Fairbanks, Nancy

by Crime Brulee (lit)

  I took a cab and ordered, from a young man who told me that he was a computer science major at the University of New Orleans, a "loaf," which consisted of spicy fried shrimp on buttered, heated French bread. Delicious. I was starving after all those telephone calls. Given my appetite and my new profession, it's more than fortunate that I have an active metabolism.

  With my shrimp loaf, I had cafe" brulot, a strong coffee in which are steeped cinnamon, lemon, clove, orange, and sugar. I asked the waiter and wrote down the ingredients after the first lovely sip. He had poured in brandy and set it afire right at my computer table—well, actually, at the eat­ing and drinking ell on the table. The management discour­aged endangering their computers with the food and drink and, in fact, asked us not to take the protective cover off the computer until we had finished the repast.

  I was only too happy to comply. After devouring my shrimp loaf and my coffee, which was served in a charming cup on a pedestal, I turned to the computer, whipped off the cover, surfed the web, and printed out, with only two emer­gency visits from their computer techs, pictures of Linus, Julienne, and Nils—five by seven pictures. Ah, the wonders of modern science.

  The whole experience was rather expensive, but the food was deductible; in fact, I used the Po'Boy computer to type up notes on the sandwich .and brulot. Even given the cost, I felt quite merry after my Internet success and my brandied coffee. Imagine! A computer establishment with a liquor li­cense! Only in New Orleans! Or perhaps I am showing my lack of sophistication. Such places may exist all over the country without my being aware because I have never trav­eled in the circles where one would hear of such a thing. Most of my friends tend to look on computers as technolog­ical tools rather than gourmet experiences. How fortunate I am to have become a food writer instead of a scientist. Not that there was ever any chance of my becoming a scientist.

  13

  Mugging a Mugger

  Before leaving the Po'Boy Computer Cafe, I folded the pictures of Julienne, Nils, and Linus Torelli and slipped them into my handbag, then scanned the street for trans­portation back to the hotel. As you might expect, there wasn't a cab in sight, but I was not downcast. Cognac will do that for you. Instead of fretting, I set off in the direction of the Quarter with the intention of flagging down a taxi when one appeared. In the meantime, I would simply plot out my next move.

  Unfortunately, my next move was, of necessity, the de­fense of my person and purse. A scruffy little man with wild red hair and sunglasses slithered out of an alley and grabbed my purse. I, in turn, managed to snag the strap before it whipped off my shoulder. "Help! Thief!" I screamed.

  "Shut up, bitch!" he snarled and gave my purse, which was clutched in his large, hairy hand, a mighty tug.

  "Help!" I screamed and tugged back for all I was worth. Imagine calling me "bitch." Bad enough he was trying to purloin my handbag. "Help! Help!" I yanked harder on the strap.

  "You dumb broad. Don' you see dis here pigsticker?" The redheaded criminal swung his left arm, and I felt, simulta­neously, a burning on my hand and the departure of the purse strap through my fingers. The scoundrel had cut the purse from my grasp, cutting me in the process, while I, in­tent on saving my belongings, hadn't even noticed the knife in his hand until the blade was flashing in my direction. Was that what he had meant by pigsticker? Thoroughly incensed, I swung my umbrella at his head. I'm not sure what injury I did him, and I really don't much care, but he did cry out, drop my purse, and disappear back into his alley.

  "Don't let him get away!" I cried to a male passerby. The man gave me a blank look. "He injured me!" Indeed he had. My hand was bleeding, and the passerby was scuttling away, as were two ladies who had been behind him on the side­walk. No wonder there are so many criminals. Citizens no longer feel obliged to come to the aid of their fellows, and the police are never there when you need them. However, a cab had finally appeared. I waved my bloody hand, and the driver pulled to the curb. Then a man in a vested suit, dark blue with a fine pinstripe, tried to slip into the backseat ahead of me. I gave him a rap with my umbrella and climbed in.

  "Way to go, lady!" said the cabby and asked where I wanted to be taken.

  "The Vieux Carre Police Station," I replied. "I've been mugged."

