Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village)

by Leslie Budewitz

  “Figures.” I’d have to catch him later. Meanwhile, time to pop next door for one of Wendy’s “breakfast jewels,” a warm puff pastry shell filled with egg, spinach, and cheese. Wendy might be testy, but darn, could she bake.

  Back at the Merc, I focused on making the most of festival day. I restocked the produce cart and hauled it out to the sidewalk. Started coffee and made sure we had plenty of cream and sugar, paper cups, stirring sticks, and napkins. Set out bowls and trays for the samples we’d be offering. Fluffed the coolers and shelves.

  Ready. I rubbed my hands with glee.

  My new painting lay on the kitchen’s stainless steel counter. I carried it and my bag up the half flight of stairs. The tiny office tucked under the eaves still felt like Fresca’s. Her cookbooks crammed the shelves: Julia Child, Jacques Pepin, Marcella Hazan, Escoffier, Larousse Gastronomique, and more and more and more. Stacks of Bon Appetit, Saveur, and Food and Wine filled the corners. Even a pile of Gourmet—when her favorite magazine shut down, Fresca had practically wept.

  I’d cleaned out the files when I took over the business, but since my mother had given me full responsibility for the building as well, another sweep might be in order.

  Her cookbooks had to stay. She consulted them regularly. Now that we’d cleaned up the basement, I could install shelves and gently suggest she move the books downstairs. But forcing her to clean out entirely would be like forcing her out of the business.

  Which she’d stepped back from voluntarily. Was I protecting her, or resisting the responsibility of being really, truly in charge?

  Start small, Erin. I took down a framed poster titled Spices of the World and hung Christine’s painting in its place.

  Perfect.

  Downstairs, Fresca had arrived and we set out today’s samples. We three worked the floor all morning, chatting with customers about our mission—high-quality natural and organic food, focusing on products sustainably grown in the region. Plus cool things to go with them—handmade table linens from Dragonfly, locally made pottery, and recycled glassware. We offered samples, handed out truffles, and had a grand old time. If the vendors outside were having half the sales and fun we had, they’d declare the Thirty-Fifth Annual Jewel Bay Summer Fair a bang-up success.

  Tracy took a quick break to run home and check her dog. When she returned, I stepped out to fetch us all lunch from one of the food vendors. But what to choose? Hawaiian Noodles, a Summer Fair staple? Mouthwatering Pondera Pizza? Or Kosher Dawgs, made in the next county with hormone-free beef? Oh, the decisions.

  “Hey, missed you this morning. Try the spicy dogs—they’re great.” Rick Bergstrom slid an arm around my shoulder. He had the muscular arms and big hands of a college football player, which he’d been. We’d gone to rival universities, both with champion teams, but football hadn’t been on my radar then.

  “Hey, good to see you. Three, please,” I told the vendor. “Sauerkraut, no ketchup, and one with extra mustard.”

  “You’re a hungry girl.” Rick smiled, his face golden farm-boy fresh. I had never thought of “Nordic wholesome” as my type until meeting him.

  “Feeding the crowd. Got all three of us working today. How’s it going?”

  “Hopping, but I can break away for a minute. Thanks for the suggestion. Honestly, I never imagined this much interest at a street fair. And pairing bread and cheese—that was brilliant.”

  I shaded my eyes from the morning sun and looked up at him, my heart beating a little faster. The vendor handed me my dogs and we headed for the Merc.

  “You’re welcome. I know your goal’s been to build long-term sales and establish major retail outlets, but—”

  “But,” he broke in. “You’ve made your point. Don’t overlook the tourists.”

  Which hadn’t been my point at all. We kept coming back to this, making a minor conflict a major rub. “Six thousand people in one weekend. They aren’t all tourists. Rick, about tonight—”

  “Yeah.” He glanced away briefly. “Would you—would it be really rotten if we changed our plans? I know I was going to meet you at the Lodge for the Grill-off, but it’s going to take me a lot longer to break down the booth than I expected. The Creamery folks have got to get home in time for milking, so it’s up to me, and it’s early call again tomorrow.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure. That’s better anyway. You heard about the accident, and the TV producer,” I said. He nodded. “I’m filling in, making sure everything goes smoothly, so I have to go down early and I’ll be busy. So why don’t I just call you later and see what’s up? Maybe we can catch a drink.”

