Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Tamar Myers

  “So the coat must be five or six foxes then. Maybe even a whole den.”

  Ms. Holt was not amused.

  The gentleman from South Carolina was more my style. His smile preceded him into the lobby, and his clothes were off the rack. WalMart, possibly, or maybe even JC Penney.

  “Welcome to the PennDutch Inn,” I said warmly.

  “My name is Magdalena Yoder, and I’m the proprietress.”

  He extended a large black hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. My name is Arthur Strump. But you can call me Art.” He had a heavy southern accent, which I found rather pleasing, although it made his name sound like “ought.” I took him to be in his late twenties.

  “Are you here for the cooking contest, Mr. Strump?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He reached into the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt, and finding it empty, patted it a few times. When nothing magically appeared, he turned, and that’s when I first saw the little girl.

  “You told me to stick it in my purse,” she said, and handed him the paper.

  I stared at her. She didn’t look anything like her father. She was as white as cottage cheese, and he as dark as a pan of brownies. From a genetic standpoint, it seemed more likely that it would be the other way around. But since I know very little about these things—my ancestral pools are about as varied as freshwater lakes in the Mojave—I prudently kept my mouth shut.

  Now, I am not one to judge, but black tights and a baggy black sweater do not an outfit make. Where was the bottom to the ensemble? No skirt, no slacks, the poor child didn’t even have a coat to keep her warm, although she did have boots—the kind my daddy used to wear when he mucked the barn. And rings! That child wore them everywhere. I’m no babe in the woods, catering to celebrities like I do, and I’ve seen some bizarre cases of body piercing, but she had more punctures than an inner tube in a cactus patch. It was a wonder the girl didn’t just ooze away through all those unnatural apertures.

  Arthur put the invitation on the counter. “This is Carlie,” he said.

  I smiled. “Hi, Carlie,” I said sweetly. Between you and me, however, I was seething. Mr. Anderson was going to get an earful, or was the culprit Freni? I had specifically instructed my kinswoman to make it crystal clear to the E.C.D. folks that children were not welcome at my establishment. That was a nonnegotiable condition for holding the contest at the PennDutch.

  Carlie, who was chewing on a wad of gum about the size of the planet Pluto said nothing.

  “She’s kind of shy,” Art said, and fondly rumpled Carlie’s bleached spikes.

  “How old is your little girl?” I asked pleasantly.

  “I’m eighteen, and I ain’t his little girl.”

  I swallowed. I have a sixth sense for trouble, thanks to Susannah.

  “Well then, whose little girl are you?”

  “That ain’t none of your business.” She grabbed Art’s left arm. “This here is my boyfriend.”

  I grabbed the counter for support. Nine generations of Yoders turning over in their graves produce a palpable seismic activity.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, not in this house,” I said through clenched teeth.

  The ball of gum found a parking place in her cheek. “What’s the matter, you prejudiced or something?”

  “She really is eighteen,” Art said quickly. “Carlie, show the lady your driver’s license.”

  The child rummaged in her purse for an eternity. The license, if it existed, was far more evasive than the invitation.

  “Just like I thought,” I said quietly.

  “Aha!” The girl had abandoned her pocketbook and was feeling around the waistband of her tights.

  Her sweater, in case you were wondering, was hiked shamelessly, the hem tucked beneath her chin.

  “Carlie!” At least Art had the decency to be appalled.

  I did him one better and looked away. When one is as easily offended as I am, there is no point in courting cardiac arrest. You’d be surprised what these peepers have been privy to in my capacity as proprietress.

  “Here it is,” she cried triumphantly and thrust the plastic-covered document at me.

  I took it gingerly. It was her in the picture, all right, and she was eighteen. She was also the only person I’d ever met who looked better on her license than in person. I made a mental note to consider immigration to South Carolina.

  “Congratulations,” I said, “but it doesn’t change a thing. I am a God-fearing woman, and I won’t have any hanky-panky under my roof.”

  Carlie looked to Art for clarification. “She has the same house rule as my folks,” he said.

