Red Beans And Vice Part 7

Six.

Heaven, you have a delivery," a voice called from the front of Peristyle.

Heaven had been working at the restaurant for several hours, trying to get most of the work done on her two starters today so she could concentrate on her dessert tomorrow.

Heaven was no pastry chef and Pauline Kramer, the pastry chef and bread baker at Cafe Heaven, had sprained her wrist badly and couldn't come to New Orleans to do her thing as they'd planned originally. But with the help of the whole Kansas City kitchen staff Pauline had formed four hundred thirty-thirty extra for breakage-individual pie crusts made out of a very special shortbread dough in throwaway pie pans, baked them, frozen them, and sent them overnight UPS to Heaven packed in dry ice. Heaven was going to have to do the rest.

Heaven went up to retrieve her package. It had been relaxing to work in the kitchen, after the stress of the night before. Now, in the cold, clear light of day, she was embarra.s.sed she hadn't just gone straight to a phone and called the police.

"And Susan said to remind you and Annie that there's a short meeting over a bottle of wine at Bayona around 5:30. The others chefs will all be here by then," the maitre d' reported. He was there confirming reservations for the evening.

Heaven took her package to the back and opened it, to check the condition of the pie sh.e.l.ls. They looked good. Pauline had packed them well with bubble wrap and other materials plus plenty of dry ice. Heaven set them in the freezer. They would defrost tomorrow in the time it would take to a.s.semble the rest of the dish.

Committee members and local chefs had rounded up a group of volunteers to help with the preparations and at the dinner. Two volunteers had been helping Heaven with the rice cakes. They were cutting small rounds out of sheet pans filled with the thick rice batter and placing the rounds on baking sheets covered with parchment paper. Tomorrow the cakes would be finished on the flat top grill that was part of the portable kitchen.

While they were cutting out the cakes, Heaven had worked on the other starter, a.s.sembling all the pieces so the volunteers could put them together.

"What's next?" one of them asked Heaven as they smooched the last rice into a biscuit cutter and tamped it down.

"Next is something I've named a French onion soup beignet. I've already rolled out the beignet dough. Now what you do is take one of these cubes of Gruyere cheese and wrap some of these caramelized onions around the cube. I cooked the onions earlier and cooled them down so they should be easy to work with." Heaven looped some of the cold onions around the cheese. She'd brought a full set of biscuit cutters with her and now found a small one and cut a little round out of the dough. "Then you wrap the cheese and onion into a ball with the dough pulling the dough slightly and sealing it with a little water on your fingers and rolling it round again," she said as she did just that to show them how. She had two shallow bowls of water there for them to work with. "We'll put these in the walk-in and chill them good so they stay together. Then tomorrow night they get fried and tossed in Parmesan cheese."

"Now that's what I call a New Orleans-style appetizer," one of the volunteers said approvingly. "Fat and grease."

Heaven worked with them for a while, making sure they got the hang of it. She was lost in thought when once again a voice called to her from the front of the restaurant. "Heaven, a friend of yours wants to see you."

Heaven walked out, expecting Mary. They hadn't actually talked yet so Heaven could tell her about the attack. She'd left an urgent message but Mary was in court until this afternoon. To her surprise it was Amelia Hart, gorgeous in a peach-colored sleeveless shift.

"Amelia, what are you doing here? I mean, after last time, I didn't think you'd ever speak to me again if you didn't have to."

"I didn't think so either," Amelia said with a slight grin.

There was an awkward pause.

Amelia cleared her throat as if she was going to recite in grade school. "I thought about what you said, and I realized I took the wrong tack with those women. I laid myself open to exactly what I got from you. There are plenty of reasons for people to support my auntie's order. I didn't need to put down the precious Sisters of the Holy Trinity to make that point and I especially didn't need to make my aunt vulnerable by attacking the sisters' slave-holding."

