The Chicken Sisters

by Kj Dell'Antonia

  No. They were on shaky ground with this one, and she knew from the smug look on her inquisitor’s face that Catlin knew it. Making the biscuits by hand required three additional cook shifts weekly, and the switch to frozen biscuits meant a substantial savings, but they’d been quiet about it, because the biscuits were, like the chicken, at the heart of Frannie’s. They were practically house made—the company they ordered from used nothing artificial, and even when they had made their own at Frannie’s, they’d frozen them before baking, everyone did, even Mimi’s, probably—but there was no getting around it; the biscuits did come frozen. Could she say anything other than yes?

  “Yes, but—” She tilted her chin up and tried to sound very matter-of-fact. “Yes. Fried chicken is our absolute specialty, so it’s made fresh here, from locally sourced chicken.” Just don’t mention the biscuits again. Chicken. “We bone it ourselves for the tenders. And we use Frannie’s original recipe for the seasoning—it’s over a hundred years old, her recipe. We’ve never changed it. It’s always exactly the way she made it, and then her son, and then his son.”

  She could feel her voice rising as she went on about the chicken, and she smiled at Nancy, who had paused in answer to her look, and the chefs’. That was a good answer.

  Nancy didn’t look happy; in fact, she looked horrified, but what else could Amanda have said? “We just keep frying up the same perfect chicken.”

  Nancy turned away, probably not wanting to risk anyone bringing the conversation back around to the biscuits, but Tony Russell, following Nancy as she led the way to his usual table, stopped, leaning on his cane, and listened to Amanda.

  “Never changed it? I’d have sworn you switched the chicken up some, few years back. It hasn’t tasted the same for a while now, to me.”

  Gus was still giving the Russells’ table a last wipe, and they were all caught there, trapped in a conversation most of them didn’t want to be having, cameras on. Tony’s wife, behind him, rolled her eyes. “You let Amanda be, Tony. You’ve been saying that about everything for years. Nothing ever tastes the same to you.”

  “No, this is different. I’ve been eating here since I was a kid, and it’s just never been the same. Not since Frank went. Must have changed the recipe.”

  Nancy, in front of them both, didn’t turn around, but spoke over her shoulder. “There is no recipe, Tony. But it’s the same old chicken. There was even a jar of seasoning Frank mixed himself, for a while.”

  Gus looked up, his sudden movement catching Amanda’s eye. “But—” He started to speak, then went back to wiping the table with a glance at the camera. “Never mind,” he said softly. She hadn’t realized he was so nervous.

  No one else seemed to have noticed Gus’s interruption. “We just all miss them,” said Tony’s wife, giving him a gentle push. “Nothing’s the same.”

  “I still say it’s different,” said Tony, although he walked on. “Never used to have all these cameras here, either.”

  This time, his wife laughed outright. “I’d have kept him home if I could, Nancy.”

  Nancy, now at their table and holding out a chair, did smile at that. “Not on a Friday night. Never. We’d have had to come see where you two were.”

  Amanda suddenly realized this was her chance. “Let me get your drinks, Tony,” she said, and jumped out of her seat, nodding to James and Cary. “Gotta take good care of our regulars.” She rushed off, avoiding any further questions about what was and wasn’t frozen, although they’d pretty much covered it except for the desserts. It was hard for a small place to have a big menu without some help, and people expected at least a little variety. Buying the biscuits also meant they could serve them generously, in a basket on the table, instead of parceling them out with the chicken. It had been a good business decision, but maybe it made bad television.

  Why did they even care? She’d watched three full seasons of Food Wars and never seen them ask this, and of course some of the restaurants were putting frozen stuff on the plate. Handling all your own vegetables just didn’t make economic sense, and no one more than a few miles from the ocean was serving up fresh shrimp and seafood. So why suddenly give Frannie’s, and her, a hard time about it? It wasn’t like they were serving frozen fried chicken.

