“Though Mr. Sloan has taken cooking classes at Florida International University and written a cookbook on the subject of key lime pie, he is more widely known as the developer of the Key West Ghost Tours, the brains behind the zero-K Cow Key Channel Bridge run, and a writer. His bucket-list books about visiting and living in the Keys are extremely popular and will be on sale at the back of the room after our event.”
I harrumphed to myself. I’d thumbed through his books, even bought a couple. None of them were deep, but they were clever and funny. And he was smart enough to have made “buy a drink for an author” one of the items on his things-to-do list. I’d seen this in action in Facebook photos of Keys-obsessed tourists desperate to purchase him a cocktail. And it didn’t hurt that he was personable and even handsome. And maybe I was a bit envious of how far ahead of me he was, both as a culinary author and as an all-round Key West celebrity.
David Sloan moved forward to take the podium on the little stage. He thanked Michael for his introduction and the audience for coming.
“Many people don’t believe key lime pie was developed by a sailor,” he said. “But this is not folklore; it’s the truth. The magic happened when they mixed cans of condensed milk with key lime juice. This combination helped the filling set up as though it had been made with eggs, which of course were not available on ocean voyages—unless from a random pigeon.”
Snickers from the audience.
“In addition to tasting delicious, the pie had the side benefit of helping prevent scurvy. But enough about history. Key lime confections are ubiquitous in this town, and we are determined this week to identify and crown the king or queen of key lime pie.”
He walked across the stage to a box at the back of the area and extracted a headpiece. At first glance, it glittered in the spotlights like a bejeweled crown. But the base had been constructed to resemble a key lime pie, with peaks of faux meringue standing up around the edges like the points of a real crown. He placed it on his own head, vamping to the left and then to the right, receiving much applause. He pointed to the people watching. “And you, our esteemed audience of chefs, foodies, and critics, will be our assistant judges. The final decision, of course, will be made by me.” He tucked the crown back in its box.
“Today we will introduce our participants, and on Friday we’ll hold the official tasting. Don’t miss that event, which will culminate in the coronation, accompanied by key-lime-pie martinis. I predict many local celebrities will be on hand, including our own Mayor Teri Johnson and bookstore celebrities Suzanne Orchard from Key West Island Books and Judy Blume from Books and Books.”
Then he called up the bakers who would be participating in the contest, representatives from about fifty percent of the restaurants and bakeries around town. They settled into a row of metal chairs behind the podium. None of them looked very happy to be here, but it was a command performance. Sloan was so good at drumming up publicity that any restaurant or shop relying on sales of this citrus confection to help with its bottom line could not afford to miss his event, and thereby miss getting featured in local media.
“Each chef will come to the microphone and describe what makes their creation stand out from the others. Every one of these talented bakers has brought a pie to illustrate their skill. We are not asking them to reveal trade secrets”—he turned to wink at the lineup—“but we’d love a description of why you believe your pie is the most outstanding example of our iconic dessert on this island.”
The pastry chef from Blue Heaven restaurant, a funky tourist favorite because of the outdoor seating, consistently good food, and resident chickens, introduced herself as Bee Thistle. She was tall and willowy, with a long braid of shiny dark hair down her back. She wore a colorful tiered skirt that fell almost to the floor, a handful of necklaces, and a blue apron. She extracted a pie from the cardboard box she’d brought to the podium and held it up to a smattering of oohs and aahs.
“As you can see,” she said, “what distinguishes us from the competition is our mile-high meringue.”
She walked out from behind the podium to the front of the stage, holding the pie out so the audience could see more clearly. The meringue stood at least three inches above the lip of the pan, shaped into peaks that glistened firm and golden in the overhead spotlight.
“I’m not authorized to give away our recipe,” she said, “nor do I wish to illuminate trade secrets to benefit our competitors. We at Blue Heaven are famously known for our key lime pie, and we plan to win this week.” She grinned and smoothed her apron. “But I will share one secret: hot sugar syrup.”
