“Now there’s a healthful diet.”
“The theory is that Henry the Eighth died of scurvy.”
“Wha’d I tell you?”
I went hunting for the bottles of burgundy I’d brought in one of my boxes. Judicious amounts of red wine would be poured over the meat mixture, before it was covered with pie dough. With any luck, we’d have juicy, tender, flavorful pieces of steak topped with a golden flaky crust.
Shakespeare’s Steak Pie
This is an expensive recipe. Because tenderloin cooks so quickly and is easily overcooked, it is imperative that you purchase a low-cost meat thermometer with a digital read-out so that the beef is cooked to an ideal medium-rare temperature.
2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter 1 medium or large onion, chopped 1 medium carrot, chopped 2 cloves garlic, pressed and minced 2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley 6 tablespoons all-purpose flour ˝ teaspoon crumbled dried thyme ˝ teaspoon crumbled dried oregano ˝ teaspoon crumbled dried sage 1 ˝ teaspoons salt ź teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 2 1/2 pounds beef tenderloin, trimmed, cut into 1 1/2-inch cubes (You should have 2 pounds of trimmed, cubed beef) 1/4 cup high-quality dry red wine Upper Crust Pastry (recipe follows)
In a wide sauté pan, melt the butter over medium-low heat. Gently sauté the onion, carrot, garlic, and parsley for a moment, stirring until the vegetables are well mixed. Cover the pan and cook over medium to low heat, stirring occasionally, until the onion is limp and translucent and the carrot has lost some of its crunch, about 10 minutes. Uncover the pan and set aside to cool. Place the flour, thyme, oregano, sage, salt, and pepper into a large, heavy-duty zip-type plastic bag and mix well. Add the beef to the bag, zip the top closed, and shake until all the cubes are evenly covered with the dry mixture. Butter a 9 x l2-inch oval au gratin pan. Place the floured cubes into the pan along with the sautéed vegetables, mixing very lightly with your hands, just until the vegetables and meat are evenly distributed. Place the filled pan in the refrigerator while you prepare the crust. (Or you can cover the filled pan with plastic wrap, place it in the refrigerator, and chill until you are ready to prepare the crust and cook the pie. It is best not to prepare the crust in advance.) Preheat the oven to 350°F. Remove the pan of meat and vegetables from the refrigerator and pour the wine into the pan. Gently fit the crust over the pan, fluting the edges and slashing the center in 3 places to vent and decorating the top as I directed in the pastry recipe. Carefully insert the thermometer through a slash in the crust, making sure it spears a piece of beef. Bake until the meat thermometer reads 125 F for medium rare, about 25 minutes. Serve immediately.
Makes 4 large servings
Upper-Crust Pastry:
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour ˝ teaspoon salt 6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) chilled unsalted butter, cut into 6 pieces 1 egg beaten, 1 tablespoon reserved and set aside 1 tablespoon milk
In the bowl of a large food processor, combine the flour and salt and process for 5 seconds. With the motor running, drop in the butter, one piece at a time. Combine the egg and milk and pour into the food processor. Process for a few moments, just until the dough pulls into a ball. Gently flatten the dough and place it into a rectangular jumbo-size zip-type plastic bag. Using a rolling pin, roll the pastry to the edges of the bag, or until it will fit over your pan. Open the bag at the zipper, and using scissors, carefully cut down the sides of the bag. Remove one whole side of the bag and place the pastry side down on the pan. Gently peel off the top of the bag. Flute the edges of the pastry and make the slashes in the top as directed in the recipe. Using a pastry brush, paint the reserved tablespoon of beaten egg on top of the pastry.
Yikes! I was making myself hungry. Tom must have received my telepathic message, for he chose that moment to amble into the kitchen.
“Enter the one-armed breakfast chef,” he announced jovially. He wore dark chef pants - a gift from Julian - and a buttoned white Broncos shin. “Please don’t try to talk me out of anything. Just give me an apron. I’m not leaving. If either one of you protests, you’ll only raise my stress level and make me ill.”
Julian and I laughed while Tom rooted around in Alicia’s delivered boxes of foodstuffs for chili ingredients. With a pang of guilt, I realized I’d mishandled the confrontation over Sara Beth. Besides, what had I promised myself in the hospital? That I didn’t care if there was another woman; I would love Tom always. Now I just had to behave as if I didn’t care about her.
I sighed and got back to work. Within thirty minutes, Julian and I had completed our preparation. Tom, meanwhile, worked assiduously on his breakfast concoction. The Hydes, wearing matching royal blue robes, floated into the kitchen and offered to prepare juices and hot drinks. Michaela, dressed for coach work, showed up a few minutes later, surveyed the goings-on, and announced she’d toast English muffins for all. I gladly acquiesced. I was ravenous.
Arch appeared just after seven, wearing an oversize olive shirt and large khaki pants. Did anyone at that school actually wear anything in the correct size? Sheepishly, he asked if I’d be willing to wash his fencing outfit today, so he could have it fresh for the banquet. To my surprise, Sukie volunteered to do it; she had state-of-the-art washing and drying machines, she explained, that no one else could understand.
Arch thanked her and peered into the wide frying pan on the stove. Tom was stirring his aromatic, bubbling Boulder Chili: sautéed ground chuck, onions, garlic, chili beans, and the most hearty collection of spices north of the Rio Grande. Arch frowned.
“I’m pretty sure the Elizabethans didn’t have chili first thing in the morning.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Tom. “Too bad. Huevos Palacios are coming up.” His voice was still buoyant, but I could see lines of wear in his face and eyes. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him do any cooking.