  She lobbed the gum ball from cheek pouch to the other. “Oh, that. Man, this really reeks, Artie. You told me this was going to be a fun trip.”

  Art shifted from one foot to another. He looked at everyone around the room except directly at me.

  “Maybe she’ll let us have two rooms,” he said to no one in particular.

  “No can do,” I said. “I’m booked as solid as a concrete wall. And there aren’t any other motels in Hernia, but Bedford’s just up the road. Want me to make a few calls?”

  Carlie turned to Art. “Now what am I supposed to do?” She whispered in a voice loud enough to wake the dead two counties over. “I didn’t bring any money, you know.”

  Call me a softy. Call me a saint. At the very least, give me credit for being a decent human being.

  “Well, I guess I can fix up a place for you to sleep somewhere,” I said. “But no funny business, or it’s out on your ear.” I looked from her to him. “That goes for both of you.”

  “Cool.”

  Art reached for his wallet. “How much will this cost?”

  “That depends. Do you know how to do dishes, dear?”

  “Yeah.” The gum changed sides.

  “Dust and vacuum?”

  “Yeah.” The gum ball picked up speed.

  “Then it’s on the house,” I said. “Well, in a matter of speaking. It’s actually under the house. You’ll be sleeping in the basement.”

  The gum ball beat a furious tattoo, distending her cheeks with each blow, but she wisely made no protest.

  My last two guests arrived in tandem as well, although they were not a couple. That much I could tell just by looking out the window when the two rental cars pulled into my parking lot. When the occupants emerged, they greeted each other like total strangers. At least there would be no more moral dilemmas to deal with that day.

  Marge Benedict, food critic for American Appetite magazine, was, much to my surprise, one of the skinniest women I had ever seen. It was a shame really, because otherwise she might have been very beautiful, what with her large brown eyes and long, shiny brown-black hair. But just between you and me, the woman might do well to consider a life of crime; surely no prison cell in the world had bars that closely spaced.

  That said, she was neatly dressed in a winter-white pantsuit, and adorned with a tasteful amount of simple gold jewelry.

  George Mitchell, CEO of E.C.D., entered carrying both their bags. He was a dapper, older gent, in a navy pinstripe suit and brown wing tip shoes. His golf course tan was the perfect foil for his silver hair and mustache. His eyes, which were periwinkle blue, seemed to twinkle in constant amusement. In short, he was exactly the sort of man I wished my grandfathers had been—a thought that immediately caused me an appropriate amount of guilt.

  My inbred hand shook their well-bred hands as I welcomed them to my humble establishment. They accepted their room assignments without complaint, and Mr. Mitchell, big shot though he was, gallantly offered to carry the bags upstairs. Of course I allowed him the honor, and he heroically struggled up my impossibly steep stairs. That was all rather silly, since I do have an elevator now, but there is simply no explaining machismo. Especially in men of a certain age.

  I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief. Freni’s cooking contest was in competent hands. Since I am a religious woman, I have no time for superstitious nonsense, but I
was just about to knock on wood to cover my bases when Marge Benedict wheeled and returned to the front desk.

  “How well do you know that man?’ she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Mitchell,” she mouthed.

  “I know who you mean, dear, but I just met him. You were standing right there.”

  “He has an extremely negative aura.”

  “Aura, shmora. I don’t believe in that stuff.”

  “Just the same, something terrible is going to happen this week, and that man is the reason.”

  Perhaps I rolled my eyes.

  “I can feel it in my bones,” she said.

  I bit my tongue.

  She wheeled again and floated off to the elevator.

  Chapter Four

  Put the blame directly on my broad, but bony shoulders. In retrospect, it was stupid of me to assign seats at dinner that night. But that’s what I’m used to. At the appointed dinner hour my guests congregate in the parlor, and then I graciously seat them around the table my great-grandfather, Jacob “The Strong” Yoder, made for his wife and their sixteen children. Unless they are special favorites of mine, I seat folks in order of their arrival. Don’t act so surprised. Of course I play favorites with the seating arrangement, but isn’t that one of the “perks”—as Susannah is fond of saying—of being an innkeeper?

