Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce

by A. L. Herbert

  “Monique,” Maurice says, looking at my list of specials. “Why did you bring me here? This is going to completely blow my diet.”

  “Take a night off, Maurice. You can go back to celery sticks and protein shakes tomorrow,” Monique says.

  “I’m going to Key West for Christmas, and I will have all this extra weight off by then,” I hear Maurice reply as I walk with Wavonne to the bar to put in their beverage order—white wine for Maurice, a Blue Moon with an orange slice for Alex, a Corona with a lime for Nathan, and a Diet Coke for Odessa. And for Monique, a Pink Lady, one of our signature drinks, which I added to our bar menu in honor of my grandmother, who taught me how to cook.

  My grandparents rarely went out to restaurants or bars—they didn’t really have the financial means for too many nights on the town and only a handful of establishments were welcoming to African Americans in the fifties and sixties—but I have fond memories of Grandmommy talking about the occasional night out to the Lincoln Theatre or Bohemian Caverns along the U Street Corridor in DC. Grandmommy would warmly refer to it as Black Broadway, a nickname bestowed upon the area due to the plethora of legendary African American singers who performed at the theaters in the neighborhood. Grandmommy never drank at home (or so she said), but on those nights out, she said she always ordered a Pink Lady. I was initially surprised by its popularity when I first put it on the menu. I think it fell out of fashion in the seventies, and, typically, vodka-based cocktails are much more popular these days than gin-based libations. But all it takes is for one person to order a Pink Lady, and other diners start asking about the pretty pastel drink with a hint of foam on top, garnished with a cherry. I think the glasses we serve them in, the old-fashioned shallow champagne glasses (technically called champagne coupes), give rise to nostalgia, further adding to the allure of the cocktail.

  Wavonne is officially the server for the table, but I check in here and there to help out and make sure all is going smoothly . . . and, okay, I’ll admit it, to sneak the occasional peek at Alex . . . the man is fine. Monique seems to do most of the talking at the table. Her gregarious voice carries throughout the restaurant, and while the rest of her party, and even other patrons seated nearby, laugh heartily at her frequent musings, Odessa seems quite cool to her quips, and I catch her occasionally scowling like a toddler who’s jealous of a new baby getting all the attention.

  In between refilling drinks and delivering entrees, I hear snippets of the conversation and have to make a conscious effort not to groan when I hear Monique complain about her lifestyle of the rich and famous—the inconvenience involved with the renovations to her New York apartment, the aggravation of Nathan’s Tesla being in the shop because it’s been making a faint rattling noise, that inadequate massage she got at the Gold Door Spa earlier today, and how Neiman Marcus had the audacity to try to put her on a waiting list for something called the Fendi Aubusson-Print Chain Shoulder Bag.

  “Try being the operative word,” Monique says with a sly smile as she reaches next to her and holds up a cream-colored leather bag decorated with floral print.

  “The Aubusson bag! I think I would need to sell my house to buy one of those,” Latasha says.

  “You don’t want that gaudy bag . . . it’s too busy,” Odessa says. “If you’re going to buy a designer purse, it should at least be tasteful. Something like this.” Odessa gestures toward her Coach purse, a simple, yet elegant, suede shoulder bag in beige.

  “Oh yes. Coach,” Monique says. “Isn’t their tag line something like, ‘Coach: For girls who can’t afford Fendi’?”

  “They’re both very nice,” Latasha says before Odessa can respond. “Seems you two have come a long way since your rumored days at HairPair so long ago. I doubt Fendi and Coach were being flung over your shoulders then.”

  I set another Pink Lady down on the table for Monique. “HairPair?” I ask, referring to the local hair salon chain that went bust about twenty years ago. “I used to get my hair cut at the one in Clinton when I was in high school.”

  “Word is that Monique and Odessa ruled the chairs at the one in Camp Springs.”

  “That we did,” Monique says. “Ah . . . the old days. We were like a fine-tuned machine turning out finger waves and sock buns by the dozen.”

