by D. J. Lutz
Everyone thought the chocolate pecan pie was a great idea. I recounted how I had learned the recipe from George after he had to make the culinary detour due to the spice switcheroo. We made it a team project, with all of us bounding back into the kitchen to try our hand at making the layered dessert.
There was non–stop laughter and the occasional cloud of flour rising from the prep table. I even had to referee a debate about how to pronounce the word pecan. Tricia said the Southern way to say the word was something akin to pee–can. Francine disagreed, saying that when she was a little girl in Texas, her kindergarten class would often go for a walk around the neighborhood, picking up puh–cahns that had fallen from the trees lining the streets. After I noticed Tricia’s pronunciation mimicked the slang word for a chamber pot, everyone agreed that we would go with the Texan version.
15
Velma had already worked for an hour before my feet hit the floor the next morning. She had been wanting to sharpen her wooden skewers, but realized she had forgotten to order them. Instead of placing an emergency call to the closest food supply warehouse, Velma improvised. When I walked down the stairs into the kitchen, I found her rummaging through the back storeroom.
I sat for my first cup of coffee as clangs and bangs emanated from within the storeroom. A sombrero flew out of the door, followed by several green–and purple–feathered boas. That’s when I heard my grandmother cry, “Found it!”
“Dare I ask?” I had no idea what to expect.
“Chinese New Year, 1952. These chopsticks are genuine bamboo; perfect for the fried chicken on a stick. I figure as long as it’s a stick, the advertising is true. Who knows? Maybe I’ll add some peanut sauce and call it Far Eastern Chicken on a Chopstick.”
“Well, I think you should stick with the good old fried chicken you had planned. Everyone likes fried chicken; and when you are famished, there’s nothing better than fried food on a stick. If you could add corn dogs and mustard to your menu, you would be all set.”
“You’re right, Winnie. I’ll play it safe, so to speak, and keep the presentation simple. When are you planning on visiting Bailey?”
“Once I get this last bucket of chicken submerged in the marinade. I am curious as to her cooking skills. When she worked for her parents, at their old restaurant at least, the only thing they would let her do is decorate. I heard she even caught a milkshake on fire once.”
“Now that is a talent. But in all honesty, I hope she does well. Even if she doesn’t win, it sounds like her cooking reputation could use a boost.” Velma was always the positive one, trying to boost everyone’s self–esteem.
“I imagine Cosmo will be there, too,” I said. “And judging by the lipstick he seems to wear every time I see him, I might need the fire extinguisher for more than just the milkshakes.”
“Winnie, you are bad. Atrocious,” Velma said with laughter. “But Parker could stand a lesson or two in courtship from Cosmo.”
My grandmother just loved to drop hints about how to manage my social life. Velma’s advice always ended with her trademark throw–away remark about how she wasn’t getting any younger. That, and how she didn’t want to die and leave me alone in the world. As if that would ever happen. I had parents. And Fran. And I could always get a puppy.
“Well played, Grandma. Well played. But let’s just worry about the Saucy Skillet trophy right now. And once I have the job locked in with Mint Street, I will speak to Parker about his intentions. But remember, we barely know each other right now. These things take time.”
“Don’t wait too long, girl. I won’t be around forever, you know.”
“He hasn’t even asked me on a date yet. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’ll just need to hang on for a little while longer. Love is like a pot of water warming on the stove. It’s got to get steamy before it boils over.”
I stopped the conversation, hoping to change the subject without my grandmother noticing. Velma looked right at me. We both knew this was the first time I had admitted my burgeoning feelings for Parker, using the L word. The words that just came pouring out like Cosmo’s syrup on the pancakes would dry up and blow away in the breeze.
The best plan I could come up with involved a fast exit. Pivoting on the heel of my right foot, I aimed my body toward to the front door and started walking. If I kept moving, Grandma wouldn’t be able to continue the conversation.
“Well, the marinade is all done and the chicken will be ready for breading by the middle of the afternoon, and I should be back by then to help.”
“You better go.” Grandma tasted the marinade. “May need more salt.”
“Yes and no. Yes, I’m on the way. And no, I’d add white pepper instead of salt.”
“Will he be there?”
“No, I don’t think so. He has to work at the station.”
“Too bad. Maybe I’ll drop by with a plate of cookies for the boys.”
“Grandma, you want to tell him what I said, don’t you?” We both knew the answer.
“I wouldn’t interfere with your love life. Not my place, dear.”
“Make sure you don’t. Please.”
She walked toward the kitchen door. “Just run along. Give my regards to Bailey. I will want a full report later. And white pepper? Too much. A pinch of salt it is.”
“Do I need to call the station and warn Parker?”
“The cookies won’t be that bad. The salt is going in the marinade, not the dough.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Grandma. You know what I mean.”
“Winnie, I said I wouldn’t.”
“Please make sure you don’t. I’ll talk to Parker about a date—when I’m ready.”
“If you are near the Dollar Store, check on prices for new canes, would you? Mine is getting kind of rickety.”
“Your cane is fine, and besides, you don’t use it. Plus, everything in the Dollar Store costs a dollar. That’s why they call them dollar stores. Now, shouldn’t you be working on the potato salad now? If you want it to be chilled, it should go in the cooler soon.”
