Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits

by A. L. Herbert

  “Um,” I say, getting a look at the screen. “That would be a pentagon-shaped building.”

  She looks at me, bemused.

  “As in the Pentagon. It’s the headquarters for the Defense Department.”

  “Oh... so it’s a pentagon? Not an octagon. Oh well, I never was very good at algebra.”

  “Geometry, dear. I think you mean geometry.” I clear my throat and, once again, change the subject. “So, how long have you been working in the restaurant industry?”

  “Just a few years. I studied culinary arts at the Marks Technical Center in Baltimore. They are very selective, you know.”

  “Yes, the ads they run during The Price Is Right and The Young and Restless mention how selective they are several times,” Wavonne says.

  Sherry doesn’t seem to get that Wavonne is chiding her and continues. “From there I worked at a couple of restaurants in DC, and then I moved back to Chicago. At the moment, I’m a chef at Comfort Food in Lincoln Park.”

  Knowing what I know about the Marks Technical Center, I find it hard to believe that Sherry is a chef anywhere. I’m guessing she’s more of a line cook. The Marks Technical Center isn’t really a culinary school, per se. It’s more of a for-profit vocational training center—one of those learn to be a chef... or bartender... or nursing assistant . . . or pharmacy technician in six months or less kind of places. I suspect that it’s Sherry’s head shot, not her resume, that helped her score some initial interviews to get on Elite Chef. And, once whoever made the final casting decisions got an in-person look at the full Sherry-package of hair, and cheekbones, and lips and hips... and what she herself described as a killer rack, I’m sure it was a no-brainer to offer her one of the few coveted spots in the competition. Most shows want a va-va-voom factor—Sherry may not bring the smarts or possibly even any real culinary talent to Elite Chef but, if nothing else, she definitely brings the va-va-voom.

  Chapter 14

  “I can’t believe you did that!” I say to Wavonne as we walk toward the entrance of the museum café.

  “Oh, what’s the big deal? I just wanted a photo of me behind the wheel.”

  “Chuck Berry’s Cadillac is roped off for a reason, Wavonne. I leave you alone for five minutes to run to the bathroom and you almost get us thrown out of a federal building.”

  “I don’t know why that security guard got her weave all in a tangle. I was barely in the driver’s seat for a hot minute. But look.” She turns her phone toward me. “Sherry got the photo!”

  I see the snapshot, which Wavonne has already posted to Facebook with the caption: “Check out my ride!”

  “I’ve gotten fifteen likes already.”

  “I hope your Facebook likes are worth all the trouble you caused. If we weren’t with the show, they would have kicked us out of here.”

  “Maybe not worth fifteen likes, but I bet I’ll have over a hundred in the next hour or so—that might be worth a Sweet Tea meal or two,” Wavonne says as we walk into the museum café. Once inside, I take a moment to breathe in the fragrant air and all but forget about Wavonne’s offense.

  “It smells some kind of wonderful in here.” I take in the expansive cafeteria as the scent of various spices, simmering brisket, and fresh baked breads and cakes fills the space.

  “Buttermilk fried chicken!” Wavonne calls out, looking in the direction of the Agricultural South station. “I think I see some biscuits and macaroni and cheese calling my name, too,” she adds as we get closer to the counter. “Braised rabbit, Hoppin’ John, slow-cooked collard greens. I may just have to see if the fried chicken and collard greens here are better than yours.”

  “You say that like it’s even a possibility,” I quip with a laugh. “Let’s check out the other stations before we order.”

  Wavonne falls in step with me, and we tour the three other stations. I can feel my mouth watering as we take in the gulf shrimp and stone-ground grits from the Creole Coast station . . . and the oyster pan roast from the North States counter... and the braised short ribs and skillet cornbread at the Western Range stall. The four stations are a haven of traditional African American cuisine—catfish po’ boys, candied yams, smoked haddock and corn croquettes, smothered turkey grillades, and some very interesting empanadas made with black-eyed peas, corn, and chanterelle mushrooms. I find myself wanting to try all of it, but I end up going with the croquettes, some collard greens, and a nice serving of macaroni and cheese while Wavonne partakes of the fried chicken, candied yams, baked beans, and cornbread.

