“I hate you,” said Teeny.
“Me too,” I said.
“So do I,” said Miss May.
“Terrific. Glad to be hated. It looks like we have one table open—”
“Great. Let’s go,” said Teeny.
“Tomorrow morning. 7 AM.”
“You’re open that early?” asked Miss May.
Buck grinned. “City commuters stop in before the train if they want to have a gourmet breakfast.”
Teeny slammed her palms on our table. “We’ll be there.”
3
A Brunch to Die For
We arrived at Peter’s land and Sea at promptly 6:45 AM. The early October air was crisp and refreshing. Hazy, early morning sun burned through an overcast sky. And, much to Teeny’s disappointment, a line of well-dressed patrons had already formed out front.
A handsome young couple waited patiently, rocking a newborn in a stroller. A group of six friends, all somewhere in their twenties, took photos in front of the restaurant signage. An elderly man waited in a lawn chair, flipping through the pages of the most recent New Yorker magazine.
Teeny threw up her hands and brought them down with a resounding clap on her thighs. “Who are all these people? Not a single one of them is local, I’ll tell you that. These are strangers invading our peaceful little town.”
“You know how it works, Teeny,” said Miss May. “When a restaurant in Pine Grove gets the right kind of buzz the city people flock up in droves.”
“Well I only like it when they do that for my restaurant. Look at them in their pointy little shoes and their tiny little jeans. These people don’t eat. They’re too skinny to eat. They’re just here to take pictures and make me mad.”
Teeny charged up to the young couple as they continued to rock their baby in the stroller. “Excuse me. Who are you? Why are you here?”
The young mother blanched. “I’m sorry. Excuse me?”
Teeny adopted a firmer tone. “I said, who are you. Why are you in Pine Grove? Where are you from?”
The man stepped forward. “We’re visiting Pine Grove from Astoria, Queens. We try a great new restaurant every Sunday for brunch. Our reservation isn’t until eight, but we wanted to get here early.” The man couldn’t hide a giddy little smile. “We’re so excited to try that truffle hashbrown lasagna.”
Teeny gasped. “That’s my hashbrown lasagna. I created it. Did you know that? The chef in there steals recipes from other local restaurants and passes them off as his own.”
The man gave Teeny a quizzical look. “I’m pretty sure Peter’s Land and Sea invented HBL.”
The woman nodded. “Hashbrown lasagna was definitely invented here. I can’t wait to try it! I heard that it’s perfectly crunchy with not too much cheese. Too much cheese can ruin anything. You know?”
Teeny stopped her foot on the ground. “I know no such thing!”
Miss May put her hands on Teeny’s shoulders and pulled Teeny back a few inches. “I’m sorry. You seem like a happy couple. Please excuse my friend. We haven’t had our coffee yet. The truth is, the recipes here are stolen and it’s an atrocity. But you two enjoy your meal. Your baby is adorable.”
I looked down at the baby. She was chubby and red and had the cutest little brown eyes. I swear she winked at me when I waved hello. “She really is so cute,” I said.
The young couple beamed. “Thank you. Her name is Astrid. We just hope that one day she’ll appreciate that we took her for such fine culinary experiences as an infant.”
Miss May scratched her head. “Can Astrid already eat regular food?”
The man shook his head. “Not yet. But we’re getting a head start on developing her pallet at a young age through scent and texture, mostly. She can already smell a truffle from a mile away.”
“Like a pig,” I said.
The couple looked at me, aghast.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just, pigs find truffles, so… You know what? Nevermind.”
A woman in her thirties approached. She had her hair styled like a 1950’s pinup girl and she wore a poodle skirt to match. Like Buck, her arms were covered in tattoos, and she had a perfect row of tiny little teeth, each one the exact same size. “Hi everyone. My name is Hannah and I’m the hostess here at Peter’s Land and Sea. Welcome to the restaurant. Do you all have a reservation?”