  "Tryin' to snag a cab from someone ain't da same as muggin', ma'am."

  "I was accosted by a purse snatcher," I replied. "As it happens, I can tell the difference between rudeness and crime, although I imagine criminals are often rude as well as unprincipled. The purse snatcher certainly was."

  "Sorry to hear it, ma'am. Makes da city look bad, dat's what Ah say."

  "You're quite right," I agreed. "I am not finding New Or­leans a friendly place."

  "Ain't da same place as when Ah was a chile," said the cab driver, nodding mournfully. He was a black man who looked, given the scar on his cheek, as if someone had taken a knife to him, too.

  "Were you mugged?" I asked.

  "Me? No, ma'am." He glanced into his rearview mirror and caught me examining his cheek. "Oh, dis here? Mah ole lady done dat. She be as red hot as good gumbo." The man actually sounded overcome with admiration for the violent propensities of his wife, or had he meant his mother? My old lady could mean either.

  "Um-m," I murmured. I had pulled off the scarf that tied my hair back so that I could knot it around my hand. But what a shame to get blood on that lovely periwinkle blue print, I thought as I pulled the knot tight with teeth and free hand. The color exactly matched my linen shirt and slacks. Then I considered the attack. No doubt, my conduct would be considered foolhardy. Well, it was, and had it not been for the cognac, I would probably have acted in a more sensible manner.

  On the other hand, I had saved not only my handbag, a very nice leather envelope with shoulder strap that Jason had given me for Christmas, but also my money, credit cards, driver's license and, equally important to my mission, the pictures I had printed out at the cafe. And I thought that I had injured the man with the knife, which he richly de­served. Now I intended to file a complaint against him. I was prepared to give quite a detailed description of my assailant.

  "Here you are, ma'am," said the cabby.

  I climbed out in front of the police station on Royal Street and paid him, including a generous tip.

  "Now you take care, ma'am," he said as he pulled away. It had begun to rain, so I put up my umbrella. It was then that I discovered I had broken several of the ribs while be­laboring the purse snatcher, or possibly the man who had tried to commandeer my cab. Bother, I thought as I raced under the portico with my umbrella at half-mast around my head. It was the umbrella I had purchased here in New Or­leans, perhaps an inferior product produced for hapless tourists.

  "Let me guess," said the sergeant at the desk. "You wanna see the lieutenant."

  "I want to report a mugging," I retorted severely. I could see that he was already pressing a buzzer to summon Alphonse Boudreaux.

  "Who'd you mug?" muttered the sergeant.

  "I heard that," I snapped back.

  "Miz Blue?" The lieutenant escorted me to his office and listened sympathetically to my story. When I told him that I had hit the attacker with my umbrella, he began to grin. When I showed him my hand, wrapped in the now blood-spotted scarf, he made soothing sounds and came around his desk to unwrap the injury and inspect it. Did lieutenants cus­tomarily devote this much attention to female complainants? Somehow I doubted it.

  "Well, Miz Blue, Ah don' think it needs stitchin', but Ah can surely have one of man men drive you over to the hos­pital—"

  "No, no," I replied quickly. "I'm sure a bit of disinfectant and a Band-Aid will do the trick. No functional damage seems to have occurred." I wiggled my fingers to show that they still worked. "However, I do want to describe the mug­ger for you."

  He nodded and returned to his desk chair, from which he made notes as I talked.

  "Perhaps you could call in a police artist." I had seen that done on TV. "Then you can put up posters of m
y assailant in the various substations."

  "Happens we don' have a police artist handy," he said as apologetically as if he were personally responsible for that deficiency. He made a few more notes, then looked up. "Miz Blue, you sure do get yourself in a soup pot a trouble."

  "Believe me, Lieutenant, nothing like this ever happens to me at home. It's New Orleans. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I have to consider this a dangerous city."

  "Most cities are, ma'am. Now, what were you doin' at Po'Boy Computer? That is a known drug hangout. We have raided that establishment more than once."

