“We’re grateful to him for discovering our town, but even better, he also left us his wife’s pie recipe for crosta de torta, which I still follow faithfully,” I told a group of out-of-towners. The part about the discovery was true. As for his wife and the pie recipe I follow, I made that up. Even pie bakers are allowed a little poetic license. I should say especially pie bakers are allowed whatever it takes. We wake up with the birds, start yawning during the TV news at night and have no time for a social life. All that, and then we have to compete with cookies, cakes, and muffins.
The good thing was the customers ate up my stories along with my pies. The more customers, the better I got at playing the born-here-in-the-small-town baker role. It was tiring but fun too. By noon I was afraid I’d sell out. Of course that was my goal, but maybe I should have been prepared with more inventory.
Besides tourists, I also saw a few residents I hadn’t seen for years, not since I’d returned to town after a stint in the big city. Principal Blandings was one of the people I wasn’t all that anxious to run into.
“If it isn’t Hanna Denton,” said the mustachioed high school principal, looking a little older, a little heavier, and a little less frightening than when I was in high school. “So you’re back home in Crystal Cove. How are you adjusting to life in our little burgh?”
“Just fine,” I said. “How are you, Principal Blandings? Still terrifying the poor freshmen?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I’m the one who put the ‘pal’ in principal.”
I winced. How many times had I heard him say that about being our pal at every single assembly year after year. With a pal like him, who needed enemies?
“And you’re the one who put bubble bath in the drinking fountain,” he said narrowing his beady eyes.
“I was hoping you’d forgotten that,” I said. I hadn’t forgotten the remarkable sight of the cascading bubbles or the ten hours of community service I had to do as punishment. “Can I offer you a piece of pie as a peace offering?” I held out a boxed slice of Butterscotch Pecan.
“Thank you. That almost makes up for the time you let the lab rats loose in the halls with your partner in crime, Kate Sullivan.”
“What a good memory you have. I can explain about that. We felt sorry for them cooped up in their cages. It was a humanitarian act.” I don’t think he believed me. Maybe he’d never seen rats imprisoned in a cage. Not from his lofty seat in the principal’s office. I wondered what he thought about Sam back in town as the police chief. Some of the things he’d done in high school made me look like Mother Teresa.
“A humanitarian act. That’s what your grandmother said in your defense. How is she, by the way?”
“Fine. Here she is now.” I waved at Grannie some fifty yards away. I recognized her large straw hat and her posse of bridge buddies from Heavenly Acres.
“Good luck,” the principal said. I think he also muttered, “You’ll need it,” but I’m not sure because he’d quickly moved on to the next booth. Maybe he was afraid Grannie would rag on him about the suspension he’d given me after the lab rat episode. Grannie had a good memory also, and she never forgot or forgave anything negative anyone ever said or did to me.
The only thing she was critical of was my pie baking. Which was good because it kept me on my toes. Kept me inventing new recipes, perfecting the old ones and studying techniques from the masters.
I came out from behind my counter to hug Grannie and her friends Helen and Grace.
“What a great idea this is,” Helen said, beaming at me. “A Food Fair in our own town. No need to drive to Santa Barbara anymore. We’ve got it all right here. The parking lot is full, the weather is gorgeous as usual, and the food is wonderful.” She held out her eco-friendly green shopping bag filled with organic spinach, a long loaf of French bread, and a Mason jar of strawberry jam with a hand-made label. I wasn’t sure what she’d do with all that food since the residents at Heavenly Acres had three scrumptious meals provided every day plus tea in the afternoon. But I didn’t ask. Especially after she ordered two pies from me for her Saturday night bridge group. I didn’t ask if they’d run into the mini-pie baker either. If they did, they were too polite to mention it.
Grannie reached for the sample platter and rearranged the small pieces of pie. Then she tasted my blueberry pie full of plump, sweet farm-fresh berries. She chewed thoughtfully while I tried not to worry about her reaction. She had an exceptional palate as well as a sense of what sold and what didn’t. It wasn’t an accident that she was such a big success all those years and that I had such big shoes to fill.