A little part of Heaven wanted to stick her tongue out and say, "I told you so." Instead she tried to sound sympathetic. "I've gone out on longer limbs than that. I think if you remind these society Catholics that your aunt's order could use some help in giving out scholarships, they would respond. They seem like they're good-hearted."

"I hate saying anything close to 'I'm sorry,' so I'm glad that's out of the way," Amelia said. "Now I want to ask you something in my capacity as a reporter."

Heaven a.s.sumed Amelia was going to ask her about last night's attack on the Moonwalk, not that she could figure out how Amelia would know about it. Did the German joggers call the police and tell them a woman had been attacked on the Moonwalk? But how would that lead anyone to Heaven? Could it be Will giving Amelia a news tip?

"And what could that be?" Heaven said innocently.

"Have you received any threatening mail, any poison-pen letters, hate mail, extortion?"

To say Heaven was surprised by this turn would be understating it a great deal. "What are you talking about?"

"When someone writes to you and says defamatory things or asks for money not to reveal certain things. Usually unsigned," Amelia answered patiently, as if Heaven were too dense to understand the definition of her words.

"Why?"

"Usually because the person is mentally unstable or has criminal intent," she said, continuing her answers in the same smart-a.s.s vein.

Heaven wanted to slap her. She lulled me into thinking this was a peace visit, then she hits me with this, Heaven thought. "Amelia, now why would you ask me such a question?"

"Why won't you answer me without all these questions back?"

"Because I don't understand what... Has this got something to do with the vandalism against the convent?"

"Then I take it I should report that Heaven Lee refused to comment?"

"Fine with me. You're going to have to give me a reason for this line of questioning before I say a thing," Heaven said, and turned and went back to the kitchen.

The women chefs and their sous-chefs were sitting in the courtyard at Bayona. They had run through the schedule for the dinner and each chef had talked about their course, how it should be plated and how many people it would take to get that done. Heaven had remained quiet throughout the briefing, except when she presented her course. Now that they were nearing the end of their business she made up her mind and stood up. "Now that we know how organized we are, can I ask you all a very personal question?"

Someone made a crack about s.e.x, and everyone laughed.

"I received a terrible letter at my restaurant. It was unsigned and it said some very bad things about the restaurant and my employees. Not only did I get a copy but the newspaper in Kansas City received the same letter and so did the health department. I've been very upset and I've been trying to figure out who in Kansas City might have it in for me. That wasn't exactly a small list." She paused for the laugh and got it. "Now I've come to wonder if it might have something to do with the vandalism at the convent. And I wondered if any of you had received any hate mail. And I would ask that, either way, you not repeat what I've told you tonight. The reputation of a restaurant is very fragile, as you all know."

It didn't take long for a response. "Good work, Heaven. I would have never figured out that that piece of trash had anything to do with this," Lidia said. "I got one two weeks ago and so did the New York City health department. I can't tell you what it said, it was so disgusting."

"I'm so relieved. I thought someone was going to blow my cafe up because my letter said Baccha.n.a.lia should be a parking lot," Annie Quantero from Atlanta said.

"Since I don't have a restaurant, I got one saying Hitler was right and why didn't I have recipes for cooking Jews," Rozanne Gold said.

There was shocked silence for a moment. Then, one by one, the whole group confessed to some kind of an unsigned written a.s.sault on their businesses and sometimes on them personally.

Heaven felt like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. From the looks on the faces of the other women chefs, everyone had harbored the same fears, that unfounded accusations would be the death of the businesses into which they put their hearts and souls.

"This doesn't mean that there isn't still some nut who wrote all the letters," Heaven pointed out.

"Yes, but probably it's the nut who is trying to sabotage the Sisters of the Holy Trinity and wanted to cast the chefs in the worst possible light, hoping it might make the news somewhere," Susan Spicer said. "What do you say we hire a guard to be at the food tent at all times and each of us chip in to pay for it?"

That idea was met with enthusiastic response and they sealed the deal with a few bottles of Dom Perignon.