  Now Amanda was determined to evade the cameras, or at least offer them little of interest. She started moving fast and constantly. If she wasn’t seating people, she was carrying bar orders or busing tables. It helped that Frannie’s was so busy. Everyone needed an extra hand. Maybe she should have talked up the biscuit bakery, played up how they were helping another small business. But the desserts and the other stuff didn’t do that. Damn it, did they have to get absolutely everything right?

  Or she could have lied. They used to make the biscuits, and they could again. She could have talked about how all restaurants needed the support of their suppliers. Or avoided the first question. Or insisted they talk to Nancy. Or faked her own sudden death from choking on an ice cube.

  By the time the place finally cleared out, she was exhausted. Everyone around her was limp, quiet, the celebratory mood of the night before replaced by a sort of anticlimactic silence. All that was left, filming-wise, was the chicken tasting tomorrow and then the big announcement.

  Amanda wanted to talk to Nancy, to make things right, to apologize for the biscuits and maybe the chicken and anything she could think of to get Nancy on her side again, but Nancy was avoiding her, and with Sabrina and her team still in the restaurant, it felt impossible to just grab her and insist that they talk. Instead, Amanda, running her sweeper furiously over the patterned carpet, was caught by Sabrina, sitting on a table, somehow managing to arrange her short dress to perfectly show enough leg to be sexy but not sleazy, high heels dangling from her fingers.

  “Frozen biscuits, huh?” she said with a frown. “They kinda nailed you with that one.”

  Irritated, Amanda pushed the sweeper toward the host, who laughed and lifted her feet higher so that Amanda could get under the table. “Everybody uses frozen stuff,” she said. “Why were they making such a big deal out of it?”

  “Because Mae did. She made sure they tasted Mimi’s biscuits, with the fresh local honey. Said they were just as much part of the tradition as the chicken.”

  Amanda could not remember Mae ever saying one single thing about Mimi’s biscuits, which were just the same as anybody made. And she didn’t remember any special honey, either. “There’s no such thing as a special biscuit recipe. I mean, some people make them better than others, but basically there’s only a couple of ways to do it.”

  “That’s not what Mae said. And she made sure Cary and James knew yours were frozen, too.”

  “They freeze theirs! They make them once a week and freeze them. That’s what we used to do, too. They actually bake better that way. This is ridiculous.”

  “Well, Cary Catlin loved that every one of the three things Mimi’s serves besides chicken was totally homemade, and then that the pies were, too. She kept saying how brilliant it was to specialize. She asked your mother what happened when they ran out, and your mom said, ‘We close,’ and Cary laughed like crazy. Called it brilliant.”

  Frankie, who was wielding the second sweeper while Gus lifted chairs up onto tables, stopped, with a worried look on her face. “Does that mean we’re going to lose, Mom?”

  “But Frannie’s makes a whole lot more than four or five things,” Gus said angrily. “We might not make everything from scratch, but we actually make way more than Mimi’s does—the meatloaf, the mashed potatoes, the gravy, the coleslaw, all the chicken, the wings, the steak with mushrooms, soup when we have it—it takes three cooks. That’s not fair.”

  Sabrina shrugged, her perfect slim shoulders in their perfectly styled wrap dress irritating Amanda as much as her words. “Not everybody plays Food Wars fair. A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. Your aunt wants to win; tha
t’s all.”

  “Well, we want to win, too,” Frankie said.

  Sabrina chuckled. “She told them to be sure to ask you, too, Amanda. Said you couldn’t tell a lie to save your life.”

  “I don’t need to lie about that,” Amanda said hotly, even though she’d been partially wishing she had all night. “Making biscuits the way we do is absolutely the right call for us right now. Mae’s just being a—a jerk.” She could have lied if she had wanted to. Or thought of it fast enough. She listened as Gus went on and on to Sabrina about the costs that went into the kitchen, and why frozen food made good sense. He knew more about it than Amanda did, surprisingly, and Frankie, too, was passionate in her defense of everything Frannie’s did. Was this how Amanda was supposed to feel? Because what she felt, mostly, was exhausted beyond caring, and like maybe Frannie’s was better off without her.

