“Bloodlust,” I wrote in my notebook, and then circled the word as if it might bolt off the page. I’d discussed similar concerns with Eric over the past few months—would I have the necessary taste for blood that a critic seemed to need? And he’d reminded me to think about why I was drawn to the profession and focus on that: People deserved well-informed opinions about spending their money. As Jonah would have said, they deserved truth.
As this discussion wound down, I tapped Mom on the leg. “I have to get out,” I said. “I’m taking Yoshe and Sigrid to lunch.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she said. “What a terrific idea. Where are we eating?”
I didn’t have the heart to suggest that I’d feel less self-conscious talking with them by myself. And besides, maybe having her along would keep them off balance. Because what kind of investigative reporter brings her mother along to an important interview?
“I was thinking of La Crêperie,” I said. “I’ve never had a bad meal there. Wouldn’t that be awful, taking a food writer out for a lousy lunch? They’d think I didn’t have a clue.”
Mom and I hustled out to the lobby, where Sigrid and Yoshe waited. I hailed two pedicabs on Duval Street—bicyclists pulling rolling benches for tourists. No Key West native would be caught dead in one of these, but they’d be perfect for transporting the ladies to lunch. I settled Mom and Yoshe in the first cab, behind a young Rumanian man with huge, muscular thighs.
“We’re headed to La Crêperie,” I said to him, and then climbed into the second cab next to Sigrid. Our bicyclist/driver pumped his legs hard to get the cab moving. “Considering how badly we feel about Jonah, I think it’s going well so far,” I said to Sigrid. “Don’t you?”
“It would have been nice if he’d asked us about our most recent work,” she said, sliding on a pair of large black sunglasses. “It’s so awkward to have to cram your own material into the discussion without being invited.”
An issue I hadn’t noticed her having any trouble with at all.
Our cabdriver dodged expertly between a turquoise golf cart loaded with drunken college students and two wobbly scooters and turned left on Petronia Street into the Bahama Village, where a large wrought-iron arch was the only vestige of the formerly bustling Bahama Village market. After a few more minutes of vigorous pedaling, he deposited us at the café across from the more famous—and more touristy—Blue Heaven. His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat and he was breathing hard. I paid the tab and added a generous tip for the load he’d carried. Mom and Yoshe descended from their cab and I paid that driver too, wondering how much of this might have to come out of my own small paycheck. Wally hadn’t said anything much about expenses, other than “keep them down.”
“This little restaurant used to be located on Duval, but it burned to the studs a few years ago,” I told the women. “Both of the chef-owners are from Brittany, France. They rebuilt, and from what I’ve experienced, it’s better than ever.”
After a short wait, we were escorted to a small metal café table on the sidewalk, where we took a minute to study the menus.
“I can’t believe we are actually eating outdoors!” said my mother, tucking a white napkin over her lap. “Everything’s gray and frigid back home.”
“Have you tried the Croque Madame?” Sigrid asked me, and then read aloud the description of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich finished with a fried egg.
“That’s loaded with fat and cholesterol,” said Yoshe. “Don’t the salads look fantastic?” She pointed to the woman at the next table, who was eating a spring mix topped with avocado, strawberries, and pears.
Sigrid glared at her.
“I have eaten their Croque Monsieur. It’s delicious and comes with a nice green side salad,” I said, hoping that compromise would be oil on the rough waters between them.
The waitress, a blond woman with a French accent, swung by to take our orders—one sandwich with a side order of frites, two salads, one omelet. She spun away to the kitchen.
Before Yoshe could weigh in on the fat grams in Sigrid’s french fries, I said, “I’m curious about how you think the panel might have gone differently with Jonah at the helm. After all, he promised us full disclosure.”
“Threatened us is more like it,” said Sigrid.
“He wouldn’t have been satisfied with Olivia Nethercut alluding to what’s hidden behind her writing,” said Yoshe. “He would have asked her straight out what she didn’t have the nerve to say.”
“Really?” Mom’s eyes widened. “I thought that was so interesting. Did you agree with her comment that all writers show more than they intend?”
