Few who lived in Thread year-round had wealth. To the degree such money existed, it was usually kept hidden. Everyone suspected Red and Barbara Trueheart had enormous resources, but they lived simple lives. Their house was only slightly larger, slightly better maintained, than the rest of ours.
As for those summer folk who visited each year, we knew at least in our hearts that many of them had far more money than any of us would see throughout our lives. And enough people in town were employed as handymen and cleaning women to get a good sense of the quality of their summer cabins. But even these homes, which after all were second homes, were relatively modest. They hinted at a lifestyle within reach.
But this camp suggested a world I seldom entered, even in Manhattan. Could any other camp on any lakes within fifty miles approach it in grandeur? If so, why I had never heard of them, why I had never seen them, why didn’t the entire town envy and gossip about their owners?
“It’s only a house,” I said to Danny, “let’s go in and get set up for tonight.”
The front door opened. A dumpling of an old woman trundled out. Her cheeks were as ample as her bosom, although more flushed. She was wearing heavy black wading boots and her hair was tied up in a colorful old world kerchief.
“Are you the food people?” she asked. “I’m Regina. Regina Rabinowicz. Welcome to my home. Hank likes to call it his. But it’s really mine. Casimir bought it years and years ago. My husband, you know, dead for so many years now. God rest his soul.
“Are you the caterers?” Once again, she didn’t wait for an answer. “Just follow me. Let me show you where to set up. Oh, it’s going to be a big wingding tonight. That little weasel Hank’s got something up his sleeve. Never know what he’s plotting to do. But who cares? It’s great to see the place filled with people. Casimir wanted it that way. It reminded him of the estate his father had in Latvia. That was before Casimir ran off to America. Didn’t need his father’s money. Made his own fortune. Meat packing. Used every part of the pig but the squeal.
“Are you the caterers? Well, let’s get going.”
“Mother, dear, are you out here,” a younger, much thinner and more stylish version of the old woman walked out the doorway, her hands folded. She saw us and walked forward. “I’m Rita Van Elkind. Forgive my mother. She gets so excited whenever we do something out of the routine.
“Mother, weren’t you on your way to tend to your roses. There’s no need to dally here. I will escort these gentlemen to the kitchen.”
“Casimir used every part of the pig but the squeal. He left that for his daughter. And Casimir used a lot of pigs,” Regina began to laugh heartily. Her mirth shook her entire ample body. It was like watching a jolly Jell-O mold walk toward the roses. “Every bit but the squeal.” And the laughter erupted once more.
“Mother’s getting old,” said Rita with a thin smile that sought our understanding while condemning the old woman. Regina was now clipping fully opened roses, laying them gently in a gathering basket. “You must be Walter Pearson. My husband has spoken of you only with the highest of praise. He so admires your restaurant. He would hear of nothing other than your catering this party. I do try to humor my husband. He so seldom has an interest in our entertaining. Usually, his only concern is to save money, to find the less expensive alternative.” Another thin smile. “Why don’t you pull the car around the back and I’ll let you in the kitchen door. It’s just that way.” She pointed with a half motion, keeping her arm close in as though she feared letting us too near. We were graced with yet another small smile as she closed the door.
“I wish my mom could have met the old lady. She seems neat,” said Danny. Then he looked at me more forthrightly than he had ever done before. “But it’s not going to be much fun tonight, is it?”
We got back in my car and drove around to the rear entrance. It was an odd experience to sense you were making a real journey as you drove from the front door of a house to its rear door. The journey covered more than mere distance.
The back door was already opened. We walked into the largest kitchen I had ever seen in a private home. It was as large as my entire restaurant. “Mr. Pearson, I thought you were worried about space,” Danny whispered.
Rita Van Elkind overhead Danny’s sotto voce remarks as she walked in. “Blame that on dear Henry. I don’t think he even knows this room exists. There is another kitchen off the breakfast room, a butler’s pantry really, but it’s the only one we use when we’re here alone. That kitchen most assuredly is quite small. But for parties, I always have the caterers use the main kitchen. This kitchen lives up to lumber camp origins of this place.