  “I get it, Gus, but what can I do? The chefs are the judges,” Sabrina said. “Right now, Mae’s looking good to them. She’s the queen of all things honest and homemade, even if it’s not really any better. And you should have seen her kids. It was like they were made for the camera. She set herself up really well for tomorrow. She’s the golden girl.”

  In her mind, Amanda snarled.

  “Well, that will change when they compare our chicken,” said Gus, as Nancy appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, looked out at them, then shut the door again, probably at the sight of Sabrina. They were on the same page there at least. Amanda was sick of the host at this point too. “I’m going to see if Grandma needs a hand getting ready tomorrow. Even if I can’t come in to the taping.” He paused and looked questioningly at Sabrina, who shook her head.

  “Just your mom and Nancy for this one. You can be in on the win reveal.”

  “Okay.” He lifted up a last chair and nodded to himself. “It’s going to be great.”

  Sabrina slid off the table and picked up Amanda’s phone from where it sat up on the frame between the booths. “Don’t forget this,” she called to Gus, as she flipped it over, screen up. “Oops—not yours. Your mom’s. And you have a message.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively and tossed the phone to Amanda, but Gus shot his arm in. “Pogociello for the interception,” he said, and glanced down at the screen before quickly looking up and extending it to Amanda. “Oh—sorry,” he muttered.

  Amanda barely stopped herself from snatching the phone away. Nancy, still scolding her, or ready to make up? No—Andy.

  Sorry about last night. Hope things went ok tonight. We were busy. Maybe I can buy you a drink?

  Amanda looked at her son, walking toward the kitchen. Had he read the message? He had to have seen it was there, probably whom it was from, but if he hadn’t really read it, just glanced at it—from the shape of his shoulders and the speed of his walk, she had a bad feeling. There had been no one after Frank—could be no one, really. She and Frank—that was her love story, and if things had been a little rough at what had turned out to be the end, Gus never needed to know it. Where would they be, if Frank hadn’t died? She wanted to think she would have come to her senses, realized what she had the way she did now, but she had been so frustrated, felt so trapped.

  A little like she felt now, but she wasn’t screwing this up again. Food Wars was her shot, and nothing—certainly not some guy who thought he could help destroy a part of her history and still have her jump when he called—was going to get in her way. She wanted to run after Gus, grab him, promise that she never had loved anyone but his dad and never would. But if he hadn’t read the text after all, she’d just be making things worse.

  She looked down at her phone and imagined typing No, you can’t buy me a DRINK. Not now, not ever, not for a whole lot of reasons.

  “Yeah, I don’t need to answer that,” she said loudly, making sure Gus could hear, just in case. Suddenly she was intensely aware of Sabrina’s and Frankie’s interested faces. The Food Wars host wasn’t just a friendly girlfriend, and she didn’t care about kids. She might prefer that Amanda do or say something just because it would make better TV, but nothing kept Amanda more sober, in every sense of the word, than Gus and Frankie. She might have slipped a little last night, but not again—and especially not with somebody who thought she was desperate enough not to care that he was helping Mae ruin her work with one hand and texting her with the other. “I’ll deal with it later,” she said, and shoved the phone into her pocket untouched. Or never. Never sounded good.

  Gus walked into the kitchen, and Amanda wanted to follow him, but she couldn’t leave Frankie with Sabrina and didn’t want Sabrina in there, anyway. Silently, she finished the floor, then redid the parts Frankie had missed when her daughter went to put their things in the car.

  Followed by Sabrina, she stuck her head into the kitchen, holding the swinging door with one hand. Gus and Nancy were huddled over something on the counter, Nancy’s arm around Gus’s shoulders, and they turned quickly as the door opened.

  “You ready, Gus?”

  Gus looked at his grandmother, who nodded. She was smiling and looking lighter than Amanda would have imagined possible after the night they had had, and Amanda, conscious of Sabrina, who was looking in over her shoulder, ventured the fewest words she thought might cover it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “About tonight.”