We murmured the affirmative, as did the young couple and a few other groups around us.
“That’s so terrific,” Hannah said in a gentle tone. “And I couldn’t help but notice there was a bit of a disagreement occurring over here.” She gestured between Teeny and the young couple. “Is there a problem I can help with?”
“Sure. Tell Big Ugly Buck to stop stealing my recipes.”
Hannah grimaced. “You must be Teeny. My husband told me you and your friends had a reservation this morning. More like he warned me, actually. I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you but you just called my husband an ugly thief.”
Teeny shook her head. “You married that tattooed moose? I want to hate you but now I feel bad for you.”
Miss May snickered. “Teeny.”
Teeny held up her hands in apology. “Alright. I’m sorry. Is our table almost ready?”
“That’s actually why I came out here this morning. There’s a bit of a backup in the dining room. All reservations will be delayed half an hour. We thank you in advance for your understanding.”
A loud rumble emanated from my stomach in response to Hannah’s news and I did my best to refrain from throwing my eyes to the heavens and screaming “Why? Why??? Why must my breakfast be delayed!?”
That may seem dramatic. But I was hungry, OK? And I needed to visit the little girl’s room. “Can I use the bathroom while we wait?” I asked.
I took a step around Hannah, anticipating that she would be fine with me visiting the lavatory. But Hannah blocked my path. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’re at capacity and I can’t allow you to use the restroom. The fire marshal’s been breathing down our neck for a week now. I suppose that’s one of the downsides of enormous popularity.”
“…but you’re not open yet,” I said.
“Ah, we have a private party. Very early risers.”
“So you won’t let my niece use the bathroom?” said Miss May. “That has to be illegal.”
Hannah shrugged. “Feel free to head back into town to use the bathroom somewhere else. But I can’t guarantee that your space will be available when you return.”
“You know what, it’s fine,” I said. “Thanks for letting us know about the delay. Looking forward to trying the food.”
Teeny glared after Hannah as Hannah walked away, then turned to me. “We can head into town to find a bathroom if you need it, Chelsea. My grudge against that tattooed monster can be put aside if you’re about to pee your pants.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m going to go around the back, sneak through the kitchen and use the employee bathroom.”
Miss May grinned. “Spoken like a true sleuth. Don’t get caught, OK?”
I scoffed. “Do I ever?”
4
Taking out the Trash
Sneaking into bathrooms in restaurants where I am not a customer has always been a hobby of mine. It’s a skill that I developed during my time living in New York City. And I consider myself a master of the art.
Once, during my first year in Manhattan, I had to go to the bathroom while I was in the heart of Chinatown. There were no available public restrooms or coffee shops so I went to the nearest Chinese restaurant and told the hostess I was early for a meeting with a large group of friends.
The hostess sat me at a large, circular table in the middle of the upscale restaurant. She brought me water and a menu and began to take my order. I asked the waitress to give me a few minutes to think about what I wanted, all the while scheming to sneak to the bathroom at the first available moment. Then, when she turned her back, I scuttled to the bathroom with my head hung low. When
I emerged from the lavatory the hostess was standing there, waiting for me. No words were necessary. I knew that she knew and she didn’t look happy about it.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable eye contact, the hostess stepped aside and gestured toward the door. I exited, cheeks flushed with both shame and pride. Yes, I’d lied my way into using the bathroom at a nice restaurant. That made me feel bad. But I no longer had to pee, thank goodness, and that made me feel good.
I shook off the memory of the Chinese restaurant as I approached the back entrance to Peter’s Land and Sea. Glancing around to make sure no one was nearby, I hurried toward the kitchen entrance. But I stopped when I heard booming voices arguing inside.
I peeked into the kitchen. The voices belonged to Petey, Teeny’s former employee and the current owner of the restaurant, and Buck, Teeny’s mortal enemy.