“Why am I telling you this? You live here. Surely you know the town’s quaint history better than I. It is so romantic and so colorful. This house is redolent with its past.
“Oh, here is Stephen, our major domo. He does takes care of us so well when we summer here. Well, whenever we’re here, of course. He can show you where everything is. He will arrange for the setting of the tables. I don’t really like strangers handling my china. You understand of course. It’s been in the family for so many years. Such sentimental value.”
“Is that china from the Latvian Rabinowiczes smuggled from behind the Iron Curtain? Or is it the Boston Van Elkinds taken out of pawn?” I asked trying to make a joke. Stephen’s eyes widened, his lips slightly twitching as though he wanted to smile.
Rita looked at me, without blinking, without her thin smile. “Henry told me how amusing you were. I meant of course that we have had the place settings in Chicago for decades. Other pieces were with the house when Daddy bought it. The man who built this was quite wealthy you know, one of the pillars who created this part of the country, who civilized it.
“This camp was his retreat, the kitchen in particular. He had been a cook’s helper in the early days of lumbering; his mother had been a cook in the camps. He overcame his poor beginnings and used his intelligence to become one of the most powerful men in the Midwest. I’ve heard a famous Jewess once wrote a thinly veiled story of his life. In the Thirties, I think. Have you ever read it?” She didn’t wait for an answer.
“By then, Daddy owned this place. The original family had to sell it during the Depression. The paper business wasn’t doing well, and I’ve heard there were family troubles. The son wasn’t nearly so talented as the father. Daddy bought everything from the son, or perhaps it was the daughter-in-law. I think there had been a divorce—or maybe a tragic death. Who can remember such details? The wife had furnished this camp with so many beautiful things that she bought while in Europe in the Twenties. She had true taste.
“So you see Mr. Pearson, this camp, humble as it may appear, is very important to me. I don’t want you to think that I am being unnecessarily fussy or untrusting when I ask Stephen to help out in this affair. It really is his job, after all, and it truly is better for all us. You do understand, don’t you?” The thin smile was back.
“Yes, Mrs. Van Elkind,” I replied with a thin smile of my own. I might be as unhappy as Danny by the time this dinner was over.
Large pairs of French doors, cut through the thick log walls of the main living room, opened to a terrace that cascaded in broad stone planes to the edge of Clearwater Lake. An early evening breeze softly rustled through the immense room. Like the loft of an old country barn, the room soared nearly thirty feet in the air, the space above crisscrossed by immense hand-hewn beams. At the far end of the room, a fire crackled in a fireplace built of enormous boulders.
The dozen people, with their clinking drinks, were nearly lost in the cavernous space. A piano player was playing Barry Manilow tunes. Kip Van Elkind sat in one large chair near the fireplace, scowling at the others in the room. Rita Van Elkind stood with her back to the door, letting the soft glow of the early evening sun reflect off the lake to shimmer through her hair and the slight fabric of her long white cotton skirt. She laughed, and the group around her laughed in unison.
I motioned to Danny to mov
e into the group with his tray of canapés. I hung back, drinking in the glamour of the room, knowing that I needed to return to the kitchen to prepare the appetizers. Danny’s back was straight, and he looked handsome and worldly in the white dinner jacket that I had forced him to wear. He seemed a guest, not the server.
Red Trueheart walked in from the patio with his wife Barbara at his side. They had arrived in his overpowered speedboat. Clearwater Lake was connected to Big Sapphire Lake by a wide, but slow flowing stream. Red saw me lurking in the dining room doorway, and gave me a thumbs up and big smile, as though to say he had found me this job. I returned an acknowledging nod.
I retreated into the dining room. Stephen was fluffing up the napkins, each folded into a Napoleonic hat covering large Villeroy Boche servers. Even though the table was set for twenty-four, it seemed uncrowded, as did the room. There should have been footmen in a setting like this. Danny and I would have trouble serving the food promptly. I felt daunted by the sheer scale of this room. As though reading my mind, Stephen said, “Mrs. Van Elkind may not have been clear, but I am at your service for the evening. In whatever way you may need my assistance, just ask. Perhaps it would help if I were to serve the wine before we sit down. For the moment, I think everything is in place here and fully up to Mrs. Van Elkind’s satisfaction. It wouldn’t be a bit of trouble to help out.”
