Cooking Up Stories

by Liz Hickok

George and Mickey hustle Joe out the door. They retrieve their phones and Mickey’s Swiss Army knife from Junior.

  Back in the Caddy, Joe asks George, “What’s Pete’s story? The way he moves in the kitchen. It looks like he’s got some chef training.”

  George shrugs. “You catch him on a good day, he can make you the best steak you ever had. He does fancy chicken dishes, shrimp, and lobster, everything, just like they do in fancy restaurants. Desserts too. The guy’s a pro.”

  “I’m sure he’s got the chops. How did he end up in this out-of-the-way hole-in-the-wall? No offense,” Joe says.

  “You know something, Joe, everybody has their secrets. You gotta respect that. I’ll bet you got a few secrets of your own,” George says.

  Mickey turns in his seat to face Joe. “I heard Pete was some kind of big deal chef down south somewhere. Got in trouble with the law.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Joe sits up and asks.

  “Dunno for sure, but if I had to guess…” Mickey says.

  “That’s enough, Mickey,” George says.

  “Yeah, sure, George.”

  “C’mon, George, you can tell me. What kind of trouble do you think Pete was in?”

  George takes a slow deep breath and lets it out slowly. “All I can tell you is that he showed up here about a year ago and takes over just when the last Sneaky Pete disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? What happened to him?”

  George shrugs his shoulders and purses his lips. “Pissed somebody off I guess. They come and they go.”

  “What do you mean ‘they come and they go’? There were more?”

  “Three others before this one. All called Pete.”

  “Not their real names, I’m sure?”

  “That would be a real coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “I assume this guy’s name,” Joe hooks his thumb in the direction of Sneaky Pete’s, “isn’t Pete either?”

  “Like I said, we called all the other cooks Pete. Hence the name, Sneaky Pete’s. So it goes without saying we call this guy Pete. It maintains a professional continuity.”

  “Do you know his real name?”

  “All I can tell you is that the first time I met him he was wearing thick glasses, was a whole lot skinnier, and clean shaven. Oh yeah. His hair was dyed blond.”

  “Sounds like he was running from something or someone,” Joe says.

  “The law.” Mickey blurts out.

  George gives Mickey a sideways glance that said bud out.

  “Who owns Sneaky Pete’s?” Joe asks.

  “That cop you pissed off back there and a local gangster own it together. Covers all the bases, if you know what I mean,” Mickey says. George pulls the Caddy alongside Joe’s Subaru Outback.

  “If you’re still in town, Joe stop by any time after two p.m. I’ll be in there.” George tilts his head toward the Four Aces.

  “Yeah, George owns the Four Aces,” Mickey says. Joe follows George at a discreet distance. Eventually, the Caddy stops in front of a ten-story brick building. Mickey exits the car and trudges up the steps to the front entrance of the building, located beneath the vertical neon sign, YMCA. The Caddy lurches from the curb and continues on its journey. Joe follows at a safe distance until George slows and drives up to the entrance to an underground parking structure that services a four-story apartment building. George leans out his window and inserts a key-card into the reader. The security arm raises, the Caddy dips into the underground garage, and then the security arm drops back into place.

  Joe parks his Subaru on the street and hurries on foot into the parking structure. He keeps to the pedestrian walk and eludes the security cameras. He locates George’s Caddy. Satisfied there are no cameras in sight and no early risers, he tests the door handles on George’s car. All the doors are locked, but no alarm is triggered. Joe quickly fishes a thin metal strip out of his sleeve and slides it between the driver’s-side window glass and the rubber sealing strip. He works the Slim-Jim until the lock pops. He yanks the car door open and feels around under the driver’s seat until his hand finds the gun.

  ❦

  Joe pauses at the bottom step. His stomach churns with anxiety. After a moment, he nods his head and enters the porch. It is early afternoon. No doorman, no bouncer, and no Big Junior guarding the door. He takes a slow deep breath to gather up courage to go on and then knocks on the front door. He clutches George’s gun tight against his leg and waits. No answer. He knocks again. Still nothing.

  He tries the doorknob. The door is unlocked; it swings open. He brings the gun up, holding it in a two-handed grip like he’s seen a thousand times on TV and enters the house. He keeps the gun pointed out ahead of him as he moves through the rooms of the home’s lower floor. Unlike the previous night, the house is eerily silent. No voices, no footsteps, and no sign of life. He treads silently up the stairs and into a hallway. He waits and listens. No sound, no footsteps. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, all empty. He returns to the first floor, walks through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the yard. He lowers the gun, but holds it tight against his thigh.

  The backyard has been converted into a vegetable and herb garden. Pete holds a basket filled with vegetables in the crook of his arm. With his back to Joe he squats on his haunches and plucks two tomatoes from a vine and adds them to the basket. He straightens up, pivots around, ready to return to his kitchen. Then, he encounters Joe.

  “Oh hey. I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon. Want some lunch? I can make us a couple of blue cheese burgers.”

  Joe remains stone-faced, “Anyone else here?” He asks.

  “If you’re looking for Grace, she’s isn’t here. Just the two of us.”

  “That’s good.” Joe raises the gun and points it at Pete.

  “Oh! I guess you won’t be staying for lunch.”

  “No.” Joe says.

  Pete sets the basket down. “Are you going to shoot me?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why?”

  “Justice, obligation, revenge. Call it what you like.”

  Pete remains silent for a ten count. Little beads of sweat appear on his forehead. An uncomfortable ripple of awareness washes over his face. “You’re Robert Carpenter’s son?”

  Joe nods his head. “That’s right, Arlen.”

  “No one has called me that in a very long time.”

  “Chef Arlen Templeton?”

  Pete/Arlen nods his head, yes. “I’ve been expecting something like this for a long time.”

  “You didn’t have to kill him.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I only wanted to scare him, get him to stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop killing me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your father took everything from me, Joe. My restaurant, my reputation, and my life. How could I let him get away with that?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true. He was a food critic. He reviewed my restaurant, Revelations, and gave it zero stars. Zero stars! Can you believe that? Not only did he criticize the restaurant and the wait-staff, he disparaged my food. He even ridiculed my signature dish, my famous Crabmeat Cakes.”

  “It was his job to review restaurants.”

  “Review is one thing, destroy is another. He wrote that: ‘it was among the most depressing evenings of his life.’ And ‘How can anyone think that this restaurant is a good idea? It needs to be put in a burlap sack and drowned in the nearest river.’ It was like a stake to my heart. In a TV interview, he suggested that my restaurant should be declared a disaster area by the Governor. In a City Magazine, he told the readers that he ‘ate some of his most expensive meals at Revelations; unfortunately, they were also the worst.’ Your father didn’t know the first thing about food or restaurants in general. He was a hack, and he was cruel. People stopped coming to the restaurant. He bankrupted me.”

  Joe’s hand wavers
.

  “I swear I had no intention of shooting him. I just wanted to talk to him, scare him a little, but he grabbed for the gun. We fought over it. I don’t know who pulled the trigger. The gun just fired. It was an accident. I swear it was an accident.” Tears well up in Arlen’s eyes. “I was the one that drove him to the hospital to save his life.”

  “You just dumped him there.”

  “I was scared. I ran back to my car and just drove. I went into hiding. I got a job at an obscure restaurant in Kansas. They paid me under the table, but then started asking questions. I had to move on. I got a job at an out-of-the-way diner, and then at a carnival making funnel cakes, of all things. When the carnival closed I moved on to food trucks. They paid cash, but not enough, so I kept moving. Then I caught a break. I stopped into the Four Aces one night and met George Weber. We got to talking, one thing led to another, and he offered me a job here at Sneaky Pete’s. It was an opportunity to do what I do best, cooking. It was perfect. An illegal after-hours drinking and gambling joint owned and protected by a cop and a mobster. I felt that my secret would finally be safe. I’d found a home where I could go on with my life.”

  A car in the driveway. The sound of doors opening and slamming shut. Footsteps running through the house and then out the back door.

