Hard Sauce (recipe follows)
12 fresh mint sprigs (optional)
Butter a 12-cup nonstick muffin tin. Preheat the oven to 325°F.
Cream the butter until fluffy. Add the sugar and beat until well combined.
Beat in the eggs, then beat in the milk and cream. Stir in the nutmeg and vanilla. Thoroughly stir in the bread pieces. The mixture will look like mush. Stir in the raisins.
Using a ⅓-cup measure, ladle out a full scoop of batter into each muffin cup. Bake 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and, using a non-stick coated spoon, quickly stir each cup of half-risen batter to break up the crust on the sides. Return to the oven for an additional 15 to 20 minutes, or until the puddings are set and browned.
Quickly unmold the puddings on a wire rack and set upright like cupcakes to cool slightly. (The puddings can be served hot, warm, or at room temperature.) Top each pudding with a scoop of Hard Sauce. Using a toothpick, insert the stem of a mint sprig into the top of each scoop of Hard Sauce.
Makes 12 servings
Hard Sauce
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
¼ cup whipping cream (more, if necessary)
2 cups confectioners’ sugar, sifted
¼ teaspoon rum extract
Beat together the butter and whipping cream until thoroughly combined. Add the confectioners’ sugar slowly and beat until thoroughly blended. Stir in the rum extract. If the mixture is too stiff, add a little more cream. To serve with bread puddings, chill the mixture until it is easily scooped out. Using a small ice-cream scoop, measure out even scoops of the chilled sauce onto a plate covered with wax paper. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate the scoops until ready to serve.
Any leftover Hard Sauce can be thinned with cream and used to frost cookies or cake.
“No, you’ll just punt,” Julian replied cheerfully. “You want to start on the rest of the appetizers or do you want me to?”
“I’ll do it. I just need some caffeine first.”
“The next batch of puddings will be out in twenty minutes.” He removed the plastic bag of escolar fillets from the walk-in. “I’ll fix you some French-press coffee while you look up exactly how many folks we’re serving today. I still can’t get into your computer. You need to give me your password.” He set water on to boil and ground coffee beans. “By the way, you were right about more than three people coming to the tasting. Sylvia Bevans told me she’d be there, plus a couple of extra women from Mercifull Migrations might show up. Hanna and Leah. How come Leah Smythe and Weezie Smythe Harrington are so involved in everything in this town?”
“Oh, Julian, they’re old-timers. Their grandfather, Charlie Smythe, was one of Aspen Meadow’s original settlers, and he left his son Vic land-rich. Vic passed the land to his family, and that’s why the daughters are so involved in mountain land preservation.”
“Well,” he said defiantly, “I don’t really care who comes, as long as they vote for our food.” Clearly, he did not want to talk about Weezie Smythe Harrington, the widow of his biological father, Brian Harrington. Julian was no relation, blood or otherwise, to Weezie Harrington, and he avoided my eyes as he poured boiling water over coffee grounds in the press, then set the timer for four minutes.
I said, “I don’t need to check the computer. We’ll probably have six total, up from the original three.” Julian nodded. “Oh, and we’ll be doing Weezie’s birthday-party tomorrow night. You can skip it if you want.”
“No, I’ll do it. So it’s Marla, Weezie, and who else again?”
“Edna Hardcastle. We’re doing her daughter’s wedding reception on Saturday. If we can snag the Soiree assignment, by the time of André’s funeral on Thursday,” I concluded, “we’ll be back in business.” Although how we would prepare the food, I thought, looking around at my mutilated kitchen, the Lord only knew …
“He’ll be there today, won’t he?” Julian asked darkly as he poured me a richly aromatic cup of coffee.
I was startled, thinking he’d read my thoughts. “Who?”
“Litchfield.”
“Oh. Yes. And before you ask, I don’t know what his menu will be.”
We set to work in earnest. The dinner was advertised as a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate champagne dinner for thirty. The relatively intimate number of diners was all the historical society could fit into the Homestead dining room. County law forbidding liquor on government property had been waived for the one evening. Thankfully, the champagne and other wines would be supplied gratis by a member of the historical society. Expensive buffets could quickly turn into pig troughs, so I was glad the historical society wanted a seated dinner and large—but controlled—portions. Even better, the society was paying the winning caterer seventy dollars a plate. With any luck, if I won the tasting today, I could buy supplies, amply remunerate Julian, and still clear forty bucks per person to make the first payment on Arch’s tuition. Just in case The Jerk or his lawyer-accountant forgot.