Summoning everyone to sit, Tom and I served up sauté pans hot from the oven. Each one brimmed with creamy frittata-style eggs topped with a sunburst of chili, grated Cheddar, and sour cream. Tom had even made one without chili for Julian. When I took a bite of the spicy concoction, I nearly swooned.
Huevos Palacios
1 cup Boulder Chili (recipe follows) 4 large eggs ź cup whipping cream ˝ teaspoon salt ź teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter ˝ cup sour cream 1 cup grated Cheddar cheese 1 medium tomato, peeled, seed pockets removed, and chopped 2 scallions, chopped
Make the chili and allow it to cool. Lightly beat the eggs with the cream, salt, and pepper. Melt the butter over medium-low heat in a medium-sized, ovenproof nonstick frying pan. When the pan is hot, pour in the egg mixture. Cook over low heat until the edges begin to congeal. With a heatproof rubber spatula, gently push the edges of cooked egg into the center of the pan, using a minimum number of strokes. Tilt the pan so that the uncooked portion of egg flows out into the bottom of the pan, making an almost-even overall layer of egg. Preheat the broiler. Mix the sour cream with the grated Cheddar and set aside. When the eggs are about halfway done (i.e., when they are about half liquid and half solid), spoon on the chili in 3 spoke-like lines that bisect the eggs to make 6 equal sections. (The eggs will look like a pie.) Scatter the chopped tomato and scallions between the lines of chili. Carefully spoon the sour cream-cheese mixture on top of the chili spokes. Do not worry if some spreads off the chili. Place the pan 6 inches from the hot broiler and broil, watching carefully, between 5 and 7 minutes, or until the eggs are done and the cheese has melted and puffed slightly. Serve immediately.
Makes 4 large servings
Boulder Chili:
1 ˝ pounds lean ground beef 1 large onion, chopped 2 large or 3 small cloves garlic, pressed 5 tablespoons tomato paste 1 tablespoon prepared powdered chile mix (recommended brand: Fernandez) 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard 1 ˝ teaspoons salt 1 cup plum tomatoes, chopped (about a 14 1/2-ounce can) 1 tablespoon Italian herb seasoning 1 15-oz. can chili beans in chili gravy, undrained 2 to 4 tablespoons water 2 tablespoons red burgundy wine
Sauté the beef, oni
on, and garlic over medium heat until the beef is just browned and the onion and garlic are tender. Turn the heat down to low and add the tomato paste, chile mix, mustard, salt, tomatoes, herb seasoning, and beans. Pour 2 tablespoons water and the wine into the chili bean can and scrape down the sides, then pour into the beef mixture. If the mixture is too thick, add the extra water. Heat over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until bubbly.
“Good show,” mumbled Eliot Hyde, as he chewed. Julian, Sukie, Michaela, and Arch, too, murmured compliments as we wolfed the food down. When we finished, Sukie insisted she was cleaning the kitchen.
I pulled Tom outside the kitchen door. “Boyd phoned last night,” I murmured. “The guy who stole our computers was shot to death. Boyd wants you to be careful. He doesn’t want you going out without a police escort. And you’re supposed to give him a ring today.” Tom nodded once, instantly somber, and said he was going upstairs to make calls.
“You’re coming with me, Arch?” Michaela asked when I reentered the kitchen. I nodded that it was fine. Michaela added that the police had not allowed her to start setting up early for the luncheon, after all. So we would have to attend to the space heaters and serving tables, in addition to everything else. I told her that was no problem. Tom wouldn’t have reached the upstairs phone yet, I knew, so I quickly called the sheriffs department from the kitchen, to check on the status of the crime scene by the chapel. A deputy informed me that the crime lab van had finished Tuesday, but they’d kept a guard these past three days and nights because investigators hadn’t quite finished. He put me on hold, then came back and assured me the guard and police ribbons would be gone by eight.
Last, I put in a quick call to Party Rental to make sure the long-promised dining tables were indeed being delivered that morning. I was told they’d arrive no earlier than eight, no later than eight-fifteen. Sweetly, I asked: If the tables weren’t there by eight-thirty, would they give me a refund, so I could call another company? The guy hung up on me.
It was going to be one of those days.
-22-
As Julian and I packed up our equipment, the president of Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church Women phoned. She said the church-owned plates, glasses, and silverware would be delivered to Hyde Chapel at nine-thirty, and would somebody besides the police be there to receive them? I assured her of our catering team’s presence.
I sighed. The tables, the dinnerware, our equipment, the set-up, the food, the cops. Maybe the first thing I should do at Hyde Chapel was pray. Dear God, my mind supplied, can You please get me through this lunch? Thanks.
Outside, the ground boasted five inches of new snow, which formed a thick, sugary crust on the rocks surrounding the moat. Chickadees fluttered up and down ladders of pine branches and spilled showers of flakes. Everything was silent; the glittering blanket of snow seemed to muffle all sound. Instead of enjoying the winter splendor, though, I worried what the new white stuff would do to our lunch attendance. Eliot, now dressed in Gatsby-esque tweeds, vest, and white satin scarf, insisted on driving ahead of us in his Jaguar. When we arrived ten minutes later in Hyde Chapel’s parking lot, two sheriff’s department cars were sending plumes of exhaust into the icy air. One of the deputies talked to Eliot for a few minutes, after which Eliot, his countenance subdued, trudged over and said he’d open up the chapel.
I’d been in Hyