by Ellen Byron
The women passed the platters, spooning servings onto their plates. Gaynell took out her phone and snapped several photos of her meal. “I feel bad. I never reviewed Junie’s on Tasteful, so I’m gonna do it now.” She tapped on her phone screen and then stopped. “Huh. JJ doesn’t have five stars.”
“How many does he have?” Maggie asked. “Four?”
“No.” Gaynell frowned. “Two.”
“What?” Maggie took Gaynell’s phone and stared at it.
“He probably got one bad review from some disgruntled customer that briefly knocked down his rating,” Gran said.
Sandy nodded in agreement. “Like with a credit score. It dips and then comes back up again. I’m sure it’ll be the same here.”
“Except that Junie’s didn’t get one bad review,” Maggie said. She held up Gaynell’s phone to the others. “It got six.”
Chapter 3
Gran took the phone from Maggie and read the reviews. She handed the phone back to Gaynell and gave her granddaughter a knowing look. “Trolls.”
Maggie gave a grim nod. She and her family had experienced a similar situation when a rival hotelier posted a barrage of negative reviews about their B and B on a travel website called trippee.com. The trolling triggered a spate of guest cancellations, made even more frustrating by the herculean efforts it took to have the fake reviews removed. She hated to think what kind of damage the Tasteful slams might do to Junie’s.
The faces of all the women were etched with concern. “Should we tell him?” Sandy wondered.
“Yes, so he can fight back,” Vanessa declared.
“But first we flood the site with positive reviews,” Gran said.
The women voiced agreement and pulled out their phones. “I’ll talk to him,” Lia said. “We both run food-oriented businesses. I can brainstorm with him about how to counteract something like this.”
The women finished dinner and their reviews, showered JJ with compliments, and headed out. Maggie and Gran drove home in silence, a pall cast over the evening. Bo greeted his wife at the door with a kiss that raised her spirits a bit. “How was your GNO?”
“It started out good but took a turn.” Maggie shared the news about Junie’s rating drop. “Lia’s gonna work with JJ on how to come back from this, and we all wrote raves on that dumb Tasteful website. Can you write one too? The more, the better.”
“Of course. But I’ve got some news of my own. Good news. How would you like to go to the Vi De Lavallade gallery opening tomorrow night?”
Maggie gasped. “Seriously? Bo, she’s my favorite artist.”
Her husband grinned. “I know. Why do you think I called the gallery and got us on the list? We can head down to New Orleans soon as we get off work. I also made a reservation at Chanson’s in the Quarter. I don’t feel right giving him any business here in Pelican, but I wouldn’t mind seeing if he’s earned all the fuss about his food.”
“Oooh, great art and a spy mission.” Maggie wrapped her arms around Bo’s waist. “Have I told you how much I love you?”
Bo quirked his lip. “Not in the last five minutes.”
* * *
Maggie woke up early the following morning to a phone call from her mother. “Chère, can you handle serving breakfast this morning for me?”
“Sure.” Maggie yawned and rubbed her sleepy eyes. “What’s up? You sound excited.”
“I am,” Ninette said. “Guess what? Phillippe Chanson heard from some of our guests that I’m a good cook—”
“You’re more than that; you’re a great cook.”
“Anyway, he asked if I’d mind making a meal for him.” Ninette’s voice rose to a squeak. “Can you imagine? Me cooking for him? What an amazing opportunity. It’s not till tomorrow afternoon, but I need all the time I can get to prepare.”
“Take whatever time you need, Mom. I’m happy for you.”
Maggie showered and dressed for the day. She smiled when she found Gran’s new ankle boots on her doorstep and brought them inside. They’d be the perfect footwear for her artsy evening outfit.
A few B and B couples enjoying an early Valentine’s Day retreat had requested that breakfast be left at their door, which was fortunate, since Kate Chanson had commandeered the dining room for a meeting. While the restaurateur hailed from nearby Lafayette, she reminded Maggie of driven female executives she’d known in New York. Kate had the hard, determined look of someone who’d fought for a seat at the table in male-dominated businesses, and her painfully thin frame made Maggie wonder if she ever partook of Phillippe Chanson’s cooking. “The real chairs and tables will be delivered to the restaurant this afternoon between lunch and dinner, and the rental company will pick up the temporaries,” Kate told her sleepy coworkers as Maggie distributed plates loaded with crawfish boudin and her mother’s popular Muffuletta Frittata. “For the final few meals before the official opening, I’ve slotted in some influencers who’ll create a buzz on social media.”