I savored the coffee and studied the menu Julian and I had decided on. We had enough for eight tasters, following Andre’s cardinal rule to bring enough for your planned group plus two. For appetizers we were serving Julia Child’s stuffed mushrooms, artichoke hearts roasted with a mayonnaise-Parmesan mixture, and hot herbed shrimp wrapped in crisp bacon strips. These would all go beautifully with champagne. The main course consisted of a choice of the grilled escolar, polenta, and salsa, or pork tenderloin with Cumberland sauce, and Yukon gold potatoes mashed with cream and roasted garlic. Both meat offerings would be served with baked garden tomatoes stuffed with asparagus and buttered bread crumbs, Caesar salad, and rolls. This would be followed by the white chocolate-dipped truffles and/or Julian’s Big Bucks Bread Puddings, served with Vienna Roast coffee. Sounded like a winner to me.
Julian had made the salsa along with the polenta and stuffed a dozen mushrooms the evening before. I snipped bacon strips into quarters and slid them into the hot oven. For the tomatoes, I lightly steamed the asparagus and started buttering bread crumbs. Once I’d stuffed eight tomatoes, I whipped together an eggless Caesar dressing and washed and dried all the greens. By the time Tom came down an hour later, Julian and I had finished the preparation and were packed and ready to boogie.
“Please don’t do any more tearing apart,” I begged Tom, who wore old work clothes. “And please, please clean up what you’ve done.”
Tom hugged me. “Just go win your party.”
Main Street was thick with the last wave of summer tourists. Shoppers rushed into boutiques selling candles embedded with aspen leaves, wooden lamps carved into the shapes of giant squirrels, and wind chimes purportedly fashioned of genuine Colorado silver. A queue of men waited for the first beer of the day outside the Grizzly Saloon. Julian sat beside me, his face intent with worry. I hooked a left onto Homestead Drive and gunned the engine.
“It’s going to be okay,” I assured him, feigning confidence. “No matter how it comes out. Especially after all that’s happened … please, Julian. Listen. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you. I’m very appreciative of your help.”
“Thank me when you get the booking.”
Sylvia Bevans trundled out the museum’s service door just as we began to unpack the van. She wore a lace-trimmed powder-blue linen suit and squat powder-blue heels. “We were very upset to hear about André,” she announced, her voice quavering. Her pale, rheumy eyes regarded me as I heaved up a box. “I know you must be devastated.”
“He was my teacher, Sylvia.”
“Yes. Well, life does go on, doesn’t it?” Her dismissive wave said: Back to work, no time to grieve. Well, we would see about that.
“You mentioned to Julian that André wanted a photocopy of a cookbook.”
“Yes, Goldy, but he never came to get it.” She exhaled impatiently. “You don’t suppose the little episode André had here in the museum contributed to his demise, do you?”
“Sylvia, I don’t know.” I handed Julian a box. �
��Sometimes severe heart attacks are preceded by mild ones.”
She sniffed. Then, insincerely, she added, “I am sorry we couldn’t cancel the tasting because of Andre’s death. It would have been more respectfull. But the next time these busy women could all meet together was after the Soirée had taken place. Now please pay attention, Goldy, I must tell you about the events of the morning. Edna Hardcastle and Weezie Harrington have arrived. Marla Korman has not. Also, your competitor is here.” She indicated the brand-new cream-colored Upscale Appetite van by the kitchen door. She pursed her mouth and reconsidered. “And you can tell that husband of yours that the sheriff’s department refuses to discuss The Practical Cook Book.” She marched away as Julian returned.
He opened his eyes wide. “She didn’t seem happy.”
I hoisted the platter of bread puddings. “She never does.”
Once we’d hauled our cache into the Homestead kitchen, Julian busied himself with the grill while I set about unpacking the foodstuffs, or trying to. Unfortunately, Upscale Appetite bags, boxes, and platters occupied ninety percent of the available counterspace. Craig Litchfield—dressed today in star-patterned pants and a dapper tan chef’s jacket—swaggered in from the dining room. He refused to acknowledge my presence.
