by Carol Culver
“I mean did this guy look like he liked what he tasted?” I said.
“Couldn’t tell,” Helen said.
Grannie nodded. “He had one of those faces. You don’t know what they’re thinking.”
I guessed we’d all find out what he was thinking when the next issue of the Gazette came out. I wasn’t that concerned. Why should I be? Everyone loved my pies. Let others make mini-pies, they were only a fad. I’d stick to the original. If someone didn’t like my pies, I was open to suggestions. Pies might be old-fashioned, but as long as they were mouth-wateringly delicious I had nothing to worry about.
Instead of inviting someone to dinner that night, I collapsed in front of the flat-screen TV Grannie bought me and fell asleep watching the Food Channel. Another exciting Saturday night in the life of a small-town pie baker.
Two
Monday morning I was back in my shop, baking and selling pies like one I’d invented in advance for the holidays called Sweet Potato Crunch Pie, made with cream cheese and spices with a walnut topping. I was waiting for the latest issue of the biweekly Crystal Cove Gazette to hit the newsstands. It’s always a boost to read something nice about yourself. A good review, even from a rinky-dink, small-town newspaper would bring in new customers. I thought I’d probably have it enlarged and post it in the window the way I’d seen in upscale restaurants.
About a half hour later Kate burst into the shop waving the Gazette in her hand. She threw it down on one of my small café tables and dropped into the chair like a fifty-pound sack of sugar.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Kate is never not upbeat, so I felt a chill and a premonition of something bad to come.
She held the paper up and stared at me. “Read it,” she said. “You’ll see what’s wrong. The guy is an idiot. They’ve got to get rid of him.”
I snatched the paper out of her hands and sat down across the table. There on the front page was the headline. “Crystal Cove’s Food Fair Opens to Huge Crowds and Rave Reviews—With a Few Disappointing Exceptions. By Heath Barr, Food and Lifestyle Critic.”
“Don’t tell me, am I one of the exceptions?”
She propped her chin on her palm and nodded sadly.
“He can’t be serious,” I said, scanning the article as fast as I could, looking for a mention of my pies.
“I’m afraid he is,” she said.
“Tell me now, is it really bad?”
“I’m afraid it is,” she said.
“Here it is.” I stretched the paper out so tightly it ripped in half. “Crust pale and insipid … The Chocolate Pie dull and listless … Lemon Meringue too sour, Butterscotch cloying. New owner Hanna Denton nowhere to be seen. Afraid to stand behind her pies? I don’t blame her.” My voice shook, my fingers were numb and stiff.
“Of all the nerve. How could he?” I demanded.
Kate jumped up and folded her arms across her waist. “It’s not just you. He trashes other vendors too. He thinks it’s his job. He thinks he’s the next Ruth Reichl or Anthony Bourdain.” She grabbed the paper back. “Look what he says about your sausage man’s products—‘Texture too coarse, taste too obvious and ordinary.’ And the cheese you liked so much? He says it’s over-priced and not as good as Vermont cheese. Why doesn’t he go back to Vermont then?” She sat down and pounded my little table with her fist. “You can’t let him get away with this.”
“What can I do? I won’t get asked back to the fair. I’ll be blacklisted along with the cheese guy and the sausage men …”
“And Lurline and a few others,” she added. “Call this critic up and tell him he didn’t give you a fair chance. Ask him what his favorite pie is. Invite him here. And if that doesn’t work, take out an ad in next week’s Gazette with testimonials from real people. ‘Hanna’s pies are the world’s best!’ Or ‘Buttery crusts and tasty fillings. You’ll love The Upper Crust.’ You’ll have no trouble getting endorsements from your fans.”
I hardly heard what she said, my mind was spinning with the repercussions of this critical review. I propped my elbows on the table and stared off into space. “This is terrible. Everybody reads the Gazette. My career is over.”
“Not yet. Not while I’m alive. You’re upset. You’re overreacting,” she said.
