Dishing Up Love

by KD Robichaux

  I change my leggings out for jeans shorts in record time, just in case the sexy chef decided to follow me up the staircases while checking out all the stuff Emmy’s parents have collected during their excursions.

  Catching a glance of myself in the dresser mirror, I let out a squeak and yank the ponytail holder out of my hair. This time, I actually take a second to brush it to get it somewhat smooth before piling it on top of my head in a messy bun. I slap on a fresh layer of deodorant and spritz on a little bit of my One in a Million body spray from Bath and Body Works, because I will no doubt be sweating my tits off soon. It just won’t be clear whether it’s from being around Curtis Rockwell, celebrity chef, or because of the NOLA heat.

  Chapter 8

  Curtis

  “BUT… THEY’RE SUPPOSED to be the best in New Orleans. In the world, even,” I pout as Erin takes hold of my wrist and drags me past Café du Monde.

  “That they are, mon ami. But they’re also open twenty-four hours. And we’ve got just eight minutes to meet up at the tour spot. You see that line?” Erin asks, and I glance back as her little body continues to haul me down the sidewalk in Jackson Square heading toward the French Market.

  “You mean the one that’s about sixty-people deep and reaches all the way to where the two guys are break-dancing and sliding across the makeshift dance floor on the top of their freakin’ heads?” My jaw had dropped when I saw the first performer do it, sliding fifteen feet across what I assume is plastic. Otherwise, I have no idea how he could’ve slid… On. His. Head.

  “Yep, that one. The line goes pretty quickly, but not quick enough that we can wait in it, find a table, order our food, receive and eat it, and then make it to the tour,” she explains, looking back and up at me. She reads the disappointment clearly on my face, and hers softens from the sternness it’s been harboring since we left her house, as I’ve wanted to stop to oo-and-ah over every little thing like the tourist I am. She sighs. “I promise after the tour you can treat me to some beignets and café au lait.”

  I grin. “I can treat you, huh?”

  “That’s right. You’re the one who dragged me out tonight, when all day today I had dreams of an early bedtime after eating my easy frozen meal. So I will go on this tour with you and eat the beignets and coffee you provide, and then I guess I’ll finally get some sleep. I’ll just do something I never, ever do tomorrow,” she says, and I lift a brow, fully planning on keeping her out way later than what she’s expecting. It’s NOLA on a Friday night, after all.

  “And what’s that?” I prompt.

  “Sleep in.” She shrugs.

  Visions of spending all night with her then curling up to sleep all day together flash through my mind. I can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday.

  “You don’t usually sleep in?”

  “Never. I’m very… routine-driven. And if something throws me off course, it takes me forever to get back into my flow. I mean, I’m pretty laid back and easygoing, as long as things fit into the allotted times,” she admits.

  “Is that why you’re manhandling me right now?” I grin.

  “Yes. That is one thing I cannot stand—not being punctual.”

  I chuckle. “I don’t mean to shrink the shrink, but have you considered you might be just a teensy bit OCD?”

  “A teensy bit? Bruh, I’ve got it bad. Everything but the tics. Mine manifests as anxiety attacks,” she confesses, and I nod.

  “I had a sous chef who had OCD. Like… with the tics. Cleanest kitchen I ever worked in, but goddamn it took forever to cook a meal. He always had to measure out ingredients seven times before he ever added it to the dish. Poor guy.” I shake my head.

  She slows as we reach a door opened at the corner of a building, and I glance up to see a sign with the name of the tour company.

  “There are medications and therapies for that. Did he ever see anyone about it?” she asks, and I lower my gaze to hers, seeing the look of concern there. Concern for someone she had never even met before, who I mentioned at random. God, what an angel.

  I can’t help but lift my hand to trace the line of her delicate jaw, and my stomach dips at the way she unconsciously leans into my touch. “He chose not to. Kinda like how Freddie Mercury never got his teeth fixed even after he became rich and famous. He thought his four extra incisors were part of his instrument, what made his voice what it was, so unique. My sous chef thought that if he got his OCD treated, it might take away some of his qualities that made him such an excellent cook. He was well on his way to becoming a head chef himself.”