  “Do you see the others?” I ask Wavonne while I grab a couple of iced teas, putting one on my tray and one on hers.

  “Yeah. They are over there in the corner, underneath that photo of Ben’s Chili Bowl.”

  I look toward an imposing image of Ben’s Chili Bowl, a decades-old DC restaurant (a bit of a dive really) known for its chili dogs, half smokes, and milk shakes. It’s been in business for more than fifty years and has become a revered DC institution. Underneath the picture, I see Cynthia and Russell sitting at the middle of a long table. Vera is seated across from Sherry on one side, and Twyla is next to Trey on the other.

  “Okay. Let’s pay with those vouchers Cynthia gave us and join the gang.”

  “I know you’ve lost your mind, if you think we’re sittin’ down without going to the dessert counter.”

  “Dessert counter?”

  Wavonne points behind me and, honestly, I’m not sure how I missed it—it’s like an island of confections rising from the tile floor—red velvet cupcakes, banana pudding, little chocolate Bundt cakes, mini sweet-potato pies, lemon tarts with fresh blackberries, chocolate pudding—it’s dessert overload.

  I take in all the treats. “I want one of everything.”

  “One? I want three of everything. Hell, maybe I’ll hitch the whole bar to the back of Chuck’s Cadillac and drive it on outta here.”

  I chuckle and settle on the banana pudding.

  “We’ve been walking all morning... burnin’ calories. Why not?” Wavonne says as she takes two desserts—one of the little pies and a cupcake.

  “That’s quite a trayful,” Twyla says to me as Wavonne and I place our food on the table and sit down with the rest of the gang. “A moment on the lips. A lifetime on the hips.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with Halia’s big ole birthin’ hips,” Wavonne says. “They’re nice advertisin’ for Sweet Tea . . . means the food’s good.”

  I’m not sure if I should thank Wavonne for her words of defense or give her a smack on the back of the head, so I don’t say anything. I just watch as Twyla leans in toward Trey.

  “Try this, love,” she says to him, lifting a forkful of grits to his mouth.

  “Did she just call him ‘love’?” Wavonne whispers to me.

  We both try not to cringe as Trey lets her put the fork in his mouth, but I hear a faint “Ewe,” from Wavonne.

  “Delicious, right?” she says in a way that makes it seem like she is talking about more than just the grits.

  Another slightly audible “Ewe” comes from Wavonne before we spend the next half hour or so making small talk with the group while trying to enjoy our lunch, which is no easy task given how Twyla continues to fondle Trey while the poor guy tries to eat. Fortunately for us onlookers, he politely declines her second attempt to feed him off her fork, but that does not stop her from leaning against him through half the meal and occasionally managing to touch his hand or upper arm while she talks.

  I find myself grateful for a break in Twyla and Trey’s little PG-13 performance of The Graduate when Leon enters the café, followed by some of the lighting and sound guys. The cameras were on us throughout the morning, but it seems like, just now, they are bringing out the big light fixtures and a team of production technicians.

  Cynthia stands up as Leon and his team enter the area of the café roped off for us. “Okay, folks, it’s show time. Please sit up straight... boobies up, chins down. Don’t look directly at the camera. Look a
t Leon and just follow his instructions.”

  “I ain’t got no problem lookin’ at Leon. I just finished one tasty dish”—Wavonne looks at her empty plate—“but that don’t mean I’m not up for another.”

  Wavonne’s cackle is met with serious side eye from Cynthia. “Save it for when the cameras are rolling, Wavonne,” she scolds before addressing the crew. “Roll cameras.”

  One of the cameramen says, “Speed.”

  “That’s to let Cynthia know that the cameras are not lagging,” Twyla says to us. “I’m familiar with all the lingo from doing Twyla’s Tips, Tricks, and Tidbits for so long.”

  A young woman in jeans and a T-shirt steps in front of what appears to be the main camera. “Elite Chef, episode twelve, scene one,” she says, and clacks the lever down on a slate board.