Heaven looked around the table. They were at Upper-line, a wonderful uptown restaurant near Truely and Mary's. The four of them, Mary, Truely, Will and Heaven, had formed an easy alliance. Their evenings were comfortable, as if they'd been dining together for years. All four were quick-witted, slightly sarcastic, and good storytellers. Heaven thought of Hank. It would be a totally different dynamic with him at the table, much sweeter.

Sometimes it was fun to hang out with people your own age.

"So not only did you get chased all over New Orleans last night, you admit that you've been getting hate mail and so have all the other chefs, and you call this a good day?" Truely shook his head and poured more wine, a bottle of Flora Springs Cabernet Sauvignon.

"It came as a great relief to all of us that this was a group problem, not someone singling us out. I was worried sick," Heaven said.

"And you hadn't told us a thing about it," Mary said, scolding her.

"The fewer people that know about something like that, the better. I would never have taken the chance to tell my tale to the other chefs if Amelia hadn't come over and questioned me about it. That b.i.t.c.h," Heaven added with a chuckle.

"Who do you suppose told Amelia?" Will asked.

"Maybe Amelia knew about it because she did it," Mary offered.

Heaven shook her head. "I don't think so, but I don't have any reason except a weird fondness I've acquired for Amelia. I think the person who did all this, the vandalism, the cross, the letters, sent copies to Amelia at the television station. But I couldn't ask her that today because I wasn't admitting that I received a letter."

"What will happen tomorrow night, will the fish give us all a tummy ache?" Will said, still not taking the threats to the nuns very seriously.

"The chefs decided to all chip in and pay for a guard for the food tent," Heaven reported.

"Good plan," Truely said. "I wouldn't want anyone to mess with the coffee. It's a single estate bean from Kenya that kicks a.s.s."

"Thanks for donating expensive coffee, Truely," Heaven said.

"Mary would kill me if I didn't." He gave his wife a pat on her hand. "And it can't compare to what you've given, in time and money."

"Let's get back to last night. I can't believe you didn't call the police. Will was wrong," Mary said, looking severely across the table at both Heaven and Will.

"I can't believe I didn't either. So this morning I called up the French Quarter station and they sent someone over to Peristyle to take my statement. I don't know if they believed me. It was pretty farfetched, what with the casino and two streetcars and the Moonwalk and the Camellia Grill. But at least now if I'm strangled again, I'll be on record," Heaven said, watching Will for a reaction.

She thought he shifted uncomfortably and his eyes darted around the table, meeting Truely's for just a breath too long. It only lasted two seconds. What were those two trying to tell each other? Maybe Heaven was just reading things into Will's reactions tonight because they had that on-the-lips kiss the night before. It was probably nothing more than two friends trying to react the same way to some woman and her ravings.

"Heaven has survived another harrowing day in the life of Super Chef. I think this calls for champagne," Will said, with a trademark wink and a smile. He waved a hand to the waiter across the room.

"I hope we're lucky," Heaven said to no one in particular as she dealt empty plates out on the long serving tables they were using to organize the dinner.

The c.o.c.ktail hour was over and guests were looking for their table a.s.signments. The weather was perfect and so was the setting; a slight breeze blowing the ribbons the decoration committee had tied on the tent stakes, the smell of roses wafting from the garden walls, fat white candles nestled safely in gla.s.s hurricane lamps that reflected the twinkling candlelight. c.o.c.ktails had been in the formal garden on the street side, what Heaven now knew was the back of the convent. The entire inner courtyard, facing the river, had been tented. Now people were making their way through the entryway, from the back to the front of the convent, to dinner. A bra.s.s band was leading the way.

The women chefs had decided not to list the chef responsible for each course on the menu, as most celebrity chef dinners did. They preferred to show solidarity and just list their names at the top of the menu, trusting that their fellow cooks would not sully anyone else's reputation with something less than spectacular. So far all the starters had been devoured with gusto, although Heaven was sure the onion soup beignets were the biggest hit of all.