  My place is at the head of the table, and Susannah generally sits at the foot. Fortunately, our taste in guests seldom coincides, so there is very little sibling rivalry in that department. Since I wanted to encourage Susannah’s interest in the comely Mr. Anderson, I placed him at her right. I will admit to being mildly interested in the dapper Mr. Mitchell, negative aura and all, so I put him up by me. Those two assignments made, I decided to put the haughty Ms. Hold on Susannah’s left, and taking mercy on the somewhat delicate Gladys, I separated her from her overbearing father and seated her opposite Mr. Mitchell. Where the others sat is, frankly, immaterial.

  No doubt you will find me strict and unyielding, but I firmly believe in a set dinner hour. The PennDutch Inn is not a restaurant with a fast-order cook on standby. Freni works hard to produce edible, if not attractive meals, and the least my guests can do is eat the food when it is at its peak. No special provisions are made for latecomers. When I ring my little brass gong at half past six, the savvy diner will be present and accounted for.

  That first evening, neither Susannah nor the comely Mr. Anderson appeared. Perhaps, given Susannah’s history, I should have assumed that they were up to something wicked—the horizontal mambo, as Susannah so crudely puts it—but I am a God-fearing woman, and I preferred to think they were in Bedford having a burger someplace and chatting about the meaning of life.

  Ms. Holt was the last to enter the parlor—she was five minutes late—and therefore the last to be escorted into the dining room. She was actually quite pleasant to me until she saw the spot I had reserved for her.

  “Well,” she huffed, “this smacks of favoritism to me.”

  “Excuse me?” I was still adjusting to the fact that she had dressed for dinner. I mean dressed. She had made her entrance to the parlor in a black, floor-length gown, with a full taffeta skirt and a long-sleeved velvet bodice. Her pearl necklace and earrings were real, I’m quite sure. Of course far more oysters had had to die than did foxes. The woman was a walking monument to animal mortality.

  Mr. Mitchell had already been seated, and she nodded in his direction. “Why do I have to sit at the opposite end of the table? I have my own television show in Boston, you know.”

  “I know,” I said calmly, “and I’ve heard good things about it.”

  “Oh?” I could feel her backing down. And since I’d already sinned by skipping church, I decided to placate her further with a little white lie.

  “My sister Susannah is a big fan of yours. She watches your show all the time.” It seemed a safe fib at the moment, because Susannah had yet to swirl on the scene. The odds were that my sister was still in bed anyway. Ever since marrying that Presbyterian, Susannah has made it a habit of rising with the moon, not the sun.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes,” I gushed, and needlessly, I might add, “she thinks you’re better than Julia Child.”

  “Really!” The frozen face of Kimberly McManus Holt began to thaw.

  I smiled. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “In fact, she’s the president of the Bedford County Kimberly McManus Holt fan club.”

  “Well, in that case...” Ms. Kimberly McManus Holt was beaming like a jack-o’-lantern with two candles inside.

  I gulped. As usual, I had gone too far. Through the ball of my left foot I could feel the vibrations as Mama began turning slowly over in her grave. But of course it was too late to retract my lie. A word laid is a word played, Freni often says—never mind that the woman is metaphorically challenged. At any rate, Ms. Holt seemed sufficiently mollified, so it was time for the festivities to begin. I took my seat and gently rang the little brass bell, shaped like a southern belle, that I keep to the left of my plate.

  A few seconds later Freni practically waltzed into the room carrying a huge platter of pork chops stuffed with mushroom puree.

  “Voila!” Freni said. It is the only French word she knows, and she pronounces the first syllable to rhyme with “boy.”

  “Mrs. Hostetler invented this dish,” I said proudly. Since it wasn’t myself who was being recognized, I was permitted to brag.

  Everyone oohed and ahed appropriately. The loudest ooher and aher, incidentally, was the handsome Mr. Mitchell. At any rate, we oohed at every course until Freni brought in and served the desert. It was, I’m ashamed to say, her famous bread pudding.