  “Girl, you ain’t lyin’,” Odessa says with the first smile I’ve seen on her face all night. She turns to me. “That was the nineties. We were fresh out of high school and just getting started. I was the go-to girl for micro braids for all the sisters that wanted to look like Moesha, and Monique did the box braids for all the ladies trying to look like Janet Jackson in Poetic Justice.”

  Monique laughs. “Yep. Everyone came in with a cutout from a magazine. They wanted T-Boz’s mushroom . . . or Aaliyah’s swoop and wrap . . . or Toni Braxton’s pixie cut.”

  “Remember all those girls that came in with their nappy hair, thinking we could make them look like Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard?”

  “Girl!” Monique exclaims. “I remember wanting to tell them, ‘I can’t pull a rabbit out of a hat or turn water into wine . . . what makes you think I can make your burnt tips look like the wig Whitney Houston wore in a movie?’”

  Odessa laughs. “But of course we never actually said things like that. The worse the shape of the hair, the more promises we’d offer . . . and the more money we’d make . . . not that it was ever very much back then.”

  “We had to upsell the hot oil treatments and deep conditioners. How else were we going to have some extra bucks to buy some cocktails at Zanzibar or concert tickets to see the Fugees?”

  “Yeah . . . money was tight, but boy did we have some fun.”

  “Cutting and relaxing . . . and curling and blow-drying with Brandy’s ‘Sittin’ Up in My Room’ blaring from the speakers.” A wide smile of nostalgia comes across Monique’s face.

  “We rocked out to all the greats: Jodeci, Montell Jordan, Boyz II Men . . . Bell Biv DeVoe—”

  “Oooh, girl! I have not thought about Bell Biv Devoe in years.” Monique slides closer to Odessa. I watch as they lean in toward each other and break out in song. “That girl is Poooiiisson!” they croon in unison before breaking up in laughter.

  I’m perplexed by their behavior. A few minutes ago they were trading barbs, and now it’s like they’re best friends. I’m curious how much longer this little lovefest will continue when Odessa makes me wonder no more.

  “Yep,” she says, looking down toward the seat of Monique’s chair, then back up at her face. “Never trust a big butt and a smile.”

  Monique throws her head back and laughs. “Don’t be hatin’,” she says. “My big butt and my smile are some of my best assets.”

  RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN

  Celia’s Butter Pecan Cake

  Cake Ingredients

  2 cups finely chopped pecans (reserve ¾ cup after toasting for icing)

  1 cup softened butter (¼ cup for toasting pecans, ¾ cup for cake batter)

  3 eggs

  1 cup sugar

  1 cup applesauce

  ½ cup whole milk

  1½ teaspoons vanilla extract

  2½ cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon of cinnamon

  1½ teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  • Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

  • Generously grease and lightly flour two 9-inch round cake pans.

  • Place pecans and ¼ cup butter in oven safe pan or baking dish. Toast pecans in oven for 10–12 minutes, stirring every 3–4 minutes; set aside and let cool.

  • Lightly beat eggs; set aside.

  • Cream sugar and ¾ cup of butter together with mixer on high speed for 1 minute. Add eggs, applesauce, milk, and vanilla extract. Mix on medium speed for 30 seconds.

  • Combine flour, cinnamon, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

  • With mixer on medium speed, slowly add combined dry ingredients to creamed mix
ture until well blended.

  • With mixer on low speed, add 1¼ cups toasted pecans to batter until fully incorporated.

  • Pour batter into prepared pans and bake for 25–30 minutes, until a tooth pick comes out clean.

  • Cool in pans for 10 minutes, then turn out onto rack and cool completely.

  Icing Ingredients

  1 cup softened butter

  ⅓ cup brown sugar

  2 tablespoons evaporated milk

  6 cups confectioners’ sugar

  2–5 tablespoons whole milk

  1½ teaspoons vanilla

  • Add 2 tablespoons of butter, brown sugar, and evaporated milk to a small sauce pan. Heat to boiling over low-medium heat for three minutes, stirring constantly to make caramel. Remove from heat. Set aside.

  • Cream remaining butter with confectioners’ sugar.