  He opened the Merc’s front door for me. “Yeah. Thanks. Break a leg.”

  My metaphorical sails deflated a bit. No doubt Rick was feeling the strain of running a busy booth for the first time. Even though I’d needed to change our plans, I couldn’t help feeling like I’d been ditched.

  Don’t imagine things, Erin.

  I shook it off and put on a happy face. “Lunch wagon.”

  Everything looks better after lunch.

  • Nine •

  “Hey, Drew.” I stepped out of my Subaru and greeted the chef in the parking lot behind the Lodge. Drew stood next to the Jewel Inn van, checking a box of kitchen gear. “Sure hope I get a bite of your dish. That cherry sauce has my mouth watering already.”

  He grunted. Both substitute recipes had passed muster, although Gib had seemed less than impressed. But at the last minute, we could hardly be too picky.

  “Need a hand? Must feel weird to be back here, cooking,” I said.

  “That’s not the half of it.” He handed me a small cooler with a custom decal reading JEWEL INN and featuring its chalet logo. “Put this in the big walk-in, near the front.”

  He turned back to his equipment box, dismissing me. I knew enough about chefs not to take his brusqueness personally, but to see it as a sign of focus. “Sure thing, Chef.”

  In the kitchen, I found the walk-in and deposited Drew’s cooler near the front, next to a battered cooler labeled BEAR GRASS in black Sharpie on masking tape. On my way out, I spotted Kyle, picking through a box of vegetables.

  “Hey, Kyle. Ready for your close-up?” His smile was one-sided, a bit shaky. “You can’t be nervous. You’ve cooked for bigger deals than this.”

  He contemplated a luminous eggplant and set it aside. “Yeah, but not with my predecessor at the next grill.”

  I grinned. “You’re a Caldwell. You thrive on competition.”

  “That’s my cousin’s thing. I’m a lover, not a fighter. These days anyway.”

  The swinging doors opened and Tara Baker entered, the heels on her citified boots adding extra swing to her hair and hips. She stopped abruptly, startled to see me.

  “Is there something you need?” Kyle said, two red spots high on his cheeks.

  “Just want to let you know, we’ll have ten Lodge guests for dinner. Some had already toured the Bison Range, and one family went sailing instead.” Field trips for guests were a handy way to make the Lodge available for other events.

  Kyle noted the number on a chalkboard inside the kitchen doors. “That’s about what I expected. We’ll do plates for them instead of the usual buffet.”

  She nodded, then glanced from Kyle to me and back. “Everything okay in here?”

  “Fine,” we both said, like kindergartners caught conspiring to sneak out at nap time and ransack the snack stash.

  “Good,” she said, looking unconvinced, and sashayed back out. The doors were still swinging when we burst into giggles.

  “What’s up with her?” I said. “Anxious about having her ex-husband around her new boyfriend?” Drew and Tara’s Friday morning exchange outside the Inn had been tense, to say the least.

  “Uhh, yeah. I guess. I mean, their divorce wasn’t pretty, and the family would have loved to keep Drew on, but . . .” Kyle’
s voice trailed off. “You and Cousin Kim buds again?”

  Even he had noticed our friendship end, all those years ago. “We go riding. That’s about it.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. She’s been pissy with me ever since I came back, and that’s been three years. Must be the job.”

  “Detecting is stressful. She works hard,” I said. Kyle’s comment got me wondering whether the job wasn’t rougher on Kim than she let on. Maybe I could bring it up on our next ride.

  “So do you,” he said, fingers searching for the perfect white onion. “All day at the Merc, then here Thursday night and again tonight.”

  “Oh, Gib says piece of cake. And I do love cake. Knock ’em—” I stopped midsentence. “Knock their socks off.”

  Half an hour later, the three chefs lined up at their grills for photos while their whites were still white. Or black, in Kyle’s case. No one looked particularly happy.

  “Hey, cheer up. Perfect weather, perfect day. Everything’s great,” I said. Except that the producer’s dead and the stand-in hasn’t got a clue. “Plus we solved the recipe blooper.”