Danny came through the doors, his face flushed, his trays empty. “People just keep arriving. They’re like locusts, man, eating anything they can get their hands on. It’s crazy. I don’t think you have enough food, Wally.”
“It’s Wally now?” I said, amused, “I’m no longer Mr. Pearson?”
The flush turned to a blush. “It sounded so stuffy when Mrs. Van Elkind called you Mr. Pearson, and you’ve always told me to call you Wally. Did you know there’s a senator here, our Senator to Washington?”
“Mr. Van Elkind is very close to Washington. People of power intrigue him,” Stephen said.
I wondered how Thelma was doing back in my restaurant without me. In this enormous kitchen, I felt small and insecure. The Van Elkind party began to loom as the greatest of misfortunes. The people in that cavernous living room were precisely the people that I most needed to start frequenting my cafe. They would order the appetizers, the desserts, the expensive wines and fancy cocktails that spelled profit. They might even compliment the cooking. Without them, I would be just another small town cook catering to locals who barely had the cash to spring for a cup of coffee.
“Man, what a fucking bore.” Kip Van Elkind slouched into the kitchen. “Got to get away from those old assholes. And where’s Cynthia? Dad promised she would come to help you out? That’s the only reason I told the old lady we should hire you. She wanted those freaking caterers from the North Shore. But I stood up for Dad because I wanted Cynthia here. She’s got great tits. Instead you bring that pansy.”
“What!”
“You should see him out there. Can’t take his eyes off that fucking Indian Chip Frozen Bear. Like he’s good looking, I suppose, but Jesus Christ, he’s a guy. Why isn’t Cynthia here?”
“Cynthia wanted to stay in town. Maybe she didn’t want to be admired for her breasts all evening,” I said. From the first day Kip had walked into my cafe with his father, I had found him dislikable. In his eyes lingered a dull meanness, a longing to put firecrackers in anthills, to tear wings off flies, to dissect live frogs, and to drown cute kittens.
“I’d rather look at any girl’s tits, than have to be around some queer. But I guess you don’t feel the same way, huh?” He smirked.
“Don’t be such an asshole,” I erupted.
Kip moved around the counter to where my white chocolate raspberry tarts, all twenty-four of them, were laid out in a neat row. All that I had left to do was garnish each with some plump, perfect raspberries and frame them with white chocolate molded leaves. “Oh, I’m sure Cynthia dreams about me. I certainly dream about her. Very satisfying and wet dreams. Maybe I should start coming into the Loon Town more often for lunch. Let her think about what I have to offer. It’s something big.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just get out.”
He dipped his finger into one of the tarts, through the whipped cream topping interlaced with melted white chocolate. He withdrew it and sucked on this fingertip, his dull eyes meeting mine. Suddenly, he spit on the ground. “What the fuck is this? You got raspberries in this fuckin’ dessert.”
“It’s a white chocolate mouse mixed with raspberries over a Wisconsin cream custard.” I explained calmly, remembering my conversation with Thelma about the dangers of deviating from the agreed-upon menu.
“That’s not what Dad fucking ordered. I hate raspberries. You’re not going to serve this shit in my house!” Kip swept his arm across the counter in one grand motion that flung all the tarts to the floor. Raspberries, custard, and whipped cream splattered across the tiles and up the oak doors of the cabinets. He turned and stalked from the room. The dessert remains resembled a murder scene of some bizarre extraterrestrial victim with custard for brains and raspberry puree for blood.
The room was fragrant with the smells of the dinner that would soon be served. Moments earlier, I had finished sautéing minced basil, parsley and shallots in the drippings of freshly cooked bacon. Then I had quickly seared on the grill twenty-four veal chops, thirty seconds on each side. Each chop had been placed onto a square of parchment paper, topped with a spoonful of cooked herbs and bacon, and then each sheet was carefully folded into a small paper envelope for baking. A timer binged. The appetizer in the oven was to be replaced by the veal. The smell of the Havarti cheese brushed with Wisconsin ground mustard and baked in individual puff pastries mingled with the fragrance of veal and bacon. It made me hungry.