  “Action.”

  “Welcome back,” Leon says to the camera. “As you’ve seen, it’s been a busy morning for our gang of contestants and judges here at the National Museum of African American History and Culture. They’ve toured the building, learned a lot about history and each other, and just finished a hearty lunch here at the museum café.” He pauses, takes a breath, and raises his voice. “I don’t know about you viewers at home, but after all that, I think it’s time we get down to business! We have three contestants left. The dashing, debonair, and sometimes difficult Trey McIntyre; the beautiful, busty, and bubbly Sherry Ashbury; and last but not least, the sassy, shrewd, and, dare we say, softhearted Vera Ward.”

  A separate camera zooms in on each one of the contestants as Leon introduces them.

  “We have something very special in store for the final three—a challenge that fits the locale... a challenge that will test their resourcefulness and creativity.” Leon’s voice continues to get louder and deeper, but at the same time, he’s speaking more slowly, as if he’s building up to some grand announcement.

  “He remind anyone else of Effie Trinket from The Hunger Games?” Wavonne mutters.

  Her comment garners a few giggles before Leon continues.

  “Today we are going to task Sherry, Trey, and Vera with what may be their toughest Elite Chef activity to date.” Leon looks away from the camera toward the final three. He takes another breath and dramatically asks, “Ladies and gentleman, are you ready?”

  Chapter 15

  “Okay, folks,” Cynthia says as the camera guys take a break. “Sherry, Trey, Vera, I want you guys up here.” She directs them to three chairs at the front of the little area we have roped off in the café. “Halia, I’d like you and Wavonne to take a seat at that table.” She points toward the table next to the one at which Wavonne and I are seated. She then instructs Twyla to move to the table on the other side. It appears Russell is staying put.

  Cynthia then indicates to the crew that she is ready for filming to start again, and a young man on the production team wheels a large, flat screen TV behind Leon. We go through the whole “roll cameras, speed, clapper board” thing before Leon gets going again. “As you viewers at home might have noticed, the museum café is divided into four stations, each representing a distinct region of the country: the Agricultural South, the Creole Coast, the North States, and the Western Range,” he says, standing in front of Sherry, Trey, and Vera. There is one camera on him, one on the contestants, and one behind all of us catching some other angles. “We have three tickets in this toque blanche.” Leon lifts a white chef’s hat from the table in front of him and displays it for the camera. “Each one lists a, what you might call, humdrum American food staple from one of the regions represented here today . . . . Sherry, Trey, Vera...” Leon looks at the three of them with wide eyes, like he’s about to send them off to Afghanistan to fight the Taliban. “In a moment you will have an opportunity to draw from the hat. It will then be your job to reinvent the ‘oh-so-ordinary’ food item listed on your ticket... jazz it up... give it a ‘wow factor.’ As I mentioned earlier, there are four regions represented here today, but only three of you. So, we asked Gina Marshall, our first Elite Chef winner, to take one of the regions, the Western Range, along with a commonplace food choice, and whip up a little something fantastic to give you some inspiration. Let’s go to Gina in New York.”

  The flat screen behind Leon comes alive and an attractive young woman in full chef’s attire appears. From the background you can see she’s in a commercial kitchen.