The people in the audience tittered and rustled, and I heard a woman at the end of the row nearest me ask a friend if she’d written that down. I hated to tell her that, even supposing hot sugar syrup was the key to the key lime kingdom, if we had no idea how much to use and when and how to add it, we risked a lot of collapsed meringue in our futures.
Next Sloan called Sigrid, manager of the Key Lime Pie Company on Greene Street, to the center of the stage. A small, dark-skinned woman with velvet brown eyes and a wide smile, she posed alongside the podium with her pie held high. Probably, I thought, so she and her pie could be properly admired without being swallowed by the podium.
“No meringue for us,” she said. “We have the creamiest pie in town, and that explains precisely why we are flooded with requests to ship our pies all over the country. And what other version of this delicacy has been featured on the TV show The Profit?” She explained that Marcus Lemonis, entrepreneur and star of the CNBC show known for resuscitating struggling businesses, had ended up buying the company, with the caveat that only the original recipe be utilized.
“Whipped cream, key limes, condensed milk, and a homemade graham cracker crust. Extra-creamy, homemade everything—those are our secrets.” She settled her pie on the table next to the Blue Heaven confection and smiled sweetly.
Two more contestants followed, both classically trained pastry chefs from bakeries that produced not only key lime pie but also bread and pastries, in the case of Old Town Bakery, and cakes and cupcakes, in the case of Key West Cakes. Both chefs appeared slightly stiff, perhaps feeling a whiff of resentment about their command performances at the pie celebration. But again, I thought, skipping this Sloan event would have been bad for business.
“We use very few ingredients, all fresh and organic,” said Niall Bowen, the chef at Old Town Bakery. “That is our motto: plain and simple; the best ingredients produce the best pie. And PS: we finish our pies with a dollop of real whipped cream, no meringue.”
One of the owners from Key West Cakes gave a similar minimalist presentation. He was followed by the pastry chef from the Moondog Cafe and Bakery, a newly opened restaurant within spitting distance of the Hemingway Home and its cats.
He mugged an unhappy face. “Really? No meringue?”
Was he talking with a slight French accent? Was he French? Or was he pretending?
He held up a section of his pie so we could see the layers, the bottom pale yellow in color, topped by a frosting of meringue that had been sprinkled with green zest and broiled so that only crests of the egg whites were browned.
“While we don’t go to the point of ridiculous heights”—he did not glance in the direction of the Blue Heaven chef, but it was obvious who he meant—“we do like meringue, and we especially like it made with bits of lime zest. Meringue is constructed of whipped egg whites—the result is beautiful and showy but usually not very flavorful. This bit of extra zest is what helps our pie rise above the crowd.” He kissed the tips of his fingers, took a little bow, and deposited his pie on the table.
Last, Claudette Parker, who had opened the brand-new pastry shop Au Citron Vert in the fall, came forward on the stage with an assistant, a dark-complected man with a round face and a nice smile whom she introduced as Paul Redford. She had blonde curls and red lips and wore a fitted white jacket several eons more fashionable than the baggy coats and aprons the other contest
ants had shown up in. She also wore high heels—black patent leather with a gold toe—that looked expensive and uncomfortable. Paul hovered behind her like a worried mom.
“Key lime pie is passé, and that is precisely why I’ve replaced it in my establishment with a key lime napoleon. My contribution today is our best-selling confection. I believe our fans understand the difference between a true French pastry and a plate of green glop.” She waved her hand dismissively at the lineup of pies from the other cooks and bakers. “I would like to present to you a handmade pâtisserie with layers of homemade puff pastry drizzled with a glaze containing local honey and key limes and stuffed with pastry cream scented with a whisper of lime. Key limes are no bigger than a walnut,” she explained.
Her assistant, Paul, held up one of the small green fruits to show the audience.