“Excuse me,” I said stiffly. He did not respond. “Please,” I tried again, “could you move some of your stuff? We need a bit of space.”
“We? I thought this was supposed to be a solo operation for both of us. How many helpers did you bring?”
“Just one. And no one told me we had to work alone.”
He scowled disapprovingly, but said nothing, as if he couldn’t be bothered to scold me for a gross infraction of rules every real caterer already knew. Then he pulled a sheet of diagonally sliced egg rolls out of the oven and slithered through the door to the dining room. They looked good. I glanced down at my watch: just after ten o’clock. We weren’t supposed to begin serving until eleven-thirty. What was he doing? And where was the committee?
As if in answer, the lilting voices of Weezie Harrington and Edna Hardcastle floated out to the kitchen.
“Oh, yum! Craig, you doll!” cried Weezie. “You’re going to put this recipe in the newspaper? Fantastic!”
Doggone it. I wedged my greens into the crowded refrigerator. Why was Marla not here at the Homestead with her committee? And what was I supposed to do: appear empty-handed in the dining room ninety minutes before serving time? I glared at a framed article on the dingy kitchen wall. It was a July 1915 issue of the New York Times proclaiming that gunmen had held up a Yellowstone stagecoach. I sighed and forced myself to put on a cheery visage as I walked into the dining room.
Edna Hardcastle, her tight curls as gray as the inside of an aluminum pot, wore a red-checked pantsuit and red-and-white spectator pumps. She held a glass of fizzy champagne aloft. For some reason, my entry made her glance guiltily at the tray of flutes on the sideboard.
“Oh, Goldy, here you are, finally,” cooed Weezie Harrington, brandishing an egg roll. In her early forties, with a trim body and dyed blond hair zinging out in improbable waves, Weezie wore a trio of thin gold necklaces, a tailored lemon-yellow blouse, navy shorts, and navy flats with perky bows. “So glad to see you.” She giggled. “And to see this.” When she snagged a champagne flute from the tray proffered by Craig Litchfield, the enormous diamond ring on her left hand threw off a huge beam of light. What was going on with the booze? Not only was the champagne illegal—this was government property, after all, and our dispensation to serve wine was only good the night of the Soiree itself—but drinking was strictly banned under the terms of our tasting party. Craig Litchfield whisked past and set his tray down. I looked to Sylvia Bevans for direction, but she was showing Edna Hardcastle the damage to the display cases wrought by Gerald Eliot’s killer.
“Hello, everybody!” called Leah Smythe as she breezed in. Unlike the preppily dressed committee members, Leah wore black pedal pushers, a black shell, and large, modernistic silver jewelry. She fluffed her streaked coal-and-gold hair with one hand and dropped her oversized leather sac on the floor. Tall, blond Yvonne, the model I’d last seen a week ago at the first P & G fashion shoot, hovered behind her.
“Check out Yvonne’s shirt, ladies!” Leah exclaimed as she stepped to one side and pointed theatrically. One thing I had begun to wonder about models: Didn’t they have last names? I’d met Rustine, Bobby, Peter, and Yvonne, and the only last name I’d heard was Whitaker, for Bobby. Yvonne mutely cocked a narrow hip and lofted an arm to better show her forest green sweatshirt. Leah declared, “We’re going to sell them at the door. Catchy, no?” The shirt was emblazoned with the white silhouette of a buck elk’s horned head and the phrase Lawrence Elk Loves The Bubbly!
Craig Litchfield jumped in with: “Oh, my God, that’s the best-looking sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”
Weezie touched her sister’s arm. “You are too creative, Leah,” she gushed. “People will snap them up.”
Edna frowned. “How much will they cost? Will the Welk people sue us? Or demand a cut?”
“Sue us?” said Leah. She winked at her sister. “For what?”
Sylvia Bevans turned to Craig Litchfield and me. “I believe we’re ready to start,” she said frostily. Litchfield grinned, lifted his chin, and shook his shoulders, like a runner eager to start the race.