  • Add caramel to butter and sugar mixture and blend on low speed for 1 minute.

  • Add milk, one tablespoon at a time while continuing to blend. Stop adding milk when icing reaches a spreadable consistency.

  • Add vanilla and remaining pecans and mix on low speed until well blended.

  Chapter 8

  “That was perfect,” Alex says as I clear the empty plate sitting in front of him. He and the rest of the gang have finished their entrées and moved on to dessert.

  “Momma’s caramel cake,” I say. “It never disappoints.”

  “Maybe your mother can share some of her secrets with me . . . about what makes her cake so good. I’ve got to make one for a party Monique is throwing tomorrow night, and now I’m afraid it’s going to pale in comparison.”

  “Well, I’ll share the biggest secret to all of Momma’s desserts . . . which really isn’t so secret. Butter . . . lots of butter! I order it by the case . . . thirty pounds to a case, and she goes through it like crazy.”

  “It’s worth it. That was one good cake. Moist and rich and not too sweet.”

  “She’s a master baker. I can fry up some of the best chicken you’ve ever had or broil a smothered pork chop that will fall off the bone, but baking has never been my thing. That’s why I’m grateful Momma runs the dessert operation around here. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  “I suspect you’d manage. From what I’ve seen tonight, this place runs like a well-oiled machine. I worked in a lot of restaurants before I signed on with Monique, and Sweet Tea has them all beat by a mile. You’re clearly very good at what you do.”

  “That’s very nice of you to say,” I respond, and feel my face getting hot. At some point in the conversation, his tone appeared to shift. At first it seemed like casual banter between us, but there was something about the way he said “you’re clearly very good at what you do” or the way he looked at me when he said it that makes me wonder if he’s flirting with me.

  No, the idea is ridiculous, I think to myself. He’s a beautiful man and probably a good ten years younger than me. I’m likely misreading his Latin charisma and charm. I’m sure he talks to all women that way.

  “I’m not just saying it. It really was an exquisite evening . . . delicious food, prompt service . . .” He looks at me in that peculiar way again. “And an enchanting host.”

  I smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I think everyone enjoyed it,” Alex says, and nods toward his fellow diners, who, at this point, are leaning back into their chairs, sipping on cappuccinos. I see nods of agreement around the table from Monique and her other guests. Their conversations have quieted, and they look almost serene after an evening of cocktails and comfort food. It’s a look that says “yeah, I overindulged, but it was worth it.”

  “If I may, I’d love to see your kitchen.”

  “Sure,” I respond. “We’re in ‘closing down’ mode back there at the moment, but I’d be happy to show you around.”

  I try not to let my eyes linger as I watch Alex lift his taut frame from the chair before I turn toward the kitchen with him following.

  After we come through the swinging doors, I stand next to Alex and notice his gaze moving around the room, taking in the spectacle of constant activity—no one is ever still in the kitchen of a busy restaurant . . . what we call the “back of the house.” It’s such a contrast to the dining room (the front of the house). The dining room is designed first and foremost to create a fun, festive atmosphere and to ensure the comfort of my customers. The lighting is designed to be soft and flattering, the warm beige walls allow the artwork to really pop, and the rich cranberry carpet in the main dining room was chosen to act as a contrast to the more subtle hardwood floors and maple accents in the bar area. When I was designing the interior of Sweet Tea, I wanted the space to be vibrant and energetic but not so loud that patrons have to shout at each other to be heard over the constant boom of background noise. So, in addition to the rich color it brings to the restaurant, I had the carpet installed to serve as a sound-absorbing mechanism as well.

  Every detail of the front of the house is about ambience. The kitchen, on the other hand, is about function . . . function, function, function. The overhead lighting is bright and harsh, the floor is a series of simple white tiles surrounding a handful of strategically placed drains, and stainless steel abounds throughout the entire space. There is a constant hodgepodge of noise—running water, clanking dishes, loud voices, humming exhaust fans, spinning mixers—bouncing off the wealth of hard surfaces. It’s a lot to take in and brings the words “sensory overload” to mind.