  “Don’t do it, Joe. Killing him won’t bring your father back,” George yells and then approaches Joe with his hand outstretched. “Come on, Joe, give me the gun. You’re not a killer.”

  Joe’s hand trembles on the trigger.

  “Do the right thing, Joe,” George implores, his palm still extended for the gun.

  Joe fixes Arlen with a frozen stare for a long count.

  “Joe?” George asks softly.

  Joe breathes out a soft sigh full of emotion and defeat, nods his head twice, and then gives the gun to George who gently takes it from him.

  “Now what?” Joe asks.

  The cop who Joe encountered hours earlier stands in the kitchen’s back door. “That’s entirely up to Arlen. Go back and stand trial for murder or disappear again. I’m apt to encourage him to disappear. Besides, he knows too much. Wouldn’t you agree George?”

  “Come on Arlen, I’ll help you pack.” George says.

  “You got four hours to get out of town,” the cop says.

  “Here.” George shoves a folded piece of paper into Arlen’s hand.

  He unfolds the paper and reads a name and address. “If I’m gonna do this, Roxy is coming me,” he says.

  George looks over his shoulder at the cop. Both men nod their agreement.

  “They’ll set you up, maybe better than here.”

  Arlen nods his head, “Okay, I’ll go.” He takes a step and stops to look at Joe. “I’m sorry it turned out the way it did. That bullet took more than one life back there. Your father’s, mine, and now yours.”

  “Hurry up, you gotta hit the road,” the cop says.

  Arlen cuts him off with an impatient gesture. He turns to Joe, “Today’s Wednesday, the guys will be expecting corned beef hash, with a couple of eggs and homemade catsup. Still have some apple pies left in the cooler,” Arlen says. He picks up the basket of vegetables and hands it to Joe. “Here ya go . . . Pete, it’s all yours now.”

  Appetite for Applause

  By Lisa Scott

  Late that Saturday night, I heard the key in the lock, the front door opening, and my father excitedly exclaiming to my mother, “She baked cookies!” But as I laid in my bed in the dark, I dreaded what the morning would bring. My baking disaster hadn’t been discovered by my father yet, and once he’d figured out what had happened, I was going to be in trouble.

  I was fairly young when I realized that I loved to cook. In the beginning, it was scrambled eggs, which led to French toast, and then about age eight, I became competent with the stove and oven. My mother taught me most of what I knew about cooking, but I was also an avid cookbook reader. My favorite part in the 1957 version of the Betty Crocker Cookbook was the cookie section, but I could successfully make delicious soups, salads, fried chicken, enchiladas, pizza, and black bottom pie, all from scratch.

  A person with a passion for cooking is a delight to her family and friends. I took great pleasure is sharing my most special and favorite delicacies with loved ones. Naturally, food is a way of sharing love, even for amateurs. I was never a gourmet cook, but just good at following a recipe, and sometimes adding or subtracting a few ingredients to enhance the flavor of a dish.

  The compliments and attention I received from friends and extended family when they ate my meals added to my self-worth. This was powerful for a little girl. Some people go into performing arts for an ego boost, but I stuck with cooking. I loved that people appreciated what I made for them.

  Along the way were a few minor misadventures, like being fifteen-years-old and cooking a spaghetti dinner with friends at Mark’s house while his mother was gone for the weekend. We all just wanted to listen to Taj Mahal and Jim Croce records and eat together.

  It was the first time I’d been to Mark’s house and his mother didn’t seem to have the vast array of cooking spices my mother did, so when it came time for me to make garlic bread, I lightly sprinkled cayenne powder as a substitute for ground paprika, figuring they were both red powders, so why not?

  Everyone liked the spaghetti dinner, and even the garlic bread, in spite of its spicy surprise. I basked in the approval of my peers.

  Another mishap was at age nine when I’d decided to surprise my mother with a birthday cake. No boxed cake mix for my beloved mom! Again, reaching for Betty Crocker, I managed to bake a decent two-layer spice cake from scratch.