  Drew snorted. Amber studied the slate patio floor and shuffled her feet. Kyle gazed off in the distance. I mimed a big smile and they all forced cheesy grins.

  Gib Knox leaned against one of the big log posts, arms crossed.

  This was going well. Not. I scanned Stacia’s checklist for clues. “You all have your own gear. You’ve tested your grills. Need anything from the Lodge staff?” Three heads nodded “yes,” then shook “no.”

  Next item. “Time for Gib to give you the official rules, then the chefs finish prep and reconvene to start filming when the guests have gathered.” I checked my phone. “In about thirty-five minutes.”

  Gib strode forward, in full command. “You don’t chat in your kitchens, you don’t chat here. You cook. We’re judging your food, not casting a Food Network star. So no fireworks and no cheffy-ness.”

  “Cheffy-ness.” A new word. Was he demonstrating?

  “All ingredients must be ready in advance. I don’t want to see you measuring anything. That’s what prep bowls are for.”

  “We know all this,” Kyle said. “We’re professional chefs.”

  “You are not in your kitchen! You are on TV!” he shouted. “Normally you would each provide a finished dish made ahead for filming, but your committee told me no, film it all live, preserve your tradition. When we air, we’ll splice in footage of your restaurants and kitchens. Remember, we’ll be editing down to twelve minutes—we’re saving twelve for the village, the street fair, and the farm tour. So every moment counts.” He stared at each chef, then the next, apparently to instill The Fear. “Just act natural.”

  Amber made an undecipherable sound. He glowered at her, then yelled, “Who can put some makeup on this wench? And nobody wears a chef’s hat on my show. We’re grilling! Half an hour!” He strode off.

  No one was wearing a chef’s hat. They’re scarce as tidal waves in Montana. Kyle wore his usual Army ball cap and Drew a red bandanna tied Harley-style. Amber wore her straight dark blond hair in a short no-fuss cut. Her eyes widened like a four-year-old who’d spilled her milk.

  I grabbed her hand. “Tara! Help! Makeup wasn’t on Stacia’s list.”

  Tara had been watching from the Lodge door. She studied Amber briefly. “Our coloring’s similar. I’ll run home and see what I can find.” She and Emma lived in the chef’s lodging on the grounds.

  “My prep,” Amber said, alarmed.

  “It won’t take her a minute. And I’ll help if you need me,” I said, not caring if that violated Gib Knox’s unspoken rules.

  This, too, shall pass, I reminded myself, rubbing the stars on my wrist. Seemed like that old adage about not watching how sausage is made if you like to eat applied equally to TV cooking shows.

  * * *

  Thirty-three minutes later, one hundred and fifty villagers and vacationers crowded the lawn, sipping local wine and beer. Despite the afternoon heat, the Lodge grounds were lush and inviting. The kind of summer afternoon where you forget your troubles and wish the day would never end.

  Tara had turned Amber from a fresh-faced outdoorsy type you’d smile at on the street to a budding starlet you’d swear wore too much makeup—which probably made it just right for TV. She quickly brushed a little powder on the two men’s cheeks and forehead. Neither protested seriously.

  She skipped Gib, but I saw why: no sheen on his sharp cheekbones, and his lashes appeared long and dark. He’d applied a little powder, blusher, and mascara himself. Gib Knox, you sly fox.

  The chefs took their stations—each had a grill, a small prep table, and behind them, their coolers. Amber’d had plenty of time to chop her herbs and mince her shallots without my help. I’d changed clothes before leaving the Merc, and was glad to keep my coral-floral linen tank dress clean, even if I wasn’t on camera.

  The audience watched in a semicircle from the sloping lawn. I perched on the stone wall at the south end of the patio, Stacia’s list in my lap, a glass of pinot grigio in hand. The sun warmed my bare shoulders, and I touched the cool glass to my cheek.

  Gib strode onto the scene, in Western garb but hatless. This was his show. And Pete’s, though no one was watching him. That’s the role of the cameraman—to see everything without being seen.

  “Where’s the beef? Here’s the beef! We’re at the Great Northwestern Steak Grill-off, in Jewel Bay, Montana, where we’ve corralled three of the hottest chefs under the Big Sky to show off their brand of sizzle. Here at the world-famous Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch, on the sparkling shores of Eagle Lake, they’ll be sharing grilling tips and tricks and their finest recipes.” He gestured to the chefs with a flourish. “You can almost taste the rich flavors of that great Montana beef.”