  "Drug hangout?" I was nonplused. "But it looked per­fectly respectable, and their computer facilities are excel­lent."

  "That may be, but those computer geeks sure do like co­caine. Ah wouldn't be surprised to hear they're refinin' it in the back room. On the other hand, the sandwiches are mighty good."

  "Indeed. I had the spicy shrimp, which was delicious. And the cafe brulot!" I sighed with remembered pleasure.

  "Tut tut," he said, grinning. "Drinkin' cognac in yo' cof­fee in the middle of the day?"

  "It's part of my research," I explained defensively. "Cafe' brulot is considered a New Orleans specialty. I did take notes, you know. In fact, I typed them up and printed them out, along with the pictures."

  "Now, what pictures would those be?"

  "Of my friend, her husband, and the man she stayed with during part of Saturday night. I can't find her if I can't show the pictures around."

  "Seems to me, seein' as trouble jus' follows in your foot­steps, maybe you should try stickin' to ordinary tourist ac­tivities."

  "Perhaps I shall," I agreed cunningly. "I think I'll go on a swamp tour tomorrow."

  "Good idea." The lieutenant rose. "Wish I could go with you." He had circled the desk and now touched a finger to my hair, which was no doubt tumbled messily around my face now that the restraining scarf wrapped my latest injury. "Yo' hair sure does look pretty hangin' loose like that, Miz Blue. Mighty pretty."

  "Thank you," I replied and left hurriedly. I certainly didn't want to give the lieutenant any mistaken ideas about my availability. Did he think, because I had visited the po­lice station daily, that I was smitten with him? Surely not.

  Having walked the short distance back to the hotel, I took out the small first aid kit I always carry on trips, disinfected my cut, and covered it up with three Band-Aids. Then I in­spected my handbag and umbrella. The three bent umbrella ribs straightened out reasonably well when I pounded them with the heel of my shoe. As for the handbag, its strap had been cut just above the buckle, so I unhooked and discarded the cut end and gouged a hole two inches above the remain­der of the strap with my manicure scissors. Pleased with my makeshift repairs, I then took a well-earned rest on the bed while I studied the pictures of my dear friend, her hard­hearted husband, and Professor Torelli, whatever he was to her. Perhaps I should make one last call—to his hotel.

  I did that, and you can imagine my dismay when I was told that he had checked out that morning. The clerk assured me that Dr. Torelli had left the hotel alone after having the concierge book him an early return flight on Delta Airlines and requesting that a cab to the airport be called.

  Julienne was still missing, and Torelli had fled! Oh God. In a panic, I called Lieutenant Boudreaux, but he had left to attend a meeting at police headquarters. I was forced to leave a message with the derisive sergeant, the one who had acted as if I was the mugger rather than the muggee. Dis­heartened, I collapsed onto the cabbage roses and worried myself into a restless sleep. I find that even a troubled nap is better for the nerves than no nap at all, especially when one is exposed to the rigors of travel.

  At five, the lieutenant called to say that Julienne had not been on the Delta flight with Torelli. It seems that policemen can get any information they seek. Delta Airlines would cer­tainly have refused any request I made to check their pas­senger lists. But was that good news? That Julienne hadn't departed with Torelli? I thought not.

  At five-thirty, Jason returned from the convention center and sat down beside me on the bed to give sympathetic ear to my findings and my fears. I didn't mention my little brush with the would-be robber, and he didn't notice the Band-Aids on my hand. Sometimes having a husband whose mind tends to be taken up with things scientific can be a boon; one doesn't have to worry him with the little things.

  "The fact that she didn't leave with Torelli doesn't mean she's dead, Caro," he assured me. "We'll take the pictures you got and show them around the Quarter. Maybe someone has seen her."

  Thank God for my dear husband. Although he under­stood my dismay and sympathized, he did not give way to panic. Instead, he proposed a course of action, and action is always both more reassuring and more productive than fruit­less lamentation. I got up to shower and change. Fortunately, the hotel provided a shower cap, which I wrapped around my hand, while my own shower cap protected my hair.