  The recipe for Easy Penuche Frosting seemed perfect. My mother was very fond of the old-fashioned penuche candy we could buy in her hometown. There wasn’t quite enough brown sugar in the canister as called for in the recipe, and searching the kitchen cupboards proved fruitless. If I’d had any money, I might have been able to ride my bike to the grocery store. Sensing a bold move was needed, I sent little brother Joey to our next door neighbor Mrs. E’s house to ask for some brown sugar. He came back empty-handed and disappointed.

  I went ahead with the frosting, which tasted good, but it was terribly thin, and it dripped down over the lopsided layer cake in an ugly way. Certainly not the result I was going for, but never mind, I was in a party mood! I called up my great aunt and cousins who lived nearby and invited them over as a surprise.

  Mom came home from work, and during dinner, I was anticipating my mother’s joyful surprise at seeing her birthday cake. Soon enough, the relatives arrived, and that was my cue to dash into my room to retrieve the cake. Such sighs and smiles! I had impressed everyone, and I was beaming ear to ear. Never mind that the frosting was in a runny puddle all over the serving platter.

  Everyone thought the birthday dessert tasted great, and there were lots of compliments. I quietly confided to my mother, “I didn’t have enough brown sugar for the frosting, and we couldn’t figure out how to get more.” She simply embraced me.

  Joey and I worshiped our lovely mother, but we were a little scared of our dad. Some of the time, he was pretty happy, but other times, he would erupt in anger, criticizing and berating us over small matters.

  So the Saturday night while our parents were out and we were home alone, I again reached for Betty Crocker, this time to try baking sugar cookies. Having the correct amounts of ingredients wasn’t a problem, but my youthful impatience at age twelve caused me to bake the cookies after skipping the “chill cookie dough at least one hour” direction.

  Imagine the acrid smell of burnt sugar cookies filling the house! I didn’t think to throw away the evidence of my failure and left the cookies out on the rack.

  When I heard my parents’ arrival later that night, I cringed at the thought of how disappointed my father would be when he saw that I’d burnt a batch of cookies. In the morning, he’d be angry and would scold me about wasting food, the smoky odor in the house, etc. Maybe I�
��d be punished as well. I fell into a troubled sleep, fearing the worst.

  In the morning, I woke up and headed to the kitchen. How astounded I was to discover that my dad had eaten every single burnt cookie, leaving behind only a few charred crumbs. Apparently, he’d relished every bitter bite.

  The day wore on, and there was never a word about my cookie disaster. Even my difficult, volatile father would happily eat my burned cookies without one complaint.

  Being able to please others was important to me, and I realized then that cooking was a way of evoking emotion in others. Just as it is necessary for an artist or jazz musician to engage an audience, a passionate cook desires to do the same. I still love the results, even when there are catastrophes.

  The Delights of Dango

  By Cindy Sakihara

  Filled with warmth and affection, Kumi turned toward the living room to settle in on the couch and enjoy some light reading while they took over the kitchen. Her “little boss” was busy critiquing her father’s work, eying his every move to make sure he wasn’t “messing anything up.” She smiled at the sight of them and purposely faded into the background to give them time alone. Shinji was a hard-working husband with a heart of gold, but he hadn’t spent nearly the amount of time with their young daughter that she readily deserved. His stoic disposition and long work hours undoubtedly interfered with time needed for them to bond. Traveling weekly was his norm, but today, he’d promised he would take the day off to be with his family. It was such a rare treat. Kumi sincerely hoped something special would come of it.

  “Are you sure it’s supposed to look like that?” Kairi questioned, as she wrinkled her nose. “It looks kinda… lumpy.”

  Shinji suppressed a smile at her remarks. No doubt his little sous chef was leery of his culinary skills and concerned her precious dango would be ruined.

  “We’ll find out shortly,” he replied, knowing a dismissal might spark a colorful response.

  “Oh c’mon Dad! I thought you said you did this before!” she complained, brows furrowed, as she stood on a chair and glanced over his shoulder at the mass in the bowl.