  Pete slipped in front of him and Gib spoke into the camera. “Seriously, grilling is the original social networking. You on the deck with your guests and a bottle of wine. And the dog.” He dropped a hand to pat the head of a Bernese mountain dog, one of a pair who live at the Lodge. The dog had lain down next to Kyle’s grill the moment he turned it on and refused to leave. “Plus cleanup’s easy, and you can play with fire all year round.”

  The Lodge waitresses circulated through the crowd surreptitiously, bearing appetizer platters. I chose the red pepper and goat cheese bruschetta and a Cornish pasty. Crunchy, smooth, sweet, tart, and salty. Liz might rattle on about balancing the five elements with feng shui, but I preferred to balance my top five with a crisp, light summer wine.

  Waving a plaid-clad arm, Gib introduced the chefs. “From Bear Grass B&B, a country inn with a fascinating history on the road to Glacier Park, we have Chef Amber Stone. And you are preparing . . .”

  She smiled at the camera, nerves barely showing. “I’m grilling filet of Montana Black Angus, with herbed Gorgonzola and a roasted hazelnut crust.” Not Montana flavors—except for the beef—but as a last-minute substitute, we hadn’t objected.

  Gib started to pull the microphone back, but she kept speaking, ignoring the hint of displeasure that crossed his face. “In my restaurant, I’d serve this with garlic mashed potatoes, or grilled polenta and roasted tomato confit, paired with a light red wine. Perhaps an Oregon pinot noir.”

  Very nice. I admired how she snuck in a plug for the full menu, even if it did fall on the cutting room floor. Or in the age of digital cameras, vanish into the ether.

  Gib moved on. “And our home chef, Kyle Caldwell. You lucky man—cooking in paradise every day. What have you got for us?”

  “I’m serving an open-faced steak sandwich using a New York cut strip sirloin—Wagyu-Angus cross, grass-fed, raised across the lake. Served on grilled bread with grilled onions and fresh arugula on the side.”

  “And is that gravy?” Gib looked at the audience in mock horror.

  “A wild mushroom g
ravy you won’t regret.” Kyle grinned with more boyish, natural charm than Gib Knox could ever fake.

  “And our third contestant, Chef Drew Baker. Once a protégé of the great Berndt King in Los Angeles, now cooking at the Jewel Inn.” Gib dressed the fighting words in a light sweet glaze, but I knew from Drew’s flashing eyes that he didn’t miss the intent.

  “Filet with Cabernet-cherry sauce.” Drew focused on the grill, his hands busy as he sautéed shallots in a small skillet. I’d seen the recipe and knew he’d be boiling wine and balsamic vinegar with a secret spice bundle, then adding pitted fresh, dark fruit. He’d serve on a grilled portobello and garnish with a knot of chives. Visitors are often amazed by the thousands of acres of cherries grown along the lake, mostly on the east shore, where the gentle slopes and the proximity to water make conditions perfect. Drew’s Lapin cherries came from the Murphy orchard.

  My stomach growled.

  Time to showcase the cooking. Shirttails flapping, Pete snuck in to focus the camera on one chef at a time. Gib kept up a patter, standing near the front edge of the patio and talking to the audience about technique—sear one side first, then turn the meat, and for heaven’s sake, don’t keep flipping the darn thing. Then he discussed various cuts of meat and how they grilled, and weighed in on the perennial debate—gas or charcoal.

  I studied the chefs, expertise in action. No wasted effort, no extra movements. They knew what they needed next and where it was, focused on the precise-yet-creative demands of making quality food every time. The kitchen waltz, although without the exacting choreography demanded by a full staff in the heat of service.

  Kyle, the ex–Army chef, was clearly the most organized, ingredients premeasured in prep bowls laid out on his mise-en-place like toy soldiers waiting for their orders. Amber took a more free-form approach—a handful of this, a pinch of that. She sniffed, cocked her head to consider, added more herbs, drizzled in wine, spooned out a satisfying taste.

  Drew had the strongest presence, the fullest command. Those few square feet were all he needed to dazzle us and our palates.