  We would search the Quarter from one end to the other with these new pictures, I told myself as I used the perfumed soap provided by the hotel. At home I buy less exotic soap products. I was feeling particularly good-humored because Jason had mentioned how very clever it was of me to think of the university web site as a source of pictures. He had also been most interested in my description of the Po'Boy Computer Cafe. I didn't mention the drug connection. Since neither of us would be going back, there was no need to bring that up.

  14

  Crawfish Etouffee

  The two historic cuisines of New Orleans are Cajun and Creole, the first the child of Arcadian farmers and fish­ermen immigrating to the Louisiana swamps and bayous from Canada in the eighteenth century. Why any group of sensible people would travel so far to settle in a swamp is certainly a puzzle, but we do owe them a vote of thanks for their contribution to traditional New Or­leans menus. Cajun food is hearty and rustic, spicy and rich in lard, while its cousin, Creole cooking (Creole means native of Louisiana), is more urban, more sophis­ticated, more delicate, and more likely to employ cream and butter in the French fashion. The original settlers were French, although the charms of French cooking and its innovations had to be reintroduced to the popu­lation of New Orleans by the Ursuline sisters who ar­rived in 1727.

  Carolyn Blue, Eating Out in the Big Easy

  We set out with the idea of eating Cajun and finding Juli­enne. My first thought was to try K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen for the food part of our mission. It was just down the street from our hotel, but the line was far too long. Jason was amenable to bypassing Chef Paul Prudhomme's estab­lishment because it was listed as "expensive" in the guide­book. Bacco's, the previous night, had been expensive as well, especially to two people becoming used to the lower eating-out prices in El Paso, Texas. Of course, the self-proclaimed well-to-do Abbotts had not sprung for dinner. Why had I thought they would?

  Therefore, in the interest of economy in research, we next headed for the Pere Antoine Restaurant on Royal Street, which was also recommended by our guidebook and listed in the "inexpensive" section.

  Before we got there, however, we detoured to watch a marvelous street show that featured two hip-high puppets in sunglasses and suits. One played a small piano while the second sang into a microphone—with the help of a sound track. Puppet lip-synching, if you will. When the show was over and the crowd dispersing, having deposited donations in a box, Jason approached the puppeteer, a person in base­ball cap, T-shirt, and unlaced, high-top tennis shoes. "Have you seen any of these people?" Jason showed him, or her, the new photo of Julienne, then the old one, then those of Linus and Nils.

  "You 'ave not contributed to the box, monsieur," said the piano-player puppet, who was dangling from the hand of the puppet master.

  Jason looked embarrassed, whether at the oversight or because he was being admonished by a puppet I couldn't say, but he did drop all the change from his pocket into the box. It made a respectable waterfall of tinkling sounds, but the puppeteer didn't look impressed. Perhap
s he/she de­tected the fall of pennies. Jason hadn't checked to see what he was contributing.

  "Don't recognize them," said the puppeteer with hardly a glance at the photos.

  I flourished the old photo and asked dryly, "Not even this one?" I pointed to the picture of myself.

  "Nope," said the puppeteer and, walking the piano player over to the piano bench, began a spiel for the next perfor­mance.

  I was disappointed. Julienne would have appreciated that show and would probably have given generously enough to be remembered had she seen it and had the pup­peteer been willing to search his/her memory. We had al­most reached Pere Antoine's when, at the corner of Royal and Saint Peter, I stopped to admire an all-silver figure standing, statuelike, on the sidewalk. In fact, at first glance I took him for a statue but was almost immediately dis­abused of that notion when we resumed our stroll and he leapt toward us with a shriek. Startled, I shrieked in return. Perhaps I had been more traumatized by the mugging that afternoon than I realized.

  Jason seemed not at all taken aback, as if being attacked by a silver-painted man on a city street was an everyday event. He whipped out the photos and presented them to the antic statue, who seemed very disappointed with that reac­tion. Mine had caused him to grin; Jason's was obviously unexpected. "Have you seen any of these people?" Jason asked.

  "Why?" retorted the statue.