“Did you use any lard in your crust?” she asked.
I was sure I told her I chose not to use lard as she’d always done, but she continued to hope I’d follow her recipe with a combination of shortening.
“It’s pâte brisée,” I said. “All butter crust. More crumbly than flaky, and I like the taste better.”
She didn’t say anything. If she wasn’t going to allow anyone else to criticize my pies, then neither could she, but I could tell she was in the flaky crust camp. While she and her friends were standing there, more customers stopped by and Grannie gave them an earful of praise.
“Hanna has been baking pies since she was old enough to reach the counter,” she told a couple trying to decide between Strawberry Rhubarb and Double Chocolate Cream. “You won’t find a better pie anywhere in California. She uses the best ingredients, the freshest fruit, and even imported chocolate.”
“She ought to know,” her friend Grace said with a nod at Grannie. “She’s the original pie queen.”
“She won the State Fair Bake off two years in a row,” Helen added as proud as if she’d done it herself.
Grannie blushed modestly and I’d sold two more pies.
When the crowd thinned and I’d restocked my counter with samples and more pies, I thanked the ladies for their help. “You’re the best,” I said. “I should hire you to stand out there all day and tout my wares.”
“You don’t need us, your pies are so good they sell themselves,” Helen said.
“It doesn’t hurt that she’s as cute as a bug either,” Grace told Grannie.
“Thanks to Kate who did my makeup and hair this morning,” I said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have noticed.”
“If you’d like to freshen up,” Grannie said. “We’ll watch the booth for you.”
“That would be great because I’d really like to walk around and see what else is selling. If you don’t mind.”
They were delighted to play the sales role, which came naturally to Grannie, so I took off my apron, stuffed my wallet in my pocket and first went across the aisle to say hello to Lurline of Lurline’s Luscious Cupcakes. Both being competitive, we’d once had a dustup, but had since made up. Kate was right. We both targeted the same customers so her booth across from mine wasn’t a bad idea after all. It looked like she was doing as well as I was today. Maybe every day. I didn’t know for sure since she usually worked out of her van and went where the customers were like downtown at lunch time to catch the office crowd or out at soccer games at night. At least she didn’t have the expenses of overhead like my shop, but then there was the cost of gas to run her van.
I waited while a customer bought a dozen mini-cupcakes. I had to admit they looked adorable and delicious too, my absolute favorite Red Velvet, Coconut Cream, Chocolate Marshmallow, Meyer Lemon, and Strawberry with Buttercream Frosting. “Just wanted to say hello. Looks like you’re doing terrific.”
“I am,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to come over to see you, but I’ve been so busy.”
“I have too,” I said quickly, not to be outdone. “I think we get some of the same customers. The ones with a sweet tooth.”
“Definitely. Pie is always good. I mean it’s so old-fashioned,” she said. I didn’t really like the sound of that. I preferred thinking pie was timeless and just as up-to-date as cupcakes. “The one I’m worried about and you should be too is the
doughnut booth,” she said.
“What?” Why hadn’t I seen a doughnut booth?
She nodded. “Haven’t you heard? Doughnuts are the new cupcakes.”
So she was worried about being passed over by the latest rage in baked goods. Where does that leave pies, I wondered with a little frisson of anxiety.
“They’ve got a line around the block,” she said waving her hand in the direction of the athletic field. “Beignets, churros, crullers, fritters—the whole nine yards.”
“Have you tried them?” I asked, feeling woefully out of touch with the latest trend.
“I have.” As she talked she sliced up a few cupcakes for her sample tray with a large serrated combination knife and spatula, the same kind I and everyone else had. “The doughnuts are hot from the deep fryer, they’re soft on the inside and crisp on the outside. Oh, yes, they’re a force to be reckoned with, no question.”