“Unfortunately,” she continued, “they are not too common on our island, in spite of what our host claims. And so we source them from further up the Keys.” She opened a small white pastry box and produced a napoleon that made my stomach groan with anticipation. “Flaky layers brushed with organic butter, tart glaze, and a handcrafted cream pastry kissed with lime,” she added as she held up the pastry. Her sous-chef stood behind her nodding and smiling. “All of this is homemade in my new shop on Greene Street, Au Citron Vert.”
But David Sloan strode to the podium and snatched the microphone away from her. “I am sorry to do this publicly, but as was clearly stated in our entry forms and communicated in a phone call, we are accepting only pies in this contest. No cookies, no martinis, no flaky pastries, regardless of how delightful the chef insists they might taste.”
Claudette’s face grew stony, and she seemed to freeze in place. But her assistant pushed forward and grabbed the mic back from Sloan. “We deserve to be here. You cannot do this,” he shouted.
“Oh, but I can,” said Mr. Sloan, retrieving the microphone, a smile on his lips that looked anything but friendly. “This is my event, and I make the rules. Please step down from the stage.” He shooed at the two of them as if they were dogs begging at a table.
Off to the left of the stage, I saw a flash of movement. Before my brain could fully register what was coming, Claudette Parker marched to the display table and picked up the pie from the Key Lime Pie Company, the one that had been touted as extra-creamy, with whipped cream piped joyfully around the edges. She slammed it into David Sloan’s face. The pie tin slid off his nose and chin and clattered on the floor in a puddle of filling. Sloan’s eyes blinked like windshield wipers in heavy snow, working holes in the whipped cream.
There was a collective noise of sucking air from the audience, followed by a few snickers. The room felt suddenly tight with tension. David Sloan said nothing in response, and the roomful of people fell silent too. He looked clownish, with the pale-green filling dripping off his hair, his eyebrows, and his carefully shaped goatee and running in rivulets down his collar and across his starched chef’s coat with Sloan’s Key Lime Pie Key to the City written across the chest pocket in green script.
I stuffed a sudden urge to burst into laughter as I heard a smattering of giggles burst out around me. It was sort of funny, like in a million sitcoms where something ridiculous happens to the main character. On the other hand, David Sloan was not laughing. In silence, he began mopping his face with a red bandanna. The more pie he cleared from his skin, the angrier he looked.
His mouth began to work, and finally he hissed out, “You bitch.”
The librarian, Michael, rushed up the steps, grabbed the mic, and thanked people for attending. Christopher, the library assistant, approached David Sloan with a wad of brown paper towels. Sloan pushed him and the scratchy towels aside, looking as though he was prepared to strangle Claudette. The din in the room rose as the attendees milled about, some pushing to get out, others rushing up toward the row of pastry chefs who sat stunned on the stage.
“Please pick up a flier on your way out, which will list the other events for the key lime extravaganza,” shouted the librarian, looking apoplectic. “And don’t forget the lecture series sponsored by the Friends of the Library, beginning in January.”
I had been planning to chat with Sloan after the event to get some quotes for my article, but clearly now was not the time to gather pithy and cheerful comments about key lime pie recipes. I’d have to check in with him later. I found myself standing next to Christopher, who was watching Claudette storm away from David Sloan.
“Do you have a minute to chat?” I asked, after introducing myself.
He agreed, and I shook my head. “I sure didn’t see that coming, but I was running a bit late. How about you? Did you notice any friction between them while you were setting up?”
“Not exactly,” he said, “but put two divas in the room at your peril.”
“Divas?” I prodded, thinking he might have some juicy background information to offer.
His attention shifted from Claudette’s face to mine. “I don’t have hard facts, but I do have a hypothesis. I imagine she thought she could come down here from New England and break into this food scene without a murmur and rise like cream right to the top. Key West looks so open-minded from the outside, right? Loosey-goosey, welcome everyone, we are all one human family and all that good stuff. But people still get hyped up about competition on their turf. And today Claudette ran right into David Sloan’s buzz saw.”
