Murder With Fried Chicken and Waffles

by A. L. Herbert

  I’m holding up well for my age with a slightly round face and big brown eyes. I’m fortunate to have what, thanks to Chris Rock’s documentary, even white people now know is called “good hair.” I don’t have to relax it to straighten it but keep it styled fairly short for convenience. And considering I’m surrounded by delicious food all day, every day, I figure I’m doing pretty well to still be getting into my size fourteen clothes. Besides, I like my curves—they’re good for business. Who wants to eat in a restaurant owned by some waifish stick figure? That’s like a beautician with bad hair or a fat personal trainer.

  “Why do we have to make so many of these things anyway? Can’t we just make enough casseroles for Marcus and his crew?”

  “And what would you have me tell our customers when they see them coming out of the kitchen? ‘Sorry, this is for some special guests. None for you.’ ”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  “Oh yeah. That will make them feel really valued.”

  I constantly remind myself and my staff to never take our customers for granted. Mahalia’s Sweet Tea operates on a wait during peak lunch and dinner hours almost every day, and has been on Washingtonian Magazine’s and the Washington Post’s top restaurant lists since we opened. I’ve even had people from as far away as Hawaii say they’ve heard of my restaurant, but I still work to treat every customer as if they could make or break me. I tell all of my employees how important it is to be polite and welcoming to everyone who walks through the door or even calls for information. I emphasize that we treat customers who come during peak hours the same as the ones who slip in five minutes before we close. We try hard to please our customers, so we keep complaints to a minimum (and often, when we do get them, they are not valid . . . just someone trying to get something for nothing). When we do have the occasional unhappy customer, I try to give my staff the training and leeway to fix the situation on their own. During their first six weeks of employment, they are required to take trainings on the Web about dealing with difficult people, defusing heated situations, and delivering top-notch customer service. Most of my employees come from working-class backgrounds and, sometimes, downright poor families. Before working here, they’ve never even been in a high-end restaurant. Hell, Wavonne still wants to know why I don’t have any buffalo wings or cheese fries on the menu. I tell her that I didn’t work my ass off to get my restaurant off the ground only to serve the same mundane fodder they offer at T.G.I. Friday’s and Ruby Tuesday.

  Wavonne continues to mumble to herself about Marcus, and I keep an eye on her while we prepare the casseroles. I almost want to tell her to watch what she says about Marcus. That I’m in debt to him for a hefty sum and neither one of us would be in this kitchen or this restaurant if it wasn’t for him, but I keep my lips pursed. I don’t need to remind anyone of Marcus’s ownership in the restaurant. He agreed to be a silent partner, and I don’t want anyone thinking that Marcus is the boss around here, not that he’d have time to be here any longer than it takes to entertain clients for dinner a few times a month.

  Marcus has a lot going on and is always on the go. I’m not sure exactly what it is that keeps him so busy. Of course I overhear things when he’s talking to clients at the restaurant, but I never get enough detail to piece everything together, and maybe that’s for the best. As the saying goes, sometimes ignorance is bliss. But whatever Marcus is up to, it seems to be heating up lately. He’s been bringing more people into the restaurant, and not just women who look all googly-eyed at him. He’s been in here with couples and even entire families . . . two-point-five kids and all. Most of his meetings seem to go well, and everyone leaves happy, but last week he was entertaining a young couple, and, by the time we brought out Momma’s pecan pie for dessert, no one at the table looked very chipper. Later, from the back of the restaurant, I heard raised voices. By the time I showed up to clear some plates, the couple had very cross looks on their faces and Marcus looked . . . well, Marcus looked guilty. I’m not sure of what, but I know guilt when I see it, and I saw guilt on Marcus’s face.

  CHAPTER 4

  I’m already tired from a long day, and the Saturday night rush has barely gotten underway. I enjoy the bustle of busy nights, but between making casseroles that I hadn’t planned for, and me and my kitchen staff having to sidestep Momma while she made Marcus’s banana pudding, I’m beat.

  I take a moment and stand outside the kitchen door. I do this a few times a night as I get the best view of the dining room from here and can see if anything needs my attention. I think about what a great team I have while I watch the servers tending to the tables. They are all wearing the Sweet Tea uniform: slip-resistant black shoes, black pants, a crisp long-sleeved white dress shirt, and a pastel-colored tie of their choosing.

  Sometimes I’m not even looking for things that might need tending to—sometimes I’m just taking it all in and appreciating the people who have chosen to spend their hard-earned money in my restaurant. It was so much work to get this place opened and is equally hard work to keep it running on a daily basis, so I force myself to take some time every now and then to just soak it all in and enjoy it. I look around the room and recall the trials and tribulations of creating such a lovely space. I was encouraged by many to go with some of the more trendy looks you see in newer restaurants, but I didn’t want to create a look that would be outdated in a few years and require an expensive remodel. I wanted a timeless design that would look as appealing ten years into the future as it does now. I opted for solid oak tabletops on double cross metal bases. The matching chairs are also made of solid oak. They have lattice backs and cushioned red upholstered seats. The booths along the wall are upholstered in the same red. I wanted Sweet Tea to sound lively and fun, but not so loud that my guests have to shout at each other over dinner, so I limited the hardwood flooring to the bar area and went with carpet in the main dining room to absorb noise. The front wall is windows. On the walls behind the bar and along the back is a mix of antique photos and paintings of women like my grandmother preparing meals, family gatherings around the dining room table, church ladies tending to the after-service buffets, and the like. Along the left wall is a mural I commissioned. It’s based on a series of photos from a summer picnic in Grandmommy’s backyard before I was even born—sometime in the sixties. Yes, I had the artist embellish a bit—Grandmommy’s backyard was not on a lake, there was no white gazebo in the middle of the yard for the love-struck teenagers in the painting to be canoodling in, and Grandmommy’s rosebushes never looked quite as good as they do in the artist’s rendition. But I hope the mural does exude what I imagine to be the same feeling of that day so long ago—a feeling of family . . . of mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, aunts and uncles . . . all enjoying each other’s company over good food on a beautiful spring day.

  “We’ve got some cranberry drinkers at table twenty-two,” Darius, one of my servers, says to me, prompting me out of my memories of summer picnics.

  “Cranberry drinkers” is a term we use for patrons who sneak their own liquor into the restaurant. More often than not, these customers order plain cranberry juice. Occasionally, they mix their own rum into a Coke, and a few fools order tonic water to which they add their own gin, as if we are not immediately suspicious of someone ordering plain tonic water. I’ve seen customers sneak booze into Sweet Tea in all sorts of creative ways. I’ve had customers bring it in containers that look like binoculars. They’ve concealed flasks in phony Bibles. I’ve even seen a flask made to look like a smartphone. The topper was probably when we caught a customer who had rigged some sort of fake beer belly under his shirt that had tubing attached to disperse the alcohol. But, most of the time, people just have the women in their party bring in a few of those mini-bottles of liquor in their purse and pour it into their drinks when they think no one is looking.

  “Really? It’s been a while.” I look over at table twenty-two and see four young women. They are all sporting heavy makeup and short skirts with heel
s I couldn’t make it to the front door in. All four of them are wearing black. They look like four witches. Sweet Tea must be their first stop before a night on the town. I get being young and short on cash, but if that’s the case, have a few cocktails before you leave the house or be happy having a Diet Coke with your meal, but do not come in my restaurant trying to pull a fast one.

  “Did I hear him right?” Wavonne asks on her way to the kitchen.

  I don’t answer her. Instead, I turn my head to Darius. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I could smell the vodka when I cleared one of the glasses.”

  “Oh. I got this!” Wavonne says.

  I’m not usually one for unleashing Wavonne and her lack of discretion on my customers, but when it comes to trashy people trying to get one by me and threatening my liquor license, I make exceptions. “Have at it.”

  There is sheer joy on Wavonne’s face as she approaches the table with Darius following.

  “Hey, hey, hey. How is everyone doin’ tonight?” I hear her ask.

  The girls at the table nod and smile and a few say they are doing just fine.

  “Good. Good. You know what? There seems to be a problem with your drink order. The bartender thinks he mighta added some liquor to them by mistake.” Wavonne starts lifting the glasses from the table and setting them on a tray Darius is holding. “But don’t you worry, we’re gonna replace all of ’em for you. And we’re so sorry for the mistake.”