“Look what he says about Lindsey and Tammy’s bread. ‘Dry, tasteless, and stale.’” I jabbed my finger at the paper. “I don’t get it, their bread was wonderful and you know I wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true. I don’t owe them anything.”
“Did you read what he said about those rotisserie chickens? ‘Overcooked and over-priced’.”
“No. That’s such a lie. Well, what did he like?”
“The herbs, the honey, the candy. He went ape over the salted caramels Nina Carswell makes. Or whatever her name is now. Listen to what he says, ‘… buttery flavor that lasts a long time on the tongue.’ ‘A harmonious blend of complex flavors.’ Did you like them?”
“I thought they were very good, but over-priced. Maybe I don’t realize how much work goes into them and he does. Why didn’t you tell me Nina turned into a hottie and married that geek Marty what’s his name?”
“I don’t know. You didn’t ask me, that’s why. She never was part of our crowd. The important thing is that you have to meet this guy in person. He’ll back down. He’ll issue a retraction. He’ll admit he was in a bad mood on Saturday.”
“A bad mood? He loved those caramels.”
“I know. I know. But there was so much he didn’t love. I mean if it was just you, but it wasn’t. He’ll realize he was wrong.”
“You think so?”
“I’m positive. Call him now while I’m here. Before you lose your nerve.”
She was right. I couldn’t sit here whining while my career went into the toilet. Maybe the others weren’t worried. Maybe they didn’t read the newspapers. As for me, I had to take action.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, pressed the speaker phone option so Kate could listen and called the number of the Gazette office located in the middle of the town square. Then I took a deep breath.
I don’t know why, but I thought he wouldn’t answer his phone. I wouldn’t if I’d trashed a bunch of locals like us. I’d be hiding out. But he wasn’t. I got connected to a recorded message.
“You have reached the office of Heath Barr, food and lifestyle critic. If I’m not in the office I’m out on assignment. Call me on my cell phone.”
“On assignment?” I said with a glance at Kate. “I must have the wrong number. I must have reached the LA Times by mistake.”
He left his cell phone number so I called it. He answered on the first ring.
“Heath Barr, newspaper pundit,” he said.
I almost gagged. Who calls themselves a pundit anyway? “This is Hanna Denton,” I said. “The Upper Crust pie baker. I just read your review.”
“And what did you think?” he asked. As if he didn’t know. As if he expected me to thank him for his frank and unbiased opinions.
“What do you think I thought?” I demanded pacing back and forth across the well-worn hardwood floors that had lasted for the past thirty years. I choked back a retort, bit my lip, and began again. “I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry I wasn’t in the booth when you stopped by.”
“Why is that?”
“I could have told you something about my pies, my background, the history of the shop, and steered you toward one of the pies you might have enjoyed more.”
“All that is irrelevant,” he said dismissively. “You obviously don’t understand how food critics work.”
“How do they work?” I asked. “And I use the term loosely.” I was sincerely curious. I assumed they donned a disguise, went out with an open mind, and tasted food all day. What a job.
He sighed loudly. “I really don’t have time right now to explain my job to every disgruntled vendor who calls,” he said.
So I wasn’t the only one who was disgruntled and who’d let him know. No
big surprise there. “I’d like to invite you to come by my shop just off the town square. Taste some of my pies in a different atmosphere. Give me a second chance. When would you have time?”
“I prefer to make a surprise visit. That’s what the famous restaurant critics do. Frank Bruni, Ruth Reichl. They even come in disguise. That way you don’t have time to chase the rats out of the kitchen or replace the stale cupcakes with fresh ones.”
“It’s pie. I make pie. And for your information, you are not a famous restaurant critic. You write for a small-town newspaper with a circulation of a few hundred and you are carried away with your own importance.”