“So be nice to everyone who looks vapid and Botoxed. They could be important.” Patrick “Trick” Costello’s dry wit elicited a snort from the others. Costello was the Chanson Group’s mixologist but seemed to play a vague yet more important role in the organization. He stood around five foot eight and boasted a trim physique for a man in his midforties. Costello had mentioned to Maggie that his last name was Irish, not Italian, and he had the classic Black Irish coloring of dark hair, blue eyes, and pale skin to back up the claim.
Scooter Pitot, a slight, pierced thirtysomething hellion from nearby Ville Platte who Maggie had learned would be manning the oyster bar, rubbed his hands together. “Vapid and Botoxed. Throw in built and you got my swipe-left.”
Kate held up a hand. “Walk the line, Scooter. Eighty-six the sexism.”
“Are we done? Because I have actual work to do.” Becca, the sous-chef, sniped. “I have to meet Phillippe at the restaurant to go over some changes to today’s menu.”
“He didn’t run them by you in bed last night?” Kate delivered this with a sweet smile.
Trick theatrically inhaled a breath and winked at Luis Alvaro, the group’s youngest employee. Luis, a shy young man not long out of his teens, was staying with family friends in the area. He was in charge of the garde-manger, which he had defined to Maggie as meaning he focused on cold dishes. Luis, who seemed discomfited by the tension between the two women, ignored Trick.
The sound of a motorcycle roaring into the parking lot distracted the group. Becca jumped up. “My ride’s here. Which would be your ex-husband. We didn’t spend the night together, but not because we didn’t want to. But hey, there’s still a few hours before we open the restaurant. You might want to knock before you come into Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen this morning.”
Having shot this at Kate, Becca bounded out of the room. Scooter hooted and whistled. “She got you there, Katey Kay.”
Kate glared at him. “Don’t.”
Scooter faked a contrite expression. “Yes, ma’am.” He jumped up. “I got my truck for any that needs a ride. Thisaway.”
He strode out the door, followed by Trick and Luis. Kate pulled a file folder out of her briefcase and slapped it in front of writer Dyer Gossmer, who was still eating. “I edited your chapters. This is Phillippe’s autobiography. It needs to be more in his voice.”
“It would be if he was actually writing it,” Dyer muttered into his frittata.
Kate narrowed her eyes. “I heard that. I also saw you recording that little exchange between Becca and me. Delete it.”
“Okay.”
“Now.”
Dyer released an aggravated sigh. He put down his fork, picked up his phone, pulled up the Voice Memo app, and pressed delete. “With the amount of stuff you won’t let me include, this ‘autobiography’ is gonna be about the length of a photo caption.”
Kate cocked her head to one side. “How’s the newspaper business these days, Dyer? Not too great, is it? You might want to think about that before you mouth off to me
again.”
She tossed her napkin on the table and walked out of the room, leaving behind an untouched plate of food. Dyer traded it for his own empty plate. “I don’t care if you saw that,” he said to Maggie.
“Saw what?” Maggie said, feigning innocence.
The writer responded with a weak smile. To Maggie, he looked like a man who’d given up on life and was merely going through the motions. His thin, graying hair was ragged around the collar of his worn button-down shirt, which was only half tucked into his old, belted chinos, as if he hadn’t had the energy or motivation to tuck in the whole shirt. Dyer helped himself to Kate’s still-pristine cappuccino. “I was an investigative reporter for the New York Times. I quit to write a book about the BP oil spill, which sold around five copies. When I tried to get back in the newspaper game, there was no game to get back into. Now I scrape by writing vanity BS like this project.” He opened the file Kate had left for him and gave it a halfhearted once-over. “Of course she cut all the good stuff. Did you know that Phillippe Chanson is a totally made-up name? Well, not totally. Chanson is Kate’s last name. Phillippe—or rather, Phil, as he was called before becoming who he is now—took Kate’s surname because Singer, his real name, wasn’t exactly prime for a guy painting himself as America’s premier Cajun chef. Whenever this fact pops up, Kate bats it down like it’s Whack-A-Mole. Drives other chefs crazy. You know what his nickname is in the business? Nonstick. Because nothing sticks to him. Negative stuff just slides right off.”