He laughed, and it appeared he had enjoyed the altercation more than felt stressed out by it, as I had. And for a new guy, he understood a lot about our city. “The look on his face was priceless, though, wasn’t it?”
“More like scary,” I said, glancing at Christopher again. Michael, his boss, was signaling furiously for his attention from across the room.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’d better go help mop up the mess.”
* * *
I spent the rest of the afternoon in my cubby at the office writing up the event, describing the contestants and the pies and wondering whether it would be acceptable to mention the pie in David’s face. Or should I limit myself to describing the bakers and their products? I didn’t want to come across as gossipy, or seem to be reveling in the disaster as Christopher had. I finally wrote two versions: one straightforward, listing all the pies and leaving out Claudette and her pastry, and the other describing the whole story as it had unfolded. I sent them both to Wally and Palamina. They were making the big bucks; let them make the hard decisions.
That done, I buzzed up the island, stopping at Fausto’s to pick up a rotisserie chicken and a couple of sweet potatoes for supper. I tucked them into the basket of my scooter and drove home.
As I came up the dock, I waved to my friend Connie, who was playing with her daughter on the deck of her boat. “Do you have time for a tiny glass of wine?” I asked.
Within minutes, I’d popped the sweet potatoes into the oven, and my friend arrived with her baby and a basket of toys to keep her occupied while we chatted. I hugged each of them and supplied baby Claire with a sippy cup of organic apple juice and Connie with a glass of rosé from Provence.
“How was your day? You look exhausted,” said Connie. She glanced around the deck and peered into the living room. “Something looks different.”
“What’s different is we’ve been scrubbing everything to within an inch of its life to get ready for Nathan’s mother arriving tomorrow. Unexpectedly,” I added.
“Cheers,” said Connie, lifting her glass to tap it gently against mine. “Here’s to adding to the family. The unexpected part doesn’t sound so great, but it’s good news that she’s coming, right?”
Which shut me up instantly, as Connie had lost her own mother to cancer while we were in college, and lost her father to bad behavior right after her wedding. I knew she relied on Ray’s parents as her only familial connections. She loved my mother and Sam dearly too, and envied my easy access to maternal support.
“You’re totally right,” I said. “I’m just a little wound up a
bout what she’ll think of the place. And with all our animals crammed into the boat and our close neighbors, I’m afraid she’s going to find it claustrophobic. When you take a step back, Houseboat Row is a little funky, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” she said, and let loose a big belly laugh. “And that’s why we all love it here. Either she’ll love it or she won’t, but she isn’t the one living here, right? What else were you up to today?”
“I spent the afternoon at David Sloan’s key lime extravaganza at the library. It deteriorated into a true rhubarb.” I explained about the high-powered pastry chefs and the ending frenzy with pie in the face of the organizer.
“I can’t really figure that guy out,” I said. “How can a person specialize in and make a career out of key lime pie? There simply isn’t that much to it. Lime, milk, crust, ta-da! But he had all these talented chefs up on the stage waxing on about their sugar syrup and their lime zest and flaky puff pastry as if this was a summit of world leaders addressing sea-level rise or gun violence.”
Connie took a sip of her wine and studied my face. “Do you mind if I say that you sound a little sour? No pun intended. Like this guy rubs you wrong for some personal reason?” She paused. “Was he the one who dissed your article when you first got the job?”
I’d written an article for Key Zest after I was first hired—the thesis was that there wasn’t any truly remarkable food on the island. It was tourist fare, plain and simple. And greasy. Wally, who’d been my sole boss at the time, had urged me not to play too safe with my pieces. Be controversial; stake out extreme positions when you can, he’d said. So I’d dissed our island’s cuisine. The truth was, I wasn’t familiar enough with Key West chefs and restaurants to make a generalization like that. Sloan had noticed and published a scathing rebuttal. He’d been correct, but it had still stung. And I’d kept my distance ever since.
The Key Lime Crime Page 2