The first course was already on the table, a cold English green pea soup with a shrimp-filled fried won-ton on the side. Heaven had learned long ago in her catering days that if a cold soup could be on the table, in place when the guests sat down, it really helped get the dinner rolling. You needed every bit of help when you were serving a coursed dinner in the middle of nowhere, kitchenwise.

Earlier, Heaven had poked around the convent grounds to check out the rest of their set-up. It was an organized production. The dish-washing tent was set up right next to one of the maintenance sheds with running water. There were hoses running to big metal tubs on stands, like people used to use to wash clothes. Next to each tub were two big trash containers for busing food off the plates and bowls. On the other side of the tubs were long tables with the empty boxes from the rental company. The dishes were sc.r.a.ped, rinsed in the tubs and then repacked in the boxes. The rental company would rewash and sterilize them at their plant.

Now, it was time to plate the fish course, an octopus salad that was one of Lidia's dishes, plus a mini fritto misto, that Italian combination of fried seafood that was so popular in Venice. To do that, the cooks had several of the outdoor propane tanks and stock pots that were so popular in New Orleans to fry whole turkeys or boil crayfish. In this case they had been converted into deep fat fryers. There was delicious grouper, soft-sh.e.l.l crab and zucchini blossoms, all in a delicate batter that reminded Heaven of an Asian tempura batter.

The chefs had made diagrams of the way each plate should look on butcher paper and taped these diagrams up on the inside of the tent siding. This plate had a small mound of the octopus salad on one side, a piece of grouper and a half a soft-sh.e.l.led crab on the other, with two squash blossoms in the middle, their blooms facing opposite directions. The last touch was a light dressing for the fritto misto, olive oil and aged basalmic vinegar with some anchovy blended in.

That was Heaven's job, along with three other volunteers-drizzling the dressing after other chefs and volunteers had placed the other salad elements.

As one group of servers picked up the soup bowls, the second group started serving the fish.

Since it was spring, the meat course was lamb. The chefs had long grills set up and some of the volunteers had taken the tedious job of grilling twelve hundred baby lamb chops. They were just keeping them on the grill a minute, then turning them over for another minute, as they had to be put in the electric warmers after they were grilled and would keep cooking. There was no way to have rare lamb at an event like this, but they were hoping for a little pink left in the center. These were being served around a baby-artichoke-and-potato gallette that had been baked at Bayona and brought over in warming boxes. There was also another side dish on the plate that Heaven intended to copy, a crawfish spoonbread. A little mound of it was decorated with a crawfish and placed at the twelve o'clock position on the plate. The guest sits at the six o'clock position.

The talk in the food tent was minimal. Everyone had their a.s.signments for every dish ahead of time. On this course, Heaven was placing the three chops around the potato-and-artichoke galette. She walked slowly down the aisles of tables with plates, going behind the two people doing the potatoes.

Although it wasn't the hardest physical labor in the world, plating for a big party was intense work. You were a part of a team fighting the clock. It was hard enough getting out food reasonably hot and still edible for a large party in a hotel situation, as anyone who has eaten at a banquet knows. Doing it in an outdoor setting with no kitchen required lots of organization. Heaven was glad she had so much catering experience to fall back on.

When the lamb went out, the kitchen started drinking. It wasn't that the next courses weren't as important. To the diner, the cheese and salad, and the desserts, were just as important in how the whole dinner worked together. But the crew was glad they had the hot stuff out of the way and that nothing bad had happened in relation to the many incidents that had occurred before the dinner. So, the Veuve Cliquot was broken out and everyone raised their gla.s.ses. So far, so good, someone quipped as a toast and then they quickly went back to work.