“Winnie, the spuds will be fine; I know what I’m doing. Run along now.”
“Yes. And one last time, please don’t talk to him.”
“Grandchild of mine, relax. You know I’ll do the right thing. Now go on.”
I would not win this war, and we both knew it. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and left. As I walked across the grass field to reach the rail yard, I replayed the last conversation over and over in my mind. What was the right thing? Did Velma know what was right for me?
Gads, did I know what was right? Could me blurting out the fact I may love Parker have been my heart speaking? Before my brain’s defense system could activate? This relationship crap was becoming way too difficult.
I came up with a plan. When this Pierre drama was over, I would pull Parker by the collar down to my level and ask him out. Next, lay a big kiss on him. A full–on frontal smack on the lips. Depending on his response, I’d either kiss the man again, or drag him home like a cave girl. Deep down, I knew I would have him one way of the other. Was I becoming one of those obsessive stalkers? Not me.
16
Seagulls wandered the rail yard, scavenging for insects among the mismatch of abandoned track, empty boxcars, and rusting maintenance equipment. The doors of a dilapidated tin storage shed flapped in the gentle breeze, their hinges creaking in harmony with the birds’ cawing.
I had to sidestep many a gull who had mistaken me for a tourist with pockets full of bread crumbs. They hopped about in front of my path, and then, receiving no satisfaction, retreated to the safety of nearby flatcars.
There were more insistent birds, too. Those I shooed away with short kicks, never actually touching the birds. I just hoped to keep my shoes guano–free. Nothing would be more embarrassing than to show up at Bailey’s place with nasty, splattered leather shoes. In short order, I found the warehouse containing her pale blue caboose.
Checking the tim
e on my phone, I found I was actually early. After pressing the loading dock door buzzer, I counted twenty seconds before a tiny little voice emanated from a speaker mounted on the door frame. A voice pushed through crackling static, telling me to stand back as the door opened. I was invited.
For a building abandoned so long ago, the door lifted without a sound. I could see the drips and drabs of fresh grease applied to the hinges and gears. Maybe Cosmo had something to do with it? Bright white hanging incandescent lights glowed, obscuring my vision as I stooped under the still–lifting door. As soon as I had made my way inside, I flinched as a loud Klaxon horn sounded, warning me of the door’s imminent closing.
Something appeared from the shadows beyond the beaming lights above me. It was small and it ran fast. Before I could turn, the creature was gone.
A female voice yelled, “Tinkers! Bring that moustache back!”
Moustache?
“Hi, Winnie, I didn’t expect to see you so early. You didn’t see where that klepto–cat went to, did you?”
I saw Bailey standing on the back landing of the caboose. Looking around and seeing no cat, I replied with hunched shoulders. “Ah, sorry. I think she went toward the flatcars? She’s a fast cat, you know. Did you say moustache?”
“Never mind, I have a spare,” she said. “Come on in, will you? Watch your step though. I spilled a glass of wine on the steps when Tinkers ambushed me.”
“I didn’t realize Tinkers was such a commando,” I said.
Bailey brushed fur off her shoulder. “It was like she was hiding on the roof, just waiting. Once the door opened, that’s when Tinkers launched her attack. The fur on my shirt, I can deal with. The claw marks, not so much. And I still don’t know how she ripped off my fake moustache. The cat’s a menace! And now I need more wine for the sauce I’m reducing.”
I climbed aboard, then stopped to look around. I had never been on an old–fashioned steam train before, and Bailey’s caboose was the tail end of a four–car set. Leading the way was an antique steam engine, its brass fittings shined and bell poised to ring whenever the conductor pulled a one–foot hemp rope.
The coal car followed, its box almost full of the black stones needed to power the engine. My guess was that this load was from the final order received before the railway went bankrupt. I could see the handles of a pair of shovels half–buried in the coal by the last person to work as the stoker.
The dining car was third in line; a two–toned blue conveyance still smelling of fresh paint. This car was lit up from the inside, a romantic, soft ivory glow coming from small table lanterns. I strained my neck and saw twin rows of tables inside already adorned with white tablecloths and centerpieces of mums and baby’s breath. Bailey had done well.
The last car was the iconic blue caboose. I assumed it served as both the kitchen and the sleeping quarters for the crew. And by crew, I meant Bailey.
“Is there anything I can do to help, Bailey? Set a table? Greet the judges?”
I then realized I could smell nothing cooking. Perhaps I needed to help the girl light a stove?
“Bailey? Do you have anything started yet? Your lunch doesn’t come out of a can, does it?”
“You are so funny, Winn. In fact, I am almost all done. Here, let me give you a tour of my new restaurant.”
Restaurant? Unless the train could pull around a fast–food place and fit under the drive–through window canopy, I couldn’t see it. We walked past the engine and the coal car, then scaled the black metal stairway rising to the dining car.
“I like your train car’s name. Southern Comfort has a nice ring to it. Reminds me of the days when I would come visit my grandmother. You may have a winner here, Bailey. I hope the food is just as comforting.”