  “Sous chef. What does that mean exactly?” she asks curiously, finally seeming to relax now that we made it to the destination with… three minutes to spare.

  “It’s like the second-in-command, the Vice President if the chef is President. The literal translation is under-chef,” I reply.

  “Gotcha. Well, we can either go inside and chill in the waiting room to be lined up for our tour or we can just hang out here.” She turns to wave at the gal sitting at the desk inside, who waves back and seems to check off something on the paper in front of her. “We’re all checked in.”

  “Wait.” I tilt my head, my brow furrowing. “I was the one who bought our tickets online. How did you just check us in?”

  “I sent my buddy Ronnie, our tour guide, a text letting him know I was coming and to give us the extra special tour, since I had a certain celebrity chef with me. He told me he’d let Jamie, the girl sitting at the desk, know I would be here and gave her your name as the person on the tickets.” She shrugs.

  “The extra special tour?” I smile. “You did that for me?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Well duh. You’re sober and it’s your first time taking a haunted tour in New Orleans. Gotta make sure you get all the cool stories instead of the easy lame ones they give to all the drunk tourists who aren’t really going to remember it the next day anyway.”

  I burst out laughing at that. “Speaking of which, I was told I need to try a… Hurricane, is it?”

  I nod. “Ah, yes. The drink NOLA is famous for. But in all honesty, it’s the Hand Grenades that are so freaking delicious.”

  “How about both? Do we have time to run into that bar really quick to grab one of each, or will your OCD spaz out for not being star student and first in line for the tour?” I tease and she sticks her tongue out at me, her nose wrinkling in the most adorable way.

  She leans around me and glances into the bar right next door. “As long as we make it quick. They look dead, so it should be fast.”

  And it is. Within five minutes, we have our drinks and are standing back in front of the tour spot, a small group starting to line up both inside the small room with chairs I see through the open doorway and a couple people outside, everyone with a drink in hand.

  “Guess it’s a good thing we grabbed these. Looks like everyone brought their own form of hydration,” I joke, tapping my large plastic cup to her green one shaped like a grenade. “This one is damn good. Pretty strong too. Let me see.” I take a sip, rolling it around my tongue, letting the liquor pool in my mouth as I inhale through slightly parted lips to get a good taste of the flavor. “I saw him pour in the light rum, dark rum, and grenadine, but I’m tasting… passion fruit?” At her amused face and nod, I continue, “Orange and lemon juice?”

  She nods again. “And one more thing,” she hints.

  I take another sip. “Those are pretty tart and sour ingredients, but this is mostly sweet. Sooo… simple syrup?”

  Her smile lights up her entire face. “Ding-ding-ding! Wow. That’s a pretty cool trick. Do this one,” she says, trading her drink for mine. And it’s ridiculous how proud I am of the fact that I’ve impressed her with my taste-testing abilities.

  I use her straw, finding the act somehow intimate sharing something that’s been in her mouth instead of taking a drink from the brim of the plastic bomb-shaped cup. Again, I roll the liquid around my tongue. “Mm.” I nod. “Mm-hm. I think… I think I�
��ve got it,” I say, taking another taste. “Definitely gin. Everclear.” She nods, lifting an eyebrow and biting her lip in anticipation. “I saw him put in vodka and rum… but the other bottle didn’t have a label.” I pull in air through my lips, concentrating on the flavor. “Is that… melon liqueur?”

  She hops a little, holding her arm out away from her so she doesn’t spill the drink in her hand. “Yes! That is so freaking cool! I’m going to have to take you to my favorite restaurants so you can tell me all their secret ingredients in my go-to meals.”

  I grin, watching the realization cross her face as she understands she just told me she wants me around for more than the next couple hours. I’m not dumb. I can tell she’s trying to keep me at arm’s length, trying to stay detached for some reason I plan on figuring out and soon. But I can also see she can’t deny this palpable connection we have.