There was a long hostile silence. I was breathing hard, proud and amazed at myself for standing up to him, instead of toadying to him. I could tell by the way Kate was staring at me she was either shocked or stunned with admiration for my nerve.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said stiffly. “I will come to your shop, unannounced as is my custom and in disguise, and you can try to convince me of the quality of your pies. When I have the time. But I warn you, I am very discerning and I am not easily swayed by a lot of hype or sugar and butter just thrown together. My standards are extremely high. Very rare for a small town like this one, I know. I have an idea for you. Yours for the taking. You don’t owe me a cent. Here’s what I propose. You sponsor a pie contest.”
“What?” I staggered backward toward my counter. “Why would I do that?” I prided myself on my self-confidence in the face of competition, but I wasn’t ready for a pie contest.
“For one thing, it would prove to the town you are really interested in raising the level of baking quality pies, not just your own, but amateurs as well. Of course it would be an excellent way of promoting your shop at the same time. Free advertising if you will, since the newspaper would cover the event. But of course if you don’t have enough confidence …”
“Of course I have confidence.” But did I really? What if there were dozens of secret pie bakers in town who were better than I was?
“I’ll talk to my editor and set things up. I’m sure the newspaper would be glad to host the contest if you don’t …”
“No, of course I’ll do it.” No way was I going to let this contest get out of my hands. I had to show that I was open to new recipes and that I wasn’t afraid of a little competition from home bakers.
“I’ll see that you get the publicity you need. I may not be here, so just drop off the pertinent information at my office. I have a busy schedule.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. What else could I say? He’d trapped me, tricked me into doing something he thought up.
“Busy schedule?” I said to Kate after he’d hung up. “How busy could a small-town so-called pundit be?”
“I heard that part about the disgruntled vendors. How much do you want to bet every one of them has let him have it. Not just you. Before he makes his surprise visit to the shop, you should talk to the others he trashed.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Who else knows how it feels to be dumped on by a know-nothing. At least we’re all in this together. Maybe we can fight back better as a group than one by one. Even though we’re competitors we’d never come out against another vendor. Besides I actually liked everybody I met at the fair Saturday. Even Nina. We’re not really rivals, unless you count Lurline, but she thinks her rival is the doughnut sellers, not me. I think we could learn something from each other.”
“I like your attitude,” Kate said. Maybe she thought I’d be falling apart under this barrage of criticism and uninvited suggestions
by now. If I was, I knew better than to let it show. “Are you really going to have a pie contest?”
“Do I have a choice?” I asked. “If I don’t have a contest, he will, so the answer is yes. I’ll pick a date, decide on the prizes, and he’ll promote it for me. I can’t lose, can I? Unless someone out there is a better pie baker than I am.” I looked at Kate, hoping she’d reassure me.
“Even if they are, who would do what you do, get up at five in the morning, make your own crust, get the freshest berries? Live above the store? Work your butt off? No, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Plus think of all that free publicity you’ll get.”
I nodded. I hoped she was right about the lack of competition in the hard work department. It sure felt better to take action than to simply sit around and mope. I hated to have to thank Heath Barr for this idea, but maybe I’d have to.
“Call the other vendors,” she insisted. “The ones in the same boat as you. Invite them here for a strategy planning meeting. Get rid of that guy. At least make him irrelevant.”
“But how?”
That was the question everyone wanted to know the answer to when I called the meeting to order the next Friday night in my shop. How to get rid of the food critic. But no one, even those who’d met him face to face, really knew exactly who he was and how he landed where he was at the Gazette.
If Heath had visited my shop during the week his disguise was so good it got past me, and I was on the lookout every day. Was he actually the little old lady who came in for a cup of coffee and bought an apple pie? Or was he the delivery man in coveralls who took home a slice of pecan pie? If he was, I’d been totally punked.
That Friday all the vendors in question were bravely gearing up for another banner sales day at the Food Fair the next day. But they all took time to meet at my shop. We were all worried about attendance the next day. Would customers boycott our booths after reading the damning reviews? Or would they come by because they were curious? Or was our little newspaper so obscure they were totally unaware of what our hyper-critical hometown reporter said about us.