Maggie studied Dyer. “I’ll be right back.” She left for the kitchen and returned carrying a bowl filled with a healthy serving of her mother’s Brandy Pain Perdue. “My mom’s famous version of French toast. Cajun comfort food.”
Dyer flashed a genuine smile. “Thanks. You made my morning.”
After the writer finished eating, Maggie bused the table, loaded the dishwasher, and set off for Doucet, where she spent the day restoring a painting that would hang in a new exhibit at the historic site. Say Yes to This Dress: The Long Life of One Wedding Gown was a Valentine’s Day–themed exhibit showcasing generations of Doucet brides wearing the same wedding gown Maggie had been married in. The final piece of the exhibit was the dress itself, displayed on a mannequin. Eager to get to the evening’s adventure, Maggie cut her workday short and raced home to meet Bo.
* * *
Maggie and Bo found New Orleans to be its usual vibrant self. Since Valentine’s Day often landed in the middle of Carnival season, the party-happy city celebrated both with equal abandon. The romantic holiday was almost two weeks away, but that didn’t deter the decorating. Red hearts duked it out with purple, green, and gold decorations in the store windows. A second line of people danced past Maggie and Bo on Canal Street, some participants wearing Mardi Gras masks, others carrying umbrellas festooned with red hearts. Bo held Maggie’s hand as they weaved through the boisterous crowds toward the art gallery on Chartres Street. The sidewalk in front of the gallery was filled with the opening’s overflow, well-dressed patrons of the arts holding plastic wineglasses and chatting with each other. The crowd parted to make way for the newcomers.
The couple stepped into the small space and looked around. Each wall of the gallery featured two large paintings. Maggie paused in front of the first piece of artwork and drank it in. A young African American mother sat on the stoop of a crumbling row house. She held a baby in her lap. A little girl had her arms wrapped around the woman’s neck while a boy leaned against her, a serious expression on his face. Maggie pointed to a building in the background. “You see how that looks like collage? It’s not. Vi painted it to look that way. And you see how there’s a beautiful flower arrangement in every window, contrasting with the building’s disintegration? It’s a brilliant juxtaposition of hope and despair.”
“Uh-huh.” Bo stared at the painting. “Pretty.”
Maggie chuckled. “An art critic you are not.” Maggie walked Bo through the exhibit, explaining each piece to him. She stopped short and clutched Bo’s arm. “That’s her. Vi De Lavallade.” Maggie pointed to an elegant, older Black woman wearing a nubby silk shawl and an off-white jersey dress that came to her ankles. Her hair was full and natural. She was tall—very tall. Maggie thought she might be eye level with Bo, who stood an inch over six feet.
“Why don’t you introduce yourself and tell her how much you like her work?”
“I can’t,” Maggie said, suddenly overcome with shyness. She watched with envy as the artist engaged in an animated conversation with two young women Maggie guessed were college students. “I read she’s doing a six-week residency at Tulane. Lucky Tulane students.”
Bo checked his watch. “We’re due at Chanson’s in five minutes. I can push back the reservation if you want.”
“No.” Maggie took one last long look around the gallery. “I’m good. We can go.” She squeezed Bo’s hand. “Thank you for this. It’s inspiring.”
They left the gallery for the restaurant, located in the heart of the Vieux Carré. A line of people without reservations hoping to get into Chanson’s in the Quarter stretched halfway down the block. As Maggie and Bo walked past the line to the front door, a would-be patron called to them, “I’ll pay you fifty bucks for your reservation.”
“Tempted?” Maggie teased Bo.
“Considering my detective’s salary, yes. But with the Saints in town, finding an opening at another decent restaurant is a no-go.”