“I like to think so. The final menu is still under development, but today’s offerings are a good start. This will be a family destination point, part historical reenactment, part steampunk science fiction fantasy. And I have something the kids will want. The only thing missing is a dog park, but I had to draw the line somewhere.”
“You’re serving the judges a kid’s meal? The theme is all–American picnic, right?”
“Yes, but meals aren’t just about eating food. I’m serving the judges memories. Experiences, if you like. This may not be the fanciest meal they will have had this week, but I think it will be the one the judges talk about the most, and for the longest time.”
I wasn’t sure if Bailey was a future James Beard award–winner, or someone destined to work on the line at Mrs. Baird’s Bakery.
“So, Bailey, let me ask you, if it won’t interfere with your cooking, so to speak, about the murder the other day. You’ve had a run–in or two with Pierre, yes?”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Winnie. When my parents and I heard Uncle Peter was coming back to town, at first we were happy. We thought Seaview would finally have a four–star restaurant. A fine dining place would bring more tourists, and that would benefit everyone. Uncle Peter had the skills, the experience. He could even speak French. That was ’08, just before the economy went sinking right into the bay.”
“That’s when the tractor company closed, right?”
“Yeah,” she replied. You could hear the letdown in her voice. I was such a fun–sucker.
Bailey paused for a second, and then perked right up like a cheerleader whose team was starting a comeback rally.
“The tractor guys were our best customers. Without them, we lost money right and left. And I knew it would be hard even for a chef as experienced as Peter to get something exquisite going from scratch. Our own, well–established family–style place was already serving a negative profit margin; one in red double digits. How could a new place survive? I think the only reason your grandmother’s place survived was the fact that she lived there. For us, we had two monthly mortgage payments. We couldn’t set up tents in the dining room so the decision was made to sell the restaurant.”
As the sad tale continued, we wandered into the dining car. I picked up a wine glass and checked it for water spots. It was perfectly translucent. Even the salt and pepper shakers glistened. Knives, forks, and spoons were aligned with the lowest edge of the plates. Nothing seemed left to chance.
“But you all ended up here. How’d that happen, if those were your two choices?”
Bailey clasped her hands as if to pray. “Providence. You ever have something in mind, something you want, some—I don’t know—thing that you believe if you have it, or at least will soon get it, that your life will be so much better? That was us and the new four–star restaurant. We were so sure we would be okay if the restaurant could just hang on long enough for dad to make a deal with his brother.”
“But it didn’t happen.”
“No, it didn’t. My dad had put all his hope in Peter, assuming he would give up on his own plan and want to buy into our restaurant. We would make him the operating partner so he could develop the place into his own. My parents were in their sixties, Winnie. They didn’t want to be washing dishes anymore. They were ready to hand over the keys in return for a little financial security in their old age.”
I waved my hand to the row of two–top tables covered with white tablecloths, fine china, and little tea lights serving as ambiance. “What about you? Did your parents ever talk to you about taking over the family business? From the looks of the dining car here, you seem to have a handle on presentation.”
Bailey smirked with a sense of resignation. “They did, but I was never a great cook. One time I scared the neighborhood dogs and cats when my potatoes exploded in the oven. I never knew you had to stick a fork in raw potatoes before baking them. Did you know that? I never knew that. Someone should have told me,” she said.
“I think I may have heard that somewhere before,” I said uneasily. “So if not a chef, what was your plan? How did you end up here? Doing this? I may be crazy, but it looks like, for as bad a cook as you say you are, you’re doing well impersonating a chef.”
“Uncle Peter’s selfish behavior made me sick to my stomach. I had studied hospitality management in high school, and I had taken a few classes over the Internet. I mean, I’m all for running a place, just not cooking for it. If it weren’t for my, my parents—”
Bailey couldn’t finish her sentence.
“I’m so very sorry.”
“Thanks,” she said, wiping away tears. “But they are much happier now, I’m sure of it. Much more so than during the last few months. Mom went first, may she rest in peace. Stress. Disappointment. Heart attack.”
“How’d you handle all of that? You must have an amazing sense of self.”
“Oh, yes, I handled it so well. Not. I locked myself in this caboose for three weeks, crying. Some amazing hero, huh? I often wonder what would have happened if I had focused on the back of the house, cooking, rather than the front of the house. Would the family business have become Bailey’s Bistro? Would my parents still be here? Their deaths could have been all my fault.”
As we walked from the dining car to the caboose–kitchen, I tried to change the mood of the conversation back to the positive. “Listen, Bailey, I don’t blame you at all, so don’t you dare blame yourself, either. I’m just glad you have bounced back and have a plan, with or without Pierre.”
“My parents had bought life insurance policies when they married. A week after my mother had passed, a man from the insurance company showed up here at the caboose. Beats me how he found out where we were staying, since we were trying to keep a low profile. I mean, we were squatting, so who’d want to draw unwanted attention, you know? But anyway, the guy hands me a check. I didn’t know what to do, so I held on to it. After dad went, another check showed up. That’s when I went to the bank and then to a lawyer straight away to buy this train. I have legitimate standing to be here now and no one can take that away from me.”