  “That’s okay,” said Nancy briskly, pushing Gus gently toward them but not leaving the counter herself. “You go with your mom, Gus. I’ll take it from here. See you in the morning.”

  Gus turned, and he and Nancy exchanged a huge smile that Amanda would have given a lot to be part of. That’s okay didn’t go nearly far enough, but as Amanda stood there and Gus slipped past, Nancy turned away, cutting off further conversation. After lingering for a minute in case she changed her mind, Amanda followed Gus out.

  At home, Gus and Frankie quickly slid off in the direction of their rooms. Although Amanda could still hear them through the thin walls, particularly Gus, who was playing music, she was alone, which was exactly what she wanted, though she felt terrible once she got it.

  Food Wars should have been a slam dunk for Frannie’s, a win to pay off bills and steady the ship and be able to go on exactly as they always had. Instead—

  She tossed her tote bag onto the table and missed, so that the bag slid to the floor, contents spilling everywhere, sketchbook open, pages bent. Amanda picked it up and began to smooth out her drawings. She could sit down, it wasn’t that late, but as she looked down at the chickens, the young hens who were mocking Carleen seemed to be mocking Amanda, too. What the hell was she doing wasting her time on this? This would never amount to anything, and neither would Amanda, or Frannie’s, apparently.

  She tossed the book across the kitchen onto the counter, then shook the pencils and erasers out of the bottom of the bag, which they perpetually turned gray, and shoved the lot into the back of the junk drawer. It was all just junk, anyway. That was exactly where it belonged.

  MAE

  This was like waiting for exam results. Or worse, auditioning to be host of a show like, say, Sparkling.

  Mae stood in between Andy and Barbara in front of the longest table the largely unused dining room at the Inn had to offer, with Andy carefully holding an enormous platter of Mimi’s chicken. Next to them, in another clump, were Amanda and Nancy with an equally ridiculous serving for the three people in front of them. Amanda’s son, Gus, was slipping out after a high five with Nancy, which gave Mae a small pang—would her kids ever feel that close to any of their grandparents?

  No use worrying about that now. Cameras were set up at every angle around the room. Up until that moment, Sabrina had pulled off the illusion that Food Wars was something of a shoestring production, just her and her team, but with them all gathered in one place and accompanied by their trucks and tables and assistants, it was suddenly clear that this was truly a massive endeavor, and that every moment that had led them to these final scenes
wouldn’t just be tossed out into the world as a quick Instagram story, but produced and shaped into fast-paced entertainment for the waiting masses.

  Sparkling was amateur hour compared to this, and as a makeup artist stepped away from Cary Catlin and rushed over to adjust Sabrina’s hair, Mae was conscious that she’d done her own makeup with Madison and Ryder watching curiously, demanding to know why she was coloring on her face, and Jay talking to them all through FaceTime, trying to distract the kids while Jessa got a solo break at breakfast and politely wishing Mae luck, although she doubted his heart was in that one. Not that he would want her to screw up on TV, necessarily— Oh hell, she’d given up on figuring out what Jay wanted. He was all over the place at this point. He missed her, sure, or he said he did, but did he really miss her? Nobody ever seemed normal over FaceTime, but Jay seemed especially antsy. When Mae took the little screen back as the kids drifted away, he looked her in the eyes, and then oh so quickly looked away. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” he said, and as badly timed as it was, she couldn’t help herself.

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “No, just, I’ll talk to you later. Why wouldn’t I talk to you later?”

  “I don’t know,” Mae said, wishing she could reach through the screen. “You just seem weird.” And had, the whole time she was gone. Of course they had fought. And of course he didn’t like Food Wars. But none of that was new. This sense of distance was.

  And he hadn’t argued; that was the thing. “Just go do the show, Mae. And I’ll see you—I mean, I’ll talk to you later. Everything’s fine.”

  He hung up then, and if he’d planned to throw her off-balance, he’d succeeded. But she couldn’t think about Jay right now. She tugged at her shirt, making sure it wasn’t blousing too much over her skirt, and fished in her pocket for more lipstick. She looked like a rube; she just knew it.