  Everyone at the table silently stares at her with a “busted” look on their faces.

  “I’m sure it was our bartender’s mistake but, you know, every once in a while, we get some ghetto-assed street trash in here who be bringin’ their own liquor up in here and try to sneak it in their drinks when we ain’t lookin’. Can you believe that?”

  Wavonne gets a few nervous laughs from the group of ladies.

  “We’ll be back shortly with some fresh drinks. You ladies enjoy the rest of your evenin’.”

  Darius takes the glasses to the bar and Wavonne approaches me. “I set ’em straight . . . thirsty heifers.”

  “I see that,” I say to Wavonne, and I almost feel sorry for the girls at the table, but there’s no time for that. I’ve got bigger fish to fry—I’ve just caught sight of Marcus coming through the front door.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Welcome to Sweet Tea,” I say to Marcus and the entourage he’s just come in with. Sonya, my hostess, seated them at Marcus’s favorite table by the windows and has already taken a drink order. “If you need anything at all this evening, please let me know.”

  “Thank you,” says the gentleman seated next to Marcus. Unlike Marcus, he’s dressed casually in a pair of expensive-looking jeans and a Tommy Hilfiger knit shirt, which makes me think me he’s probably more important than Marcus and feels no need to dress to impress. Marcus probably wants something from him.

  I smile at the man. “At Marcus’s request, one of our specials tonight is my hot pepper corn casserole made with fresh corn, cheese, and crushed red pepper. It’s simply divine if I do say so myself.”

  I see smiles and looks of “damn, that sounds good” from everyone at the table . . . everyone at the table except for Jacqueline, Marcus’s sister and assistant. She’s seated to the right of Marcus trying to look as if she’s above it all . . . or maybe she’s not trying . . . maybe that’s just how she looks. It’s not that I dislike Jacqueline (do NOT call her Jackie . . . you will be corrected), and I’m not sure she means to come off as such an elitist, but the girl puts the tight in uptight. I’ve known her for years, and I’ve never seen her without her hair coiffed and her makeup perfect. She’s always dressed in some expensive pantsuit accessorized with tasteful jewelry and gorgeous shoes. If I had to use one word to describe her, it would be pointy—if a balloon brushed up against her, it would pop on contact. Her eyes are pointy, her nose is pointy, and her elbows are pointy . . . mostly because she’s so damn skinny. She’s about five feet seven or so, and I bet she barely clears a hundred ten pounds soaking wet. She really is pleasant enough, I guess, but there’s always been a coldness about her. She works for her brother, and he must pay her quite handsomely considering the clothes she wears and the car she drives, but she seems to have a smidgen of disdain for him that comes through in her tone and her facial expressions when she talks to or about him. I guess the thing that really bothers me about her is that she turns her nose up at my menu items and always asks the kitchen to make her a salad.

  And then there’s Marcus’s date for the evening, Régine. My sense is that she’s a gold digger on the hunt for fine jewelry, dinner at expensive restaurants, and the occasional shopping spree at Saks—all courtesy of Marcus. She’s very tall and quite striking with a dark complexion and long jet-black hair that goes past her shoulders. She’s all glitter and flash and makes no apologies for it. She wears too much makeup, fake fingernails, gaudy jewelry, and I’m not sure if her hair is her own or on loan from someone in India.

  Across the table from Marcus is the couple that was in here with him last week. They appear to be in their early twenties. They have wedding bands on, so it seems safe to assume they are married. And oddly, they are white. Not that I don’t get plenty of white folks in my restaurant, but Marcus’s clients are almost always other African Americans.

  “This is Darius,” I say to the table as he approaches with the drink order Sonya passed on to him. Darius always takes care of Marcus and his guests. He’s my best waiter. He’s one of those people who are perpetually “on.” He always has a smile, exudes positive energy, and is highly competent to boot. “He’ll be taking care of you this evening.”

  Darius places the drinks on the table without having to ask who gets what. Like a lot of restaurants, every chair at the table has an invisible number, and we input all orders accordingly. There’s nothing worse than showing up with a tray full of drinks or entrées and starting a bidding auction with waiters asking, “Who ordered the shrimp cocktail?” or “Who has the cheeseburger?”

