye.
“Carl, get over here, would you?” she calls to one of the cameramen.
“Can you two do that again? For the camera this time?”
“Do what again?”
“Argue. It might be fun to include a few clips when we air.”
“Argue?” Wavonne and I ask in unison.
“That was hardly arguing,” I explain. “We do that all the time. I tell Wavonne her outfit is ridiculous. She tells me I have no style. I say her clothes are too tight. She makes a joke about my age. No need to recreate it... we’ll do it a hundred more times before the day is over.”
“I guess I’ll take your word for that.” Cynthia leans in a little closer to me. “So, we’re trying to get judges to spend a little time with each contestant before our tour is over, and we’re running behind. I don’t think we’re going to be able to see the whole museum at this point. We got some footage of you with Vera downstairs, but I’d like you to pair up with Trey as you explore the next area, and then make some time for Sherry before we all convene in the café.”
“Sure,” I say. If I can pry Twyla off Trey.
“Trey,” Cynthia calls in his direction. “The clock’s ticking. I think we need to wrap things up here. I’m going to try and gather everyone and usher the group up to the Culture Galleries. We can get some good footage up there. Why don’t you head on up with Halia and Wavonne?” she suggests before looking at Twyla. “And, Twyla, I’d like you to spend some time with Sherry. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll find her?”
“Okay,” Twyla agrees, looking disappointed to have to leave her newly commandeered boy toy. “I’ll see you later,” she says to Trey, playfully poking her finger into his chest before locking step with Cynthia and setting off in search of Sherry, who, based on what little I know about her, may very well have gotten lost. It wouldn’t surprise me if she, much like Chevy Chase caught in a London traffic roundabout, is walking in a perpetual circle in one of the displays downstairs and wondering why she’s come upon the collection of cornerstones from historically black colleges for the third time.
Chapter 11
“Are you enjoying yourself?” I ask Trey as we exit the History Galleries and make our way through the main concourse to the escalators.
“Enjoying himself?” Wavonne questions, before Trey can answer. “Would you enjoy being pawed by an old lady all morning?”
Trey laughs. “She is a little handsy, isn’t she? Not sure what that’s about, but it’s harmless enough, I guess.”
“Spoken like a man who wants her vote when competition time comes,” Wavonne says.
Trey laughs again. “I think I can get her vote on my merits alone. I’ve worked at some of the top restaurants in the country and studied at Le Cordon Bleu.” Once again, he pronounces it luh core-dawn bluh.
“Yes. You said that earlier about luh core-dawn bluh,” Wavonne mimics. “I studied at sir-ah-tays-villay myself.”
“Where?”
“Surrattsville High School,” I say. “Wavonne’s being a smart aleck,” I add before turning to Wavonne. “And studied is a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?”
“You hush, Halia,” Wavonne says as we step off the escalator onto the top floor of the museum and enter the Culture Galleries, where there is an immediate and palpable shift in the energy and feel of this exhibit versus the History Galleries downstairs—the dim lighting is gone, there is upbeat music playing, bright colors abound, and there’s a rumble of voices and conversations as patrons finally feel like it’s okay to talk freely.
“Cynthia said she wanted me to get some video of you guys at the Foodways sections,” a cameraman, the one she called Carl earlier, says. “I think it’s over this way.”
“I guess that make sense given the culinary nature of the show,” I reply, and we follow Carl to the Foodways: Culture and Cuisine exhibit. After all the heavy subject matter we explored earlier it’s fun to see things like a wire basket used to catch oysters in the nearby Chesapeake Bay and a pot used to cook greens at the Florida Avenue Grill—opened in 1944 right here in DC and still open today—which bills itself as the oldest soul food restaurant in the country. I can actually feel myself getting a little emotional when we come upon the red chef’s jacket worn by the late Queen of Creole Cuisine, Leah Chase, at her New Orleans restaurant, Dooky Chase’s. I never met her, but I always sort of considered her, along with Sylvia Woods, to be role models of sorts—idols really—they opened and ran highly successful restaurants during a time when women, and black women in particular, did not do such things.
“I just loved her,” I say, looking at the bright red chef’s coat with two rows
of buttons down the middle and her name embroidered on the left side.
“Did you know her?” Trey asks.
“No, but I followed her career. She was amazing.”
“I met her a couple of times.”
“Really?”
“Yes. New Orleans is a great food city,” Trey says in a way that irritates me a little bit—I mean, I’m well aware that New Orleans is a great food city. “I did some time at Brennan’s and Commander’s Palace in the French Quarter. I ate at Dooky’s a few times while I lived there, and she would walk around and talk with the customers. I loved New Orleans. I got to meet John Besh and Emeril Lagasse... and a ton of other celebrity chefs.... Bobby Flay, Gordon Ramsey—I tried to get on his show, too.”
“I’m gonna need an umbrella for all these names being dropped,” Wavonne whispers to me.
I chuckle at her remark before replying to Trey. “I’m jealous that you got to meet Leah. I’m in awe of all she accomplished. Women didn’t really open and run restaurants back when she got her start.”
“Well, technically, she didn’t open Dooky’s . . . at least not all by herself,” Trey corrects. “Her husband’s family originally started it as a corner stand, and several years down the line, she and her husband, whose nickname was Dooky, converted it into a sit-down restaurant.”
“Interesting.” Once again I’m a little annoyed by kid-know-it all, and maybe I’m being overly sensitive, but I feel like he’s implying that Ms. Chase could not have gotten her restaurant off the ground without the help of a man. “My understanding is that she was the visionary in the relationship.”
I sense that Trey is about to offer a rebuttal when Cynthia steps off the escalator with the rest of the gang. Twyla is chatting with Sherry, and it appears Russell is supposed to get some camera time with Vera but, as usual, he’s barking something into his cell phone rather than paying any attention to her.
Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits Page 6