Bo held the door open, then followed Maggie into Phillippe Chanson’s flagship eatery. The restaurant was housed in a former stable with a covered courtyard in the center. Patrons’ conversation bounced off the old stone floor, creating a wall of sound within the eatery. A maître d’ led them to a small café table in a dark corner of the place. “Do you want to share an appetizer?” Bo shouted over the din.
“Sure,” Maggie shouted back.
She opened the menu and did a double take. “Whoa. I think that appetizer might have to be our entire meal. This place is steep.”
Bo took a gulp of water, opened his menu, and choked on the water. “Mercy. Well …” he added weakly. “How often do we do something like this?”
Maggie heard a blast of laughter coming from a six-top a few tables away from them. She glanced over and saw the group in conversation with Phillippe Chanson. She’d met him only briefly in passing, but between his rangy good looks, charisma, and neck tattoos, he was hard to forget. He caught her eye. Chanson excused himself from the other diners and segued to their table, greeting Maggie and Bo each with a clap on the shoulder. “I saw your name on the reservation list. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said. “We’re looking forward to it.”
“Just an FYI that we don’t have oysters tonight. This place is already gold, so we moved the action to the new place by you. Nothing like the press you get from being one of the only joints with genuine Louisiana oysters these days. And at bargain prices.”
Not like on this menu, Maggie thought to herself. “That’s okay. I’m not an oyster fan.”
“I am,” Bo said, disappointed.
Chanson’s craggy face creased in a grin, accentuating a map of small scars that Maggie had read were the result of oil spatters from his frenetic cooking style. “Sorry, man. I’ll make it up to you in Pelican.” He turned his high-wattage smile to Maggie. “Hey, your mama’s making me a meal tomorrow. I hear she’s some cook.”
“She is,” Maggie said proudly. “The best.”
“We’ll see.” The chef’s smile didn’t dim, but Maggie picked up a hint of aggression in his tone. He clapped Bo’s shoulder again. “I gotta get back in the kitchen. Go with the Louisiana Seafood Trio. You won’t be sorry.”
Chanson departed, waving and nodding to customers, who fawned over him as if he were a rock star. Which, it seemed to Maggie, was a reputation he fully embraced. “I didn’t like the way he dismissed my mother. She’s so excited about cooking for him. I hope her feelings don’t get hurt.”
Bo st
udied the menu as he spoke. “You can’t get to where he’s gotten without being competitive. I’m sure he’ll be respectful. I don’t see anything that beats the Seafood Trio, although I may have to take a chunk outta my pension to pay for it.”
Maggie leaned in toward Bo. “If you can hold out for about an hour, I have an idea.” She dropped her voice and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Let’s ditch this place and head home to Junie’s. We could use the savings, and JJ could use the business.”
Bo chuckled and slapped his menu shut. “I like the way you think.” He stood up and made a sweeping motion. “After you, Mrs. Crozat-Durand.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Crozat-Durand,” Maggie said in her best imitation of a southern belle. She stood up, Bo clasped her hand in his, and they made their escape from the expensive, trendy eatery.
* * *
Maggie was relieved to find her fears about Chanson’s attitude toward Ninette’s cooking unfounded. He zipped over between the lunch and dinner soft-opening seatings at the new location and presented Ninette with a lovely bouquet he pulled out of his backpack. Rather than treating the famed chef to Cajun dishes he knew and served himself, Ninette had excavated rare recipes that danced with extinction. She began the meal with an appetizer of mirlitons stuffed with crawfish. The main course was a Cajun classic, Butter Beans and Shrimp, followed by a dessert of calas—fried-rice fritters. Despite the liberal dusting of powdered sugar, Ninette liked to serve her calas with a side of pure cane syrup for dipping. “Calas have made a comeback on some menus,” she told Maggie and Tug as she fried up the sweet treat. “But nobody’s doing my recipe for them. I got a secret ingredient.”
She said this with a smug attitude that amused Maggie. “Whatever it is, don’t waste sharing it on me.”
“I wasn’t planning to, chère. I know you can’t cook worth a lick.”
“Hey, no fair,” Maggie jokingly protested. “I can make beer bread.”