  “Hello, contestants!” Gina says. “I hear you’re down to one of the final challenges. Believe me, I know how that feels, but hang tight and try to enjoy the ride. I was in your shoes this time two years ago, and no one was more surprised than me when I won the title of Elite Chef and the once in a lifetime opportunity to run the kitchen here at the Barbary in the capital of the world, Manhattan! If it can happen for me, it can happen for any one of you.” She pauses for a moment, and I begin to wonder if she is coming to us live via Facetime or Skype, or if the whole thing was prerecorded. “So, when my boss and owner of the Barbary, Mr. Russell Mellinger, the man that made all this happen for me, asked that I prepare a little something to help motivate you guys for today’s competition, of course I agreed. I was assigned the Western Range, and get this: trout fish sticks as apparently trout, while in streams and lakes all over the country now, is native to waters west of the Rocky Mountains. Who knew. Right?” she asks with a big smile. “How does one reinvent fish sticks?” She throws her hands up in the air as if she’d been tasked with the impossible. “And how do I make them contemporary and interesting? All I knew about fish sticks is that you usually remove them from the freezer, pop them in the oven, and hope they don’t taste too processed and bland by the time you take them out. But then I thought of these lovely fish cakes I used to make with salmon when I worked in a restaurant in Anchorage. I figured with a little reworking I could prepare them with trout instead of salmon and shape them into sticks rather than patties. Next thing I knew, I was mincing some fillets in the food processor... adding some onion, bread crumbs, eggs... a little mustard and mayonnaise and Worcestershire sauce—everything is better with some Worcestershire sauce. After a pinch of salt and a few dashes of parsley, chives, and dill, I shaped the whole kit and caboodle into sticks, rolled them in some panko bread crumbs, and fried them in olive oil.”

  The camera filming Gina in New York pans to a plate stacked with her creations. And, I must say, they do look like they would be quite tasty.

  “Not bad, right?” Gina says as the camera zooms out to include both her and the plate of crunchy fried goodies. “But they needed a little something to go with them, so I mixed up a remoulade sauce with mayonnaise, mustard, and some spices.”

  Gina lifts a fish stick from the plate, dips it in the sauce, and raises it to her mouth. “So, there you go. I hope I’ve given you a little inspiration for today’s challenge. Good luck!” She takes a bite out of her fish stick, and I wonder no more if she is coming to us live. The intense crunch sound coming from the speaker as she bites into the fish stick was clearly added in post-production.

  “Didn’t give me much inspiration,” Trey says as the video fades out. “She essentially rolled some fish cakes into sticks and made the simplest of sauces to go with it. Yawn,” he adds, folding his arms over his chest and slouching down in his chair.

  “They didn’t look much better than what you’d get out of a box of Gordon’s from Safeway,” comments Sherry. “And I thought the Barbary was in New York, but she said she was in Manhattan. Huh.”

  “I don’t know, they looked okay to me,” Vera offers. “Maybe not all that creative, but they looked flavorful . . . and nice and crispy. I think the three of us can do better though.”

  “I guess we are about to find out.” Leon excitedly extends the chef’s hat to Vera. “Please select your ticket.”

  Vera retrieves a slip of paper from the hat and unfolds it. “‘Cheese has long been an American staple but is most deeply rooted in the northern states,” she says, reading off the ticket. “ ‘The earliest dairy farms were in
the Rhode Island, Connecticut, and Massachusetts colonies. The first large-scale cheese production was started by Jesse Williams in Rome, New York. And, today, Wisconsin has claimed the title of the largest cheese-producing state in the United States, turning out more than three billion pounds of cheese a year.

  “ ‘Your assignment is: the Northern States, grilled cheese, Russell.’” Vera lifts her head and looks at Leon. “Russell?”

  “Oh!” Leon feigns surprise. “Did I forget to mention that each ticket also has the name of a judge on it.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did,” Vera replies, playing along.

  “I’m so sorry. Let me explain.” Leon moves from mock surprise to mock remorse. “Each of the contestants will get a ten-minute consultation or coaching session with the judge whose name is on their ticket. So, Vera, you have a few minutes before we start the challenge to garner some guidance and advice from Russell about giving your grilled cheese a little zing.”

  Vera seems pleased with her selection and nods at Leon as he moves on to Sherry, who reaches into the hat and grabs a ticket.

  “‘Pork, and ham in particular, has always been an important ingredient in Creole cuisine. Who doesn’t love Creole Pecan Glazed Ham or Creole Ham, Sausage, and Shrimp Jambalaya . . . or Creole Bourbon Beans And Ham. Your assignment is: the Creole Coast, ham sandwich, Halia.’” Sherry turns toward me, and I can see one of the cameras moving in my direction to capture my reaction to the pairing. “Yay!” she says, all smiles while giving me a double thumbs-up with her hands.