  “Darius, can you go over the rest of the specials with our guests? I’ve already told them about our corn casserole.” I excuse myself and head toward the kitchen, where I find Laura supervising what is probably the restaurant’s most important function—the preparation of our fried chicken and waffles. When I first opened Sweet Tea, I only served fried chicken and waffles during Sunday brunch, but I got so many requests for them during the week, I added it as a regular menu item. Since then, it’s been our most popular entrée.

  The secret to my grandmother’s waffles is the addition of whipped egg whites to the batter. They make them extra fluffy. We serve each waffle with four fried chicken wings laid on top—one on each quarter. I had planned to serve a fried chicken breast with the waffle, but Wavonne made me rethink that: “Halia, ain’t you ever seen the after-church crowd at a Sunday buffet? There may be a tray fulla fried chicken breasts, but when two sistahs reach for that last wing at the same time, you best stand clear . . . the earrings are comin’ off and anything the preacher said that mornin’ about being good to your neighbor is forgotten.”

  Wavonne did have a point, and I decided to go with her advice. People really do seem to favor wings—I think because you get as much batter as you do meat with a wing. And with my chicken in particular, the batter may be the best part. We marinate the wings in a mix of seasonings. Then, right before we fry them, we coat them in my breading mixture, which includes my grandmother’s special ingredient: instant mashed potatoes. Instant mashed potatoes mixed in with the flour and herbs makes Sweet Tea’s fried chicken extra-crispy. Grandmommy found this out by accident when she was running low on flour one Sunday afternoon and made a quick substitute with Betty Crocker potato flakes.

  I’m about to give Laura a hand when I see Wavonne on the other side of the kitchen. She’s sitting on a stool, chatting with Tacy like she’s at a cocktail party.

  “Wavonne, you have three tables out there. What are you doing back here like you’re wait
ing for your massage at the spa?”

  “The first casseroles are about to come out the oven. I’m gettin’ my slice while the gettin’s still good.”

  “The casseroles are for customers, Wavonne. If there any left after the last table orders, you can have all you want. Now get out there and get to work.” I want to add that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for Wavonne to lay off the casseroles altogether. I’m a thick girl myself, and Wavonne is a size or two larger than me, which would be fine if she didn’t insist on wearing a size or two smaller than me. Day after day she tries to shove that size sixteen frame into size fourteen clothes, and, if she puts on any more weight, I swear they are going to burst at the seams. Everything she owns is tight . . . tight and loud. All my servers wear the Sweet Tea uniform while on duty, but the moment Wavonne’s shift is over you’re more likely than not to find her in something made of animal print . . . quite possibly with a few sequins on it.

  “I shucked all that corn this afternoon, Halia. I’m gettin’ my slice of corn pie come hell or high water.”

  “Oh for goodness’ sakes, Wavonne! Just be quick about it.”

  I’d never stand for another one of my employees talking to me that way, but Wavonne is family, and Momma and I promised her mother we’d take of her.

  Wavonne is fifteen years younger than me and came to live with Momma and me several years ago when she was only thirteen. Her mother, my aunt Jolisa, is Momma’s sister. Aunt Jolisa was one of those people who could never get her life together. As Momma tells it, “she came out of the womb looking for trouble.” She dropped out of high school in her sophomore year, and, shortly thereafter, got messed up with some loser who knocked her up and disappeared before Wavonne was even born. Somewhere along the way Aunt Jolisa developed a drinking problem. Neighbors heard her yelling at Wavonne in drunken stupors, and when Wavonne didn’t show up for school for more than a week with no phone calls, child services was alerted. For a while, Aunt Jolisa would manage to clean herself up enough to get the social workers off her back, but eventually she was declared an unfit parent, and Momma was asked to take in Wavonne. It was either that or a foster home. Momma was well into her fifties, had already raised me, and had buried my father about two years earlier. She was on her own and, quite frankly, I think she was enjoying herself. Of course, she loved me and Daddy, but I could be a handful at times, and Daddy was as needy as they come. The man couldn’t fry an egg for himself, fold a pair of socks, or even work the dishwasher. I think Momma felt free in a lot of ways after my father passed, and she had even planned to put the house up for sale and get herself a low-maintenance condo before Wavonne ended up on her doorstep.