The salad course was simple. A local grower had supplied baby Lalla Rosa lettuce. Some blueberries and toasted pecans were tossed on top and a light dressing with blueberry vinegar and hazelnut oil was lightly drizzled on the lettuce. But because New Orleanians weren't afraid to eat, after the salad was served, platters of French and American cheeses would be pa.s.sed, along with dense walnut bread and crackers. The cheese trays had been arranged by the cheese wholesaler, who came to the dinner to fuss over his prize triple creams. He didn't want anyone to mishandle his goods as he had been carefully aging cheese for the evening. Heaven's a.s.signment was to slice the walnut bread with a volunteer. She waited until the salads were ready to go out, then they sliced furiously so the bread would be fresh when it was presented. Heaven hated being offered bread that had become even a bit dry to the touch.

She left the volunteer to put the bread in baskets. The next course was her Nola Pie.

Heaven went to the first empty table, where someone was already putting down empty luncheon-sized plates. She had asked for a slightly larger plate because cutting into a tart on a dessert-size plate could result in food flying onto the table. A clean bus tub was piled with the cookie crusts, still in their pie sh.e.l.ls. Heaven and Pauline had added some pecans to the shortbread dough. Heaven showed a volunteer where to place the pastry sh.e.l.l, at the top of the plate. "Be careful taking these out of the aluminum. They're fragile and we only have twenty-five extras. Five broke in the shipping," she explained.

Heaven retrieved the rest of the ingredients. It was the job of the lead chef on every course to make the first plate so everyone had a pattern to follow. In the empty crust, Heaven placed some pieces of broken up pralines. She had ordered them from one of the local praline makers, the one at the French Market, and asked them to break the large rounds in small pieces just before they delivered them to the site so the sugar wouldn't have time to crystallize. Heaven was afraid the smaller pieces would crystallize faster than a whole praline. Sugar was so tricky. She bit into one and it was still creamy, not grainy.

After the praline bits, Heaven spooned in some Louisiana strawberries that had been sliced and macerated in just a little sugar and Grand Marnier. In Peristyle's kitchen, Heaven had baked custard in hotel pans and burned sugar on the top to create pans of creme brulee. A volunteer had taken one of the biscuit cutters and cut rounds out of the custard in the afternoon, before the sugar was burned on it. Heaven carefully slid a spatula under one of the custard rounds and set it on top of the strawberries. "It's all right if the surface of the brulee is cracked. It can't be helped."

Then she opened a big cake box full of cookies from Crossaint D'Or. Pauline had wanted to do these but, because of her bad wrist, Heaven had enlisted the French Quarter's favorite pastry bakery. Now Heaven placed a dab of strawberry puree on the plate in front of the tart, and on it placed a cookie in the shape of the sisters' lost cross, a cookie that had been decorated with the appropriate curlicues so it looked authentic.

"The puree should fix the cookie on the plate, but the servers need to be careful so the whole thing doesn't shift," she said to the a.s.sembly around her. Appreciative murmurs followed. It was a very New Orleans dessert and the cross made it right for the occasion. Heaven picked up the bowl of praline bits. "Thanks, but this was a team effort since several of the parts were produced right here in the Quarter. I just thought it up. I'm on praline. Let's go," she said, and started down the line of plates.

Only the sorbet course remained. Heaven took a long drink of Veuve and smiled to herself, relieved. The last tart had just gone out of the tent. She took a deep breath and walked into the narrow area behind the kitchen tent and in front of the dish-washing tent. The kitchen tent only had its canvas walls down on the side facing the diners. The back side was open so the chefs could get some air. The side facing the river was also open, and was the location of the grill and the propane tanks with their iron tripods and pots of grease. Heaven could see six or seven people in chefs' coats coming up the drive lugging coolers filled with various flavors of sorbet they had just retrieved from the freezer at Bayona.

It was almost over. A jazz band had played during dinner and there was a dance floor set up on the flat part of the courtyard that was usually a parking lot. A Cajun band was going to play soon and Heaven saw someone with an accordion walking up the drive behind the sorbet. She turned toward the dining area and spotted Truely and Mary and Will. There was a beautiful blonde beside Will, obviously his date for the night. Good, Heaven said to herself. The four of us were getting too cozy. On Monday I'll be gone back to Kansas City and all of us will go on with our lives. And whatever damage the nun-hater was after will be history, except for losing the cross.