  I give Alex a chance to get his bearings before introducing him to some members of my kitchen staff and showing him around the various stations that make up what we call “the line.” My team is in kitchen-closing mode and eager to go home, so we have to carefully navigate through the space as they hurriedly sweep the floor, brush the grill, sanitize surfaces, and manage a wealth of the other activities to put the kitchen to rest for the night. When I give the occasional tour of the Sweet Tea kitchen to others, it generally involves a quick look around that lasts a few minutes, but, as Alex is in the business as well, I go into more detail about the various stations and machines. I show him the steam table, the grill, the sauté station, and some of the other setups and contraptions that help us churn out our delicious delights. As I give him the ins and outs of why I chose specific types or brands of appliances, and how I’ve changed the setup of the line over the years to make the kitchen operate more efficiently, he takes note of the sense of pride and enthusiasm I have for my restaurant, and what it takes to keep it running smoothly.

  “You really know your stuff,” he says. “It’s obvious how much you care about this place.”

  “Thank you. I do my best,” I say before continuing the tour and the verbal cascade of details and specs about my beloved kitchen devices. I’m probably boring him, but I can’t help myself. I’m a bit of a kitchen equipment geek. If you want to get me excited, forget discussions of perfume or jewelry or fashion. Instead, ask me about my Arctic Air two section solid door reach-in refrigerator or my Vulcan natural gas double deck convection oven. I could go on about them for hours.

  Alex is either a good actor or is actually keenly interested when I show him what may be the most important piece of machinery in my kitchen—my state-of-the-art deep fryer. No fryer equals no fried chicken . . . and Mahalia’s Sweet Tea without fried chicken is like Taco Bell without tacos or IHOP without pancakes. I paid nearly twenty grand for it, and it’s worth every penny, but when I catch myself rambling on about its stainless steel eighty-five-pound-capacity fry tank and hear words like “thermal units” and “twin fry baskets” coming out of my mouth, I think that maybe I’ve shared enough minutiae about my kitchen operations and decide to give it a rest. Much as I’d like to show him my walk-in cooler and the pantry . . . and the broiler . . . and the dry storage room, I decide to wrap up my little dog and pony show and let Alex get back to his dinner companions.

  “Well, I’m sure I’ve gone on long enough,” I say. “More th
an you ever wanted to know, right?”

  “Not at all,” he says. “I really enjoyed seeing the inner workings of this place. It’s like getting a peek backstage at a concert or touring the tunnels underneath Disney World.” He looks around the room. “I miss this sometimes: working with a team and all. Being a personal chef can be isolating. I love the clamor back here . . . it’s invigorating . . . a thing of beauty, really.” His Dominican accent makes talk of my kitchen operations seem sensual.

  I smile. “I guess it is.”

  He smiles back at me. “A beautiful restaurant run by a beautiful woman.”

  My first response to his compliment is a quick laugh. I’m not sure what to say. I’m terrible at flirting. “Aren’t you sweet,” is the best I can come up with. “Should we get you back to your friends?”

  Alex is about to respond, when Tacy approaches him with a five-gallon container of lemonade and abruptly calls, “Behind you!” Tacy’s loud deep voice startles Alex, and he involuntarily backs into him. The splatter of lemonade on his back propels Alex toward me, and the two of us end up in a bit of a compromising, but not necessarily unwelcome, position with Alex pressed against me as I steady myself against the counter.

  He hovers over me for a brief period, his arms on either side of me, as he grabs the counter to regain his footing. He looks into my eyes, and I can feel his chest, all solid and hard, against my body. This definitely feels like a “moment” between us, and it makes me feel both invigorated and uncomfortable at the same time.

  “I’m so sorry.” He releases one hand from the counter as he pulls himself upright and then moves the other.

  An awkward laugh escapes my mouth and I fidget with my shirt as I try to compose myself. “That’s okay. These things happen back here.” I notice some members of my kitchen staff suddenly looking away from us. Clearly, I was not the only one who sensed a little something was going on here. “I’m sorry about your shirt. Let me find you a towel.”