“I’ve got to see this,” I said, my mouth watering uncontrollably at the thought of those amazing doughnuts. But truthfully I didn’t want to see the line snaking around the athletic field or taste the irresistible beignets, churros, or hot doughnuts. Not now. Even though I longed to sink my teeth into a soft warm doughy doughnut, I needed to be sensible and cleanse my palate with something like an organic carrot and stay positive. Pies are traditional, I told myself. Trends come and go but pies are forever. Pies are the past, present, and future.
More customers came by so I wished her good luck and went to the part of the fair I hadn’t seen yet. Something without a bit of sugar or butter. Something that didn’t compete with me. These booths were all meat, fish, and chicken. First stop, the sausage stand. I felt obliged to try bites of hot Smoked Pomegranate Sausage, and Chicken Apple with Sherry, as well as Yucatan Cilantro with a South of the Border twist.
I introduced myself to the sellers, Bill, who was as round and robust as their sausage, and Dave, who was so tall and thin I was sure he never ate anything but leafy green vegetables and not many of those. They told me they came up from a ranch down the coast where they raised pigs and they were using guess what to cut the sausage links into bite-sized morsels, the same spatula/knife which they said worked great. I couldn’t resist. I bought a package of each of the sausages I’d tasted, and told them to stop by my pie booth.
“Have you seen the reporter from the newspaper yet?” Dave asked as he wrapped my sausages in a newspaper for me. “He tried everything we’ve got. Said he’s doing a story on the fair.”
“Really? You’ll get a great review. Your sausage is the best,” I told them.
“You like it?” Dave said seeming pleased. “We just started making sausage this year. Everything’s changing in the pig business.”
“Leaner, more flavorful cuts,” his brother added. “We had to learn new ways of feeding and raising pigs. So far we’re not sure if it’s paying off.” He looked anxious as he watched potential customers walk by.
I assured them they were in the right place at the right time.
“The fair has got to be full of concerned culinary adventurers,” Dave said. “People who care enough to buy and eat locally. I just hope there are enough of them around.”
So far everything at the fair looked and tasted amazing. Who was this reporter and why hadn’t I seen him? Whoever he was, he had the world’s best job. Walking around tasting things and writing up how fabulous the Crystal Cove Food Fair was. That way for sure more people would come next week and by the end of the summer we’d all be rich and famous.
“What kind of pies are you selling?” Bill asked.
“Today I’ve got lemon meringue, blueberry, chocolate cream …”
“Say no more,” he said holding his hand up. “Save me one. Any kind. I’ll be by before we close up to pick it up.”
We shook hands and I decided that if I ran into Sam again I might casually invite him to a sausage dinner under the guise of helping local merchants by eating their products.
Next my nose led me to a rotisserie chicken truck where the smoke wafted my way and the smell was mouth-watering. There was a line of customers waiting to buy the golden brown birds on the spit. I hoped Grannie and her chums wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer while I stood in line. When I got to the counter I asked why their chickens were better than any others. Despite the crowd, the woman whose nametag said Martha took a minute to explain.
“First, they’re free-range chickens,” she said proudly. “Raised in barns but free to roam in the pastures outside. You won’t find any fat, flavorless, industrial-raised poultry on our farm.” The way she spat the words out made it clear what she thought of industrial chicken raising. “Sure, they cost you a little more, but they’re worth it. We believe you don’t just grow a chicken, you grow a relationship.”
I stared at the birds rotating on the spit, their juices sizzling on the grill below and I wondered about what kind of relationship they had with the owner.
“Happiest chickens you ever saw,” she continued. “That’s what I told that reporter.”
The reporter again. I ought to get back in case he came to my booth.
“They get all vegetarian diets, without additives,” Martha, the chicken lady, said. “They’re basted with butter, and seasoned with paprika, salt, and pepper. Try one. You’ll never eat another kind of chicken again.”
How could I resist. I had to have one. All in the name of research I told myself. I had to find out what sold and what didn’t at the market. Now I’d definitely have to invite someone to dinner. This woman’s pitch was almost as good as Grannie’s. She too was using the new spatula tool to whack the chicken in two for those who only wanted to buy a half. No need to cut one in half for me, I had to have the whole succulent bird.