  With Mr. Anderson absent, Freni might have gotten away with her stunt had not the downtrodden Gladys blabbed. “Isn’t this one of the dishes that someone is cooking in the contest?” she asked.

  Forks and spoons froze in midair.

  After more time than it took my bigamist pseudo-husband to you-know-what, I found my voice. “What a coincidence!” I sang out merrily.

  “Wait a minute,” Art said in his charming Charlestonian voice, “isn’t your cook one of the contestants?”

  “Ach!” Freni squawked, and fled to the kitchen.

  The contest itself was to last five days, with each of the contestants getting a full day, or three tries— whichever came first—to re-create the best example they could of the dish that had made them famous. The contestants had yet to be assigned their particular days, and Freni, bless her heart, was itching to get her turn over with.

  I glanced at Mr. Mitchell, who merely smiled and shrugged.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she is,” I said, “but I’m sure this isn’t exactly like the bread pudding she’s going to make for the contest.” That was technically true. Freni doesn’t measure with spoons or cups, and she uses the “pinch of this” and “handful of that” method of cooking. In the event she won, East Coast Delicacies was going to be hard-pressed to transpose her instructions into a written recipe.

  “Yah, it is so,” I heard Freni mutter through the kitchen door. Since my end of the table is the farthest from the kitchen, and I had neglected to swab my ears that morning, I’m sure the rest of the group heard her as well.

  Gladys glanced at her father, and then down at her dessert plate. “Then it isn’t fair.”

  More muttering from the kitchen. This time it was unintelligible.

  I swallowed a spoonful of the delicious pudding. “How isn’t it fair, dear?”

  Art leaned forward and addressed me. “With all due respect, ma’am, it’s a form of brainwashing.”

  “What?”

  “The judges—” he made a point of nodding at each of them—“now have this taste in their mouths, and the contest hasn’t even officially begun. Subconsciously it might affect them when they taste it again under contest conditions.”

  “Why that’s ridiculous,” I said, not unkindly. “From wh
at I understand, Mr. Anderson had already tasted all your dishes in preliminary contests.”

  “Yes, but not in a social situation such as this, and not twice in the same week.”

  “That’s my point exactly,” Gladys said, without looking up.

  “It isn’t cool to be unfair,” Carlie said. It was a remarkable achievement, since the child had her mouth full of both bread pudding and the wad of gum, which she had refused to discard at the beginning of the meal. Well, to be truthful, she had made a lame attempt at parking it on her plate, which of course I could not allow.

  I glared at the impudent girl. “How does this relate to you, my dear?”

  “Well, maybe it doesn’t but fair is fair.”

  “She’s right,” Ms. Holt said, and I could hear her words icing over. If only Susannah had shown up to distract her.

  “And not only that,” the audacious urchin said, egged on by Ms. Holt’s approval, “but your cook shouldn’t be serving the judges anything else she cooks until it’s her turn in the contest. And y’all know what else? She should only be allowed two tries on her day.”

  I snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That makes sense to me.” Ms. Holt dabbed at the corners of her mouth with just the tip of her linen napkin.

  “Me too,” Gladys mumbled.

  “Count me in,” Art said, and gave his gal pal a big smile.

  I looked to Alma for support, but she was conscientiously studying a framed quilt on the wall opposite her. It was time to appeal to the powers that were.

  With the comely Mr. Anderson absent, I had no choice then but to take it straight to the top. Surely the CEO of the E.C.D. could talk some sense into his mutinous mob. I turned to my right.

  “Mr. Mitchell?”

  His blue eyes twinkled. “Maybe we should take a vote, Miss Yoder.”

  There was a clatter from the kitchen, and more buzz than you get from a hive in a clover patch.

  I tapped my water glass with my bread knife. “Order!” I called. “Order!”

  Everyone turned my way, including Mr. Mitchell. “This is my inn,” I said. “I get to decide who cooks for me, and who doesn’t.”