  I decide not to tease her about that little slip as we trade drinks. “Sounds like a deal. I’ll be your own personal copy-cat. But I’ll raise your deal and bet that I can probably take whatever dish you want me to copy for you and make it even better.”

  She tilts her head to the side and narrows her eyes. “I don’t know. It’d be pretty hard to top the meatloaf and mashed potatoes at Mia’s Table. I swear, I think their secret ingredient is crack, because I am addicted. I ate there three times in one workweek once.”

  I burst out laughing. “Sugar, my meatloaf and whipped potatoes will make Mia’s taste like dog food. You wait and see.” I cheers her cup with mine once more.

  “We shall see, mon ami,” she replies, and it’s the second time she’s called me my friend. I wonder if it’s a conscious thing she’s doing in order to remind herself to place me in the friend-zone or if it’s a common thing in this area to call people, like a generic term of endearment.

  I don’t have time to ask her though, as a tall, lanky man with shaggy brown hair and a goatee claps his hands, gaining everyone’s attention. When I finally take my eyes off Erin for the first time in several minutes, I notice our group has gotten larger. In all, there are about eighteen to twenty people ready to take the tour and learn some NOLA history.

  “Good evening, everyone. My name is Ronnie…” He gestures with his arms out, waiting for the small crowd to greet him.

  Everyone else mumbles a hello, but by the grace of crazy coincidence, Erin and I both give him a warm welcome.

  “What’s up, Ronnie!” Erin shouts, just as I call out loudly, “Hey, man! How you doing?”

  Ronnie grins at us near the back. “Ah, c’est bon! Nice to see you again, my friend,” he directs at Erin before his eyes meet mine. “Very good, and thank you for coming.” He points at me briefly with a wink, letting me know he’s not going to call me out aloud.

  No one seems to recognize me, or maybe they’re just too buzzed to notice me, so I relax even more and pay close attention to our tour guide.

  “It is very important that we stay together as a group. If you aren’t from around here, it is easy to get lost in the Quarter. All the streets can look alike this late at night, especially if you’ve imbibed a little of that dranky-drank,” he tells us, and everyone lifts their drink in the air and lets out a collective “Woohoo!”

  “In addition, most of the stops on the tour are private property. The owners are pretty cool about letting us tour companies stop and tell their stories, so please be respectful of their generosity by not touching anything on their property. Nooo touchy,” Ronnie explains, and everyone gives him a nod.

  “This is a walking tour. We will be walking approximately two miles from start to finish. We will have one bathroom break in the middle of the tour, so if you need to break the seal now, please hurry and use our facilities before we get going.” He gives all the tourists an opportunity to speak up, but when no one does, he claps once more and says, “All right. Follow me!”

  Erin and I stay toward the back of the group as Ronnie leads the way down a side street, and I can’t help but admire my surroundings. Everything is just so… festive. The shops are all brightly painted in Mardi Gras colors, and everything is so authentically New Orleans, from the mask and bead stores to the random Voodoo shops we pass by. If I could, I’d wander through each and every one of them.

  I hear Erin chuckle beside me, and I glance down at her. “What’s so funny?” I smile.

  “You. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy such as yourself look so longingly at storefronts before,” she says.

  “A guy such as myself?” I prompt.

  “Ya know… straight.” She shrugs.

  I laugh loudly, apologizing to the people right in front of us that I startled. “I don’t like just any old shopping. I only love touristy shopping. Like those beach shops with all the souvenirs, and the places everywhere that have the name of the city on everything. But this… this is awesome. Voodoo shops? Where else in the US could you find a voodoo shop on every street? Only New Orleans, Louisiana. And Mardi Gras masks? I bring one of those babies home to my yaya, and I won’t even have to tell her where I got it. You only get stuff like this here.”

  She nods, giving me a sweet smile. “Yeah, it’s one of the reasons I never left. There’s nowhere in the world like it.”

  The group comes to a stop, and we break our gaze at each other when Ronnie speaks.