Next I paused to take a sample of a hand-dipped chocolate caramel studded with sea salt from a woman selling tiny boxes of candy for exorbitant prices. I understood the philosophy. If it cost that much, it must be good.
“These are wonderful,” I told the woman.
“Glad you like them. You don’t remember me, do you?” she said.
I smiled politely, trying to decide whether to fake it or not. No, I didn’t remember her, but she looked about my age and was wearing black tights, ballet shoes, and a black and white tunic. She must have had a friend like Kate because her hair and makeup were perfect.
“Let’s see,” I said, “class of ninety-four, ninety-five … ?”
“I was in your class,” she said. “I’m Nina Carswell. Or I was. I married Marty Holloway.”
I stared at her in disbelief. Nina Carswell was what we called a dork in those days. Her hair, once lank and stringy was now cut in layers and streaked with blond. Her lips were full, her nose was pert, her thick glasses were gone and her eyebrows were shaped to perfection. How, why, when, and where did this happen?
She nodded as if she knew what I was thinking. I probably wasn’t the only one she’d surprised. Marty Holloway. I tried to match a face to the name.
“Marty Holloway, wasn’t he …”
“He wasn’t anything,” she said flatly. “Not in high school. But he went to veterinary school and bought old Doc Prentice’s practice. He specializes in large animals.”
“And you specialize in caramels,” I said. “Nice work. I’ll be back to buy a whole box.”
“Don’t wait too long, they’re going fast,” she warned.
I walked away still dazed to think of how Nina had changed. Obviously I hadn’t because she recognized me right away. Even with the makeover Kate had performed that morning I hadn’t changed that much. Maybe I ought to work on my looks along with my baking and selling skills. Why hadn’t Kate or someone mentioned Nina’s transformation so I could be prepared? Not only did she look great, she made amazing candy.
Next I sampled a small piece of wood-fired pizza a few booths away. The seller whose name was Gino did not go to my high school. At least not when I was there. He was at least ten years older than me. He wore a white chef’s hat and
he offered me a taste of his latest creation topped with sliced figs, onions, tomatoes, and cheese.
“Unusual,” I said, trying to decide if I liked it or not.
“Unusually good or bad?” he asked with a pronounced Italian accent. “Maybe I should stick to pepperoni for this area.”
I didn’t like the implication that Crystal Cove was a backwater where we didn’t appreciate gourmet food.
“It’s very good,” I assured him. “Different.”
At this rate I’d have to skip dinner tonight. When I finally staggered back to my booth at least five pounds heavier, Grannie and her friends looked exhausted but triumphant. They’d sold a dozen pies and taken orders for more.
“This was fun,” Grannie said rubbing her manicured fingers together. “Wish they’d had a Food Fair when I ran the shop.”
“Well, you can come by any Saturday for the rest of the summer and spell me,” I said.
“And guess what?” Grannie said. “A reporter from the Gazette was here. He tasted everything and he took notes. He’s doing another story on the fair.”
“So I heard. What did he say? How did he look?”
“Looked darned cute,” Helen said. “About your age too. And he wasn’t wearing a ring.”
I couldn’t blame these women. They hated to see someone in my age group like Sam or the reporter unmarried and alone in the world. So they were always on the lookout for Mr. Right for me and for anyone who wasn’t attached. I know they meant well. They’d all been happily married and wanted the same for me. They couldn’t understand that at the moment I was fine being on my own. I’d been in love only once; it ended badly and I wasn’t ready to take the plunge again and risk having my heart broken another time. Not any time soon. Kate warned me about building a wall around my heart, and maybe I had, but flirting was another matter and not off limits. Sam was also definitely another matter. He was definitely worth tearing down a few walls for. If he asked me to, which he hadn’t.
Never Say Pie (A Pie Shop Mystery) Page 2