All of a sudden, a roar, then a whoosh of air, broke through the festive party sounds, followed by an explosion. It seemed to be coming from Chartres Street, right in front of the convent. The whole crew in the kitchen tent started down the driveway to the street, including their guard. When Heaven got to Chartres, she saw flames shooting out of a location about a half block away on Ursulines.

Everyone in the French Quarter lives in fear of fire. Fire had decimated this part of the city several times over its long history. The closeness of the buildings to each other meant a whole block could burn quickly.

People were running from all directions toward the flames. Heaven and most of the chefs stood on the corner by the convent, not walking any closer. The fire department trucks were winding through the narrow streets honking horns, with firefighters already off the trucks securing hoses to fire hydrants. A pumper truck backed into place and the chef's guard, who was an off-duty policeman, helped with traffic control.

Heaven was relieved that whatever blew up down the street wasn't meant for the party. So was everyone else. Giddy with excitement and champagne and the knowledge that they were on the last course, the cooks headed back up the drive. As Heaven turned she saw Will Tibbetts come to the convent entrance and look intently in the direction of the fire. Heaven thought he must have been in a pretty hot conversation with the blonde if he was just now getting up to see what the h.e.l.l was going on.

As Heaven reached the kitchen tent a great hue and cry came from the opposite direction, the dishwashing tent.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, my G.o.d."

"Who is it?"

Heaven pushed up to the front of the crowd. There, wedged in one of the tubs for rinsing dishes, his legs dangling over the side, was Truely Whitten with a Global knife stuck in his chest, a hose running water into the tub and washing away any evidence. Placed between Truely's legs so it was resting on his torso, was the stolen cross of the Sisters of the Holy Trinity.

Heaven couldn't believe her eyes. "I bet that's my knife," she said without thinking of the consequences of that admission.

Suddenly Nancy Blair was standing right beside Heaven. "And that's my cross," she said to everyone's surprise.

Heaven looked up from the body just in time to see Will catch Mary as she fainted.

Chicken Crepes For the crepes: 1 1/3 cups milk 1 cup all-purpose flour 3 large eggs 3 T. unsalted b.u.t.ter, melted 1 T. sugar dash kosher salt canola oil or vegetable oil spray for your crepe pan Mix all ingredients but oil together with an electric mixer or blender. Let set at least an hour at room temperature. Heat a crepe or saute pan and spray or moisten with a small amount of oil. If you have a 1 oz. ladle, use that, or just pour a small amount of the batter in your pan and quickly swirl to coat the pan thinly with the batter. Cook about a minute and then carefully turn with a spatula. Cook another minute and turn out on wax paper. Cover with a towel or paper towel. Repeat process. Makes about 20 crepes. In some cities crepes are available pre-made at fancy food stores. You can make these the day before and refrigerate. Bring to room temperature before you try to use them.

For the filling: 57 lbs. bone in chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s 5 stalks celery, sliced thin 1 small can water chestnuts, chopped fine 1 cup sliced almonds, toasted 1 cup Monterey Jack cheese 1 cup sour cream kosher salt white pepper paprika celery salt dried dill weed juice of one lemon Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cover the b.r.e.a.s.t.s with water and bring to a boil in a large saucepan. I usually add the tops and bottoms of my celery, at least half an onion with the skin still on, and a carrot if I have one. You can throw in some fresh herbs if you have them around although I don't recommend rosemary. Reduce heat, skim, and simmer for 2030 minutes until the b.r.e.a.s.t.s are cooked through. Drain and cool.

Pull meat from the bones and dice. Add all the other ingredients and combine, seasoning to taste. Place a spoonful on the top third of each crepe and roll up. Bake in a shallow baking dish for 30 minutes. Before the last ten minutes, spoon on some sauce Royal and a little grated Parmesan cheese to brown. Or you can omit the sauce and these will be good in an old-fashioned, country club food way.