Petey and Buck were walking right toward me. My eyes darted around the back area, looking for a hiding spot. I didn’t have many options so I jumped into a dumpster and closed the lid just as Petey and Buck emerged from the restaurant. Lucky for me it was first thing in the morning so there wasn’t much trash in the dumpster yet. I peeked out the crack in the lid and watched as Petey and Buck bickered.
“You work for me, Buck,” Petey said. “You need to cook what I tell you to cook.”
“Not a chance, kid. That there is my kitchen. And in my kitchen I don’t take orders from anyone.”
“I’m the owner of the restaurant.”
“You knew my reputation when you hired me. I get results because I do everything the way I want. I’m a rockstar chef and that’s all part of the package. I almost had a show on Food Network, you know.”
“You talk about that show all the time,” said Petey. “I don’t care.”
“It was going to be called Buckingham’s Palace: An Exploration of the Best Food the World Has to Offer.”
“But you lost the deal. Because you’re mean and selfish and you won’t take orders. Even from your boss, the owner of this restaurant. Me.”
Buck paced back and forth. “No.” He raised his voice. “I will not let some twerp little boy talk to me that way. You need me, kid. See that line of people? They’re not here for you. When you were doing all the cooking, no one came to your sad establishment but the crusty old locals. And they only showed up out of sympathy. You’re in over your head.”
“I never said I don’t need you,” said Petey. “But we have to be a team.”
“Disgusting. I hate when people say I have to be part of some kind of team. No. That’s not the way kitchens work, man. You’d know that if you paid your dues like I did. It’s a food chain in there. I’m at the top and everybody else is at the bottom.”
“But I am the owner of the restaurant.” Petey’s voice squeaked when he got excited. “I am at the top of the food chain. By definition.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, little boy. You want this restaurant to thrive, you’re going to do things my way. And that’s final.” Buck shoved the door to the kitchen open and stormed inside.
Petey started to say something as Buck charged away, but his words soon morphed into a warbled soup of unintelligible vowels. I popped open the lid of the dumpster to get a better view. Petey sat on the curb, hung his head and sobbed.
“It’s OK, Petey,” I said.
Petey looked up with a start. “Chelsea. You’re in the dumpster.” He stood and helped me out. “You’re lucky it’s empty.”
I smoothed my clothes and looked Petey square in the eye. “You’re right. That would’ve been horrific had the dumpster been full. I mean, it still wasn’t fun, but it could’ve been way worse.”
“You got that right. By the end of the day that thing smells like cigarettes and fish eyeballs.”
I put my hand on Petey’s shoulder. “Sorry I was eavesdropping. I didn’t mean to. But uh, that seemed rough.”
“He’s out of control,” said Petey.
“At least people are coming to the restaurant.”
Petey nodded. “Wait. You never told me why you were in the dumpster.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Your wonderful hostess wouldn’t let me inside to use the bathroom until our reservation was ready. So I snuck around back. But when I heard you and Buck--”
“Your detective instincts kicked in and you hid in the trash?”
“Yes. Detective instincts. That, and I’m generally afraid of conflict,” I said.
Petey gestured toward the restaurant with his head. “Come on. I’ll get you a table right away. No more waiting.”
I followed Petey to the front of the restaurant. But my feet grew heavier with each step I took. I had the familiar bad feeling that something bad was brewing in Pine Grove. And, sooner rather than later, I was proven right.
5
Hashing it Out
Petey led us through his well appointed, upscale dining room to a four top table near the front windows. An old woman grumbled with discontent, noticing that we’d clearly cut the line, but Petey didn’t seem to mind. In fact, there was a little smile on his face as he brushed past the woman. “Sorry, VIP,” he said. “Teeny gave me my first job in the restaurant business.”
“Save it, kid,” Teeny grunted. “We’re competitors now. And you’re stealing my hashbrown lasagna.”
“I think maybe we should blame the chef for that,” I said. “Remember, earlier? You said we should blame the chef.”