  “The first stop on our tour is Ursuline Convent, which you can see across the street.” Ronnie gestures toward the massive structure. The left side looks like a church, while there is a wall surrounding what I assume is a courtyard to the right. There is a huge three-story building attached to the church, windows lining the entire top floor.

  “The year is 1704, and the few cities that existed in what is now the United States are mostly along the coasts. They’re brand spanking new, and most of the colonists are men. It was hard to get women to make the long voyage from Europe, which was obviously a problem. These guys needed wives. They needed to make babies and establish roots here, to start the first generations of Americans.”

  At this, Erin makes a little grunt that brings my eyes briefly down to her before she looks up at me, seeming to pretend like she didn’t make the noise. Ronnie draws my attention back to him as he continues the story.

  “At first, the city officials recruited these potential wives for the men of NOLA within their actual town limits. They even went shopping for these girls in jails and brothels. They didn’t care, as long as they had a vagina.”

  One of the drunk tourists in the group holds up his beer in the air and yells out, “Wooo! Pussaaay!” making most of us chuckle. One doesn’t come on a ghost tour in arguably the biggest party city in America and expect it to be a serious lecture similar to a class in college.

  “Needless to say, these women didn’t make the greatest wives for what were mostly religious colonists,” Ronnie says, to which the same tourist yells, “Prudes!” before his friends shush him. He hisses, “Sorry!” allowing our guide to go on. “So, they had to look elsewhere.

  “Over the years, a lot more people besides the original colonists were sent over to populate the new world. Tons of them were convicts and prostitutes who made the journey against their will. Instead of the leaders putting them up in their jails or dealing with them in other ways, they decided just to ship them off and get rid of them altogether, using the new world as sort of their own personal human dump. But in 1704, the first of three groups of girls arrived in what is now Mobile, Alabama. They had one purpose—be the fresh batch of women to choose from to become the wives of the colonists.

  “These girls were all between the ages of fourteen and nineteen—the average marrying age of females back then—and they were mainly chosen because they were virgins. They’d been recruited from France, from their convents and orphanages. But there were also rumors that even more were sent over after being picked up off the streets. Another group was sent to what’s now Biloxi, Mississippi in 1719, and another to our beloved New Orleans in 1728. Unfortunately, the journeys on the ship
s were anything but luxurious, and many of the recruited would-be wives didn’t survive the trip across the Atlantic. Over the years of this practice, things changed a little, and the women who survived the trip were now allowed to mingle with the male colonists and choose husbands from them. Unlike the previous settlers, the journey itself was now consensual, and so was their choice in hubby,” Ronnie says, making the women giggle.

  “Once the ladies in the New Orleans group got here, they experienced crazy culture shock. And the established colonists had quite the shock of their own. The young women, who were sometimes called ‘pelican girls’ because of the ship they arrived in, were super pale. Many of them were coughing up blood. And they carried little bags with all their belongings.” He drops his voice low, making the next part seem ominous. “The New Orleans residents couldn’t help but notice these bags looked a hell of lot like… coffins.”

  The drunk guy from earlier lets out a screech, making most of the women scream then laugh. Admittedly, I jump a little, and Erin tries not to laugh at me. Her plump lip is pulled between her teeth, the tiny gap in the two front ones making my blood run hotter, but the crinkles in the corners of her eyes let me know she’s holding back laughter.

  I lean down a little to whisper in her ear, “Oh, you wanna laugh at me. How ‘bout you keep me safe, my big, bad ghost huntress?” With that, I pull her in front of me, her back fitting snuggly against my front, and I wrap my free arm around her, just below her breasts, taking a drink of my Hurricane with the other. I can feel the weight of her tits resting on my forearm, and I swallow a groan.

  Ronnie continues, “Thanks to these bags, the girls came to be known as fille à la cassette or ‘girl with a suitcase.’ They were also called ‘casquette girls,’ with a Q-U-E-T-T-E on the end. And since the word casquette was also spelled casket, with a K-E-T on the end, these girls have most notably been called the ‘casket girls.’