But I had to act. Each cheese pastry had to be placed on an individual plate with slices of apple. When Kip had walked in, I had been taking the slices from a bath of acidulated water. The appetizer had to be served. The splattered desserts seemed to taunt me from the floor. Now, I had no dessert and there was no time to make a new one.
Danny walked into the kitchen with an empty tray. “The canapés are all served. That butler has been great about serving drinks. And believe me those people can drink. They’re getting quite a buzz on in the living room.” He noticed the gourmet murder scene. “What happened?”
“Kip” was my single word answer.
“What are you going to do,” he asked.
“He doesn’t have to do a thing,” old Mrs. Rabinowicz said as she trundled through the swinging doors that led from the butler’s pantry. She shook her head and titched. “That boy. He needs a good spanking. Never too old for that. Discipline from his father. He never had it. Never will either, will he? Ha!” she laughed.
I just looked at her.
“Go, go,” she said, waving her hand toward the dining room. “Those drunks need to get some food into them.” She went back through the swinging doors into the pantry, and came out holding a big bag of Oreo cookies.
“We can’t serve cookies for dessert,” I said.
“And I said, go. Go. Don’t you worry. I will take care of this. They’ll be the happiest people ever. Rita won’t know the difference. She’s already had three glasses of wine. I counted. My own daughter, but that girl needs a spanking too. But I’m too old to give it to her.”
I shrugged, motioned to Danny for help, and decided to power through. Quickly, we placed the nicely browned rectangles of puff pastry encasing melted cheese on the porcelain plates. Each pastry was encircled by slices of apples. “Set them out Danny. By the time they’re done spreading their cheese on their fruit, the veal will be a perfect medium rare and ready to serve.”
Mrs. Rabinowicz came through the swinging doors once more. This time she held four jumbo boxes of Jell-O instant pudding and pie mix. I grimaced. “Mr. Van Elkind is expecting a gourmet dessert,” I protested.
“Gourmet, shmormet. Hank’s had more to drink than Rita. You could serve h
im a cowpie and tell him it was chocolate mousse, and he’d think he had died and gone to heaven. He’s a happy man tonight because he’s finally got that Chip Frozen Bear on his side.”
Stephen came into the kitchen. “Shall I call the guests into the dining room?” and then he noticed the newly decorated floor. “I see Kip has been helping out.”
“Not to worry, Stephen,” said Mrs. Rabinowicz, “I’m making a new dessert for this young man to serve tonight. It’ll be better than anything you ever served back in that fancy house in Chicago.”
“Yes,” I said to Stephen, harking back to his earlier question, “we might as well call the guests in. Danny’s already laid out the appetizers.”
Stephen came back into the kitchen in a few minutes. “They’re seated and I’ve poured them new wine. Not that they should be allowed it. Except for Chip Frozen Bear, they’re all inebriated. Especially that local. Red Trueheart. He’ll run his prized powerboat aground if he tries to steer up the channel in his current state.
“Enough of that. I’ll get a mop and start cleaning up the mess. Where did Mrs. Rabinowicz go?”
The old woman came out of the walk-in cooler with two large containers of Cool Whip. “Wait a minute,” I said, “just what are you planning to do with this hodgepodge of junk food?”
“Didn’t I tell you to just serve the dinner and leave dessert to me?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“All right, I’m going to tell you. I got these cookies and I’m rolling them out into crumbs. Mix them with a little butter and mold it all into a crust. Won’t even bake it. Just line these custard bowls with it. Mix up this pudding and in two minutes we can pour it into the shell. I got a couple of pints of raspberries in the cooler that I picked this morning. I’ll mix it in with Cool Whip and put a heap of it on top of each bowl. It’ll taste as good as what you made, and I didn’t even taste what you had. Just saw it on the floor.” She had a rolling pin and was tackling the cookies in earnest. Oreo crumbs were flying around the kitchen. “Stephen, melt me some butter,” she commanded. “You got to react fast in this world.”
Tales From The Loon Town Cafe Page 9