Sigrid snorted and smoothed her flowered dress over her belly. “I didn’t appreciate that—if I have something to say about a subject, I say it right out,” she said. “She made it sound like we’re all hiding things or too dumb to know what we’ve written.”
“I think the more interesting fireworks would have come outside of the panels,” Yoshe added. “Of course, you knew that Jonah and Dustin were an item?”
“They were?” Mom and I asked simultaneously.
“Was that recent?” I asked. “Dustin didn’t mention anything about a personal relationship with Jonah last night when we were talking to the cops. He didn’t act like a guy who’d just lost his boyfriend. In fact, he seemed most annoyed that Jonah might have irritated the conference sponsors.”
“Jonah dumped him in record time,” Yoshe said. “He isn’t going to brag about that.”
The waitress delivered our meals: Greek salads thick with feta cheese and Niçoise olives folded into buckwheat pancakes for Yoshe and me, a spinach and mushroom omelet for Mom, and the ham and cheese sandwich crowned with an egg over easy and an order of french fries on the side for Sigrid.
“Besides, if the conference sponsors aren’t happy,” Sigrid said, plunging her knife into the sandwich so that yolk flowed like yellow lava over the ham onto the crunchy stalks of potato, “Dustin’s out of a job.” She carved off a large corner of her sandwich, mopped it through the pool of egg yolk, and wolfed it down. “And I don’t believe it was serious between them. For Jonah, nothing was ever serious outside of his work.”
As we ate, the conversation turned toward admiration of the food—the crispy tang of the buckwheat pancakes, the creamy feta, the fresh tomatoes. A vinaigrette with a secret ingredient. Extra garlic? Tarragon? Mustard? No one agreed.
“Tell us about your new project,” Mom said to Yoshe. “You didn’t get a chance to expand on its ‘point of view.’”
Yoshe blushed furiously and looked hard at Mom, like maybe she’d underestimated her. “What I meant by that is that no cooking occurs in a vacuum. In fact, the best recipes sprouted in some grandmother’s kitchen somewhere. Doesn’t matter whether she was Polish or Italian or a pioneer woman from Iowa. We need to learn from the women who came before us.”
Mom leaned forward eagerly. “When Hayley graduated from college, I gave her a box of my mother’s recipes—written in her own hand. And a few from my mother’s mother and my mother-in-law. Some of them are delicious and some simple and several just awful, but the point is, they demonstrate the history of these women in such a tangible, personal way. And it’s our history too—we’re all connected.”
I didn’t dare mention how close I’d come to losing every last recipe card in the box during the breakup with Chad Lutz last fall.
“Exactly!” said Yoshe. “I should have hired you to write the preface.”
Now Mom blushed and ducked her head.
“The food of my ancestors sucked,” said Sigrid with a big belly laugh. “That’s why I write fiction.”
The alarm on my phone beeped—almost two o’clock. “I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back for the afternoon sessions,” I said.
“I’m skipping the panels this afternoon,” said Sigrid. “We have a long night ahead. And there won’t be anything said that I haven’t already heard.”
Yoshe nodded in agree
ment.
“You go on,” Mom suggested to me. “I’ll make sure the ladies get dessert and help them find a cab to take them to their hotels. I can cover the bill and bring the receipt to you later.”
I flashed a grateful smile. As much as my mother had looked forward to every moment of this conference, precious private time with her cooking idol, Yoshe, would be even better. And Sigrid added to the raw entertainment value of the afternoon. I left them arguing over Nutella dessert crepes with bananas versus the more extravagant raspberry chocolate ganache red velvet, with Yoshe proposing maybe they should stick with herbal tea. Did she realize that her weight-conscious barbs hit home every time for Sigrid? I wondered as I walked away. Only the result seemed to be that Sigrid ordered more, not less, each time Yoshe mentioned calories. To give Yoshe the benefit of the doubt, maybe they were a running commentary in her own head and she was merely giving them voice.
I jogged the few blocks to the San Carlos Institute, arriving slightly sweaty and a couple of minutes late. As the lights of the theater were already dimmed and the audience quiet, I slid into a seat in the back row. Floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains covered the diner set onstage. Dustin fought through them and announced the next speaker, Fritz Ewing, the culinary poet who had moderated the morning panel. Based on his earlier introduction, Fritz seemed to be best known for using food as metaphor for strong emotion. Most recently his focus had become protein. He approached the podium, shook Dustin’s hand, and launched into a monotone reading.
“Mutton, gray strands, like tough sinews of conversation with my ex,” he began. “Beefsteak, raw and tender flesh, calling a lover home. One I shall spit to the side of the plate, never to taste again. The other swallowed, joining enzymes in my belly…”
Feeling a little queasy, I sank lower in my chair and tried to block out the meat metaphors by reviewing the conversation we’d had over lunch. Neither of the women had seemed all that fond of Jonah, though there was a general admiration of his competence. The news of a failed relationship between Jonah and Dustin surprised me. As I’d learned the hard way last year when Kristen Faulkner was murdered and I landed on the hot seat, this derailed romantic connection would certainly make Dustin a person of interest in the eyes of the cops.
A few rows in front of me, Dustin stood, looking at the vibrating phone in his hand with some annoyance. He strode up the aisle toward the lobby. I slipped out behind him, trying madly to think of a way to ask about his relationship with Jonah. Before I could get his attention, two uniformed cops met him in the lobby and led him to the side of the room. I ducked into the cubby that served as the conference bookstore and pretended to browse the books nearest the door, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“I understand that you need to do your jobs,” Dustin was saying, his pleasant tone not quite covering the irritation underneath. “Could we possibly talk after the day’s panels are completed?”
I thumbed through a paperback copy of Sigrid’s latest novel, not able to make out the policeman’s reply.
“I have no idea what happened to the damn bird,” Dustin replied. “I can only tell you I had nothing to do with either hefting it or causing it to vanish.” Then he stalked back across the foyer and disappeared into the auditorium.
I returned Sigrid’s novel to the stack and headed out, exhausted by the day and anxious about the night to come.
6
When I write about a line cook’s bad night, it’s not just about a bad night, it’s about not being good enough, period, about personal shame and failure.
—Michael Ruhlman
If Key West can be said to have a ghetto, the walk down the blocks of Petronia Street from Duval Street to Santiago’s Bodega led us right through it. It was one thing to ride along this path in full daylight, in the back of a pedicab, as we had done this afternoon, another to march the same distance in the darkness.
Mom did her best to keep up a chipper smile as we passed along the drab blocks of small homes, yards littered with odd bits of trash and dour dark-skinned residents who looked as though they’d just as soon not have pale strangers tromping through their neighborhood.
“Maybe we should have had the detective pick us up,” she said in a soft voice that let me know she was a little nervous even though she didn’t want to be.
I linked my arm through hers. “We’re perfectly safe and we’re almost there. And he was coming straight from work.”
Which was a tiny stretcher. In truth, I preferred to meet him at the restaurant on my own terms. I’d been looking forward to a date with Bransford for weeks, though after last night’s conversation I was filled with a greater percentage of dread than anticipation. And besides, having Mom along ensured that we wouldn’t be indulging in anything more thrilling than dinner.
Sparks had flown like the worst romantic cliché right from the first minute I laid eyes on Detective Bransford, despite inauspicious circumstances (me as his murder suspect). He asked me out the same day the real killer was arrested. But it took almost five weeks to find an evening that worked for both of us. I’d spent ten days visiting both my families in New Jersey before Christmas—ten days can start to feel like a life sentence under those conditions. But I’d figured one thing out for certain since my parents’ divorce: My time had to be divided equally between Mom’s house and Dad’s. On top of my family issues, the holidays, especially New Year’s Eve when Key West goes party-in-the-streets crazy, were stressful times for the police department.
All that to say anticipation made my heart race and my decision-making difficult—it took me a solid hour to figure out what to wear to this dinner. First I tried on the black swing dress that made me feel sexy but in just the right girlish kind of way. Until I remembered he’d already seen me wear it to a funeral. Bad dating Karma. So I switched the dress out for my black jeans—a little snug at the current payload—and a light blue sweater that made more of my cleavage than actually existed. Mom’s and Eric’s enthusiastic responses had left me feeling that I’d made the right selection, even though my feet felt like I’d been walking on a bed of bamboo skewers in Connie’s borrowed patent leather stilettos. And the heel-strap rubbed exactly on the spot where my mother’s gift sandals had created a tender blister. All in all, a fashion-for-comfort blunder I would not repeat. Ever.
Detective Bransford was pacing outside Santiago’s. He stopped still when he saw us. “I would have been happy to pick you up,” he said, looking worried, glancing from Mom’s sandals to my heels and then into the darkness of the Petronia Street approach.
“I told you we should have asked him,” said Mom, reaching for his hand. “Oh my, he’s just as handsome as you said he was.”
He grinned foolishly and I felt myself turn the color of a roasted beet. “Detective Bransford, this is my mother, Janet Snow. Mom, Detective Bransford.”
“Nate, please.” He smiled again, flashing the killer cheek dimples that matched the cleft in his chin. “It’s an honor to meet you. And you’re just as lovely and youthful as Hayley described. You two could be sisters.”
I rolled my eyes, but Mom beamed, and he ushered us past the narrow porch with its handful of tables, inside to the hostess station, a hand on each of our backs. The warmth of his touch sizzled like a blazing brand on mutton, as Fritz the meat poet might say. To keep my knees from buckling, I forced myself to focus on the restaurant decor—simple wooden chairs, white tablecloths, sponge-painted walls with a few big paintings for accents, and an orange ceiling for color.
“Where would you like to sit?” asked a tall woman in a tight dress.
“Inside, please,” I said, just as Nate said, “Outside.”
“Whatever the lady wants is fine with me,” said the detective to the hostess. He grinned at me. “Inside.”
She gathered a stack of menus and led us to the corner of the back room, which had a lively bar and marginal acoustics. I minced along after her and took the seat at the table against the wall so I could make mental notes
about the restaurant’s ambience and clientele. I shucked off the offending high heels and rubbed one aching foot and then the other. Our drink orders—white wine sangria for me and Mom and a Key West Sunset Ale for Nate—were finally taken by a waiter so goofy and smiley I wondered if he’d been tippling something out in the back alley.
I glanced at the menu. “And could you put in orders for the trio of hummus, a spinach salad with strawberries, and the bocconcini di mozzarella while we’re waiting?” I asked. As soon as the waiter left, I listed off a few more of the tapas that I wanted to be sure we tried—including asparagus, spanakopita, seviche, saganaki, and grouper.
Nate looked down at his menu and then back up at me. His eyes were the color of moss, only nothing soft and fuzzy about them right now. “I’m going to have the Roman meatballs, the potato croquettes, and the lamb patties,” he said. “Seems like you’ve already got the vegetable department covered.”
“Those are wonderful choices—I tried them the last time I was here,” I said, lowering my voice and smiling sweetly. “If it’s possible, I really do need you to branch out.” I’d warned both my mother and the detective ahead of time that I had a review agenda for this meal—apparently I should have been more clear because he didn’t look happy. Note to Hayley: Don’t expect a police detective to be the kind of man who enjoys ceding the lead. On anything. When the waiter returned, I made a big show of ordering the three dishes he’d mentioned and then added my choices.
“Oh, wow, man, you guys must really be hungry!” the waiter said.
“That we are.” I closed my menu and passed it to him. If Wally had a fit about the bill, I’d cover the excess. Somehow. Considering the unexpected lunches and the double pedicab bills I’d piled up earlier, I was already way over budget. How much madder could he get?
Soon after, the trio of hummus, the spinach pie, and the spinach salad with strawberries arrived. Mom served us each some salad and then picked up a triangle of pita bread that came with the hummus and sniffed it.
Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 6