“Wait a minute.” I pressed my sweaty palms on my apron. “Marla Korman is this committee’s chairperson. The tasting isn’t supposed to start for another hour. She would want us to wait for her. Not only that,” I added boldly, “but no wines were to be served.”
Weezie waved this off. “Goldy, look. We all know Marla’s your friend, but hey, the poor dear’s in an audit. Lord knows when those IRS people will let her go. And we’ve just started drinking a tad of champagne, to celebrate.” She giggled again, then held up the hand with the diamond ring.
“Celebrate what?” I asked, but she ignored me.
“Marla will be along,” Edna Hardcastle said sweetly, adjusting the belt on her red suit. She looked slightly apologetic. “We know it’s early. We’ll make allowances for that.”
“But we have to wait for Marla,” I said stubbornly.
Sylvia Bevans moved so close to me I could smell her lavender talcum powder. “I don’t know when Marla is coming, Goldy. I only know this party has already been postponed once because of you, and the other chef who was supposed to come is dead. We’ve got a group of fourth graders coming at one o’clock and you need to be out by then. We must stop talking and get cracking. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sylvia,” I said in my most placating tone. “Absolutely.” I glanced at Craig Litchfield’s confident smirk, then wished I had not.
I sailed back to the kitchen and out the service entrance.
“Julian, forget the grill,” I said tersely. “They’re starting now. We’ll have to broil the fish and not serve the polenta.”
Julian swallowed a curse and tossed water on the smoky coals to put out the fire. Like me, he’d learned that in food and client situations, argument is fruitless.
Unfortunately, the tasting did not go well. The mushrooms were barely warm, not hot, as the Homestead oven labored to heat my pans as well as Litchfield’s. Broiled, the escolar was quite good, but absent the succulent grilled flavor, it merely tasted like high-quality fish. I’d had to turn the oven up to the highest temperature to kill any bacteria in the pork, and the result was dry, rather than juicy and tender.
And yet, although my meats were not as tasty as I would have liked, I was certain they beat Craig Litchfield’s braised salmon, stir-fried scallops with green peppers, eggplant and rice pilaf, and avocado salad. Many people do not eat salmon or scallops, and even Arch got indigestion from bell peppers. Surely the committee had to be mindful of food allergies?
By the time Marla finally showed up, we were halfway through the main course.
“Marla, you scamp!” squawked Weezie. “Are you starved, darling? Or
does being audited make you lose your appetite?”
Marla complained that they had started the tasting early. Unfortunately, she was still sporting her gray housedress, and lacked the authority of power clothing. She did not dare look at me, nor I at her. Although the tasting was supposed to be silent, Edna and Weezie kept telling Craig Litchfield how cute he was.
At twelve-thirty, Julian took out the tray of bread puddings. To my chagrin, I realized I’d forgotten the truffles. Litchfield offered a low-fat lime dessert. While the women all were duty-bound to try both desserts, all except Marla gobbled the lime and only took small bites of the luxurious pudding. And Marla, of course, should not have been eating that. But I could tell she was remorseful—for not coming earlier, for wearing her Minnie Pearl outfit, and for sending elk burgers to the head of Merciful Migrations.
“It’s over,” Julian informed me glumly when he brought the barely touched pudding tray out to the kitchen. “They don’t even want coffee.”
Craig Litchfield, triumphant and glowing, lofted his empty bowl of lime glop and swiftly packed up his serving platters. Before Julian and I had begun to gather our dishes, Litchfield was gone, claiming over his shoulder that he had a “huge” job at the country club and much as he longed to, couldn’t stay to chat. Yakking gaily, Edna, Leah Smythe, and Yvonne departed by the front door. The tasting had been a disaster.
“Sit down, Goldy,” Julian commanded. “Let me finish taking the boxes out. You look like hell.”
“Thanks, but I’ll work,” I replied as I rinsed off the pork roasting pan. I tried to console myself with the thought that even if we’d lost this booking, we still had Weezie’s party and Edna’s reception.
Marla hustled breathlessly into the kitchen. “God, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. She hugged me, and I was reminded once again that her current austerity program did not include deodorant. “We make the decision by conference call later in the week. You know I’ll call you. I’m sure you’ll get it.”
Prime Cut Page 15