Teeny pouted. “Well I changed my mind. I blame everyone who works here.” Teeny pointed at a pretty, doe-eyed waitress. “You know what you’ve done.” She pointed at several other servers. “And you. And you. And you.”
Petey pulled out a seat for Teeny and tried to change the subject. “Anything you order this morning will go straight to the front of the line. Just say the word and I’ll have it out faster than a cook at Grandma’s.”
“So you think you’re faster than me too.” Teeny shook her head. “This generation doesn’t appreciate anything.”
Petey murmured an apology and hurried away, bumping into not one but three tables as he bustled toward the kitchen.
Petey’s menu was unlike anything I’d seen in Pine Grove before. There was the truffle oil hashbrown lasagna, of course. But there were also breakfast tacos made with Kobe beef. And there were several dishes that featured exotic mushrooms, and another titled simply, “breakfast caviar.”
Teeny slapped her menu down and took a big sip of her water. “This is absurd. Pine Grove needs a nice restaurant, sure. But this stuff is so snooty. And it doesn’t even sound good. Nobody actually wants to eat this stuff. They just want to tell their friends that they’ve eaten this stuff.”
Miss May chuckled. “Well said.”
“I’m ordering hashbrown lasagna,” said Teeny. “I need to see it with my own eyes.”
A few moments passed, then a waiter showed up and the three of us ordered our food. Once the waiter had disappeared to punch in the order, I made sure the coast was clear, then I told Miss May and Teeny all about the argument I’d heard between Petey and Buck. Miss May and Teeny were the best audience anyone could hope for when telling a story. They nodded at all the right moments, they laughed when I said I was in the dumpster and they gasped whenever appropriate. OK, Teeny even gasped a few times when it made no sense.
When I was finally finished talking Miss May leaned back and shook her head. “I was wondering why you suddenly showed up with Petey and said our table was ready.”
I nodded. “I suppose he felt weird after I saw him cry. He figured it was the least he could do.”
“I can’t believe the poor little tadpole was out there blubbering,” said Teeny. “That settles it. I’m back on Petey’s side. Buck is the bad guy here.”
“Couldn’t be more clear to me,” I said.
Teeny rolled her eyes as a waitress approached with our food. Miss May had ordered the Kobe beef tacos. I’d gone with the unpronounceable mushroom omelette. And Teeny had ordered the hashbrown lasagn
a, as promised. Each dish was placed on the table with grace and its ingredients were announced one-by-one, which sent Teeny’s eyes rolling so far back in her head I worried she’d never recover them.
“Enough already,” said Teeny. “We’re not British royalty. Just toss the food down and let us start eating.”
“My apologies,” said the waitress.
Teeny grabbed her fork and grimaced like she was about to eat live earthworms. “Alright. Let’s dig into these abominations.”
The hashbrown lasagna crunched under the weight of Teeny’s fork. She gathered up a big bite and put it in her mouth. For a split-second it seemed as though Teeny might be enjoying the food. Then she discreetly spat the hashbrown lasagna back onto her fork and took another big sip of water.
“Not good?” asked Miss May.
“It’s disgusting,” said Teeny. “The truffle oil is overpowering. I can’t eat that.”
I wondered if Teeny really hated the food or if she was just being spiteful. So Miss May and I dug in too, trying Teeny’s food and then our own. Teeny was right — the fancy ingredients were all overbearing and none of the food tasted like anything but its most expensive component. Between the three of us I’d be surprised if we swallowed one whole bite.
“Why are people lining up for this junk?” asked Teeny.
Miss May shrugged. “Sometimes if a place gets good reviews, people stop being able to tell for themselves whether or not it’s good. Social bias. They hear from so many people that the food is delicious, they’re afraid to disagree.”
“I think all of Hollywood operates like that,” I said. “Everyone is afraid to have their own taste.”
Miss May pushed her plate away from her. “That explains why so many movies are bad.”
The Smoking Bun (Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Book 10) Page 2