Looking around the crowded shop I was pleased to see they’d all appeared. Everyone I’d contacted, everyone Heath had criticized in his article had all made the effort to drive in from their farms, their stores, their vans, or their kitchens to plot a strategy or just vent their frustration and anger. There was Lurline, the cupcake seller, and Lindsey and Tammy, Jacques the flirtatious cheese maker, and the brothers from the sausage booth as well as Martha the chicken lady. I hadn’t contacted anyone who’d gotten a favorable review like Nina or the Italian who made the wood-fired pizza or the beekeeper who made the honey. And definitely not the doughnut people. They certainly didn’t need support. They’d be laughing all the way to the bank. Everyone else had escaped the wrath of Mr. Barr and who knows why? Kate had also sampled their goods except for the doughnuts. She said everything was tasty, but no better than ours.
At first there was chaos in my little pie shop. Everyone talking at once. Everyone blowing off steam. Kate had helped me set up enough chairs and tables, then she stayed around to help serve pie, what else? And coffee.
Then I called the meeting to order. I’ve never been much of a joiner, never wanted to belong to any clubs or organizations with long, boring meetings, but this was different. With an adversary like Heath who had a mouthpiece like the local paper, we needed each other if we wanted to fight back.
“We’re here to do just a few things,” I said when everyone had been served a piece of seasonal three-berry pie and coffee. “First vent frustration here where we all understand each other’s angst. Second, exchange ideas; and finally, plot strategy.”
The first part was easy. After a few minutes of angry epithets and name calling, like “know nothing” and “big phony” and “Pathetic excuse for a food critic” the crowd settled down. But moving on to the second and third items was tricky. Some like Tammy wanted to do nothing for fear of alienating our food critic more.
“Nothing? After what he did to us?” said Lurline who was wearing matching hot pink shorts and a hoodie. “I say we boycott the newspaper.”
I had to refrain from objecting to any boycott of the newspaper if they were going to promote my pie contest, so I kept my mouth shut.
“That’ll show ’em,” the long tall sausage brother agreed. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll give the guy a tour
of our facilities. That goes for everyone in the room by the way. Please come on out to the farm for a tour. We’ve got nothing to hide. We’re proud of our pork products. It’s not just sausage. We’ve got a whole line of meat.”
But his brother shook his head. “The guy will never come. He’s made up his mind.”
“Who is this Barr anyway?” said Jacques. “Where does he get off bad-mouthing the cheese I sell? I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about. He’s a fraud. I say let’s expose him.”
I smothered a smile. Of all people to call someone a fraud, it had to be Jacques. Away from his cheese booth he sounded completely American. But put him in a sales booth with a decent Camembert in front of him and suddenly he sounded positively Parisian. He even looked the part tonight with his spiky haircut and his slim-cut linen jacket. All he needed was a beret.
“I haven’t seen him,” I said, “but some of you did. I only talked to him on the phone. I asked him to give me another chance and he said he’d come by the shop. That was Monday and I still haven’t seen him. But then he said he’d be in disguise like a real food critic so I couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes,” I said. “So if he was wearing a mailman uniform or dressed like my dairy supplier maybe I missed him.” I didn’t mention the pie contest. I hated to give Heath credit for the idea, especially if it worked.
“I don’t think so,” said Martha, the chicken seller wearing stretch pants and a sweater. It gets cool at night even in the middle of summer along the coast, fog or no fog. We don’t have balmy summer evenings like other parts of the country so everyone was dressed warmly. “I think he’s a chicken. Which is an insult to my birds. What I mean is that he’s afraid of us. He hides behind his byline but he’s scared to meet us face to face since he’s dumped on us in his article. Otherwise why isn’t he here? I challenged him to meet with us tonight, and I invited him to visit my ranch. You all are invited too,” she said. “You’ll never buy a chicken from anyone else once you see how ours are raised. But where is our critic? Why won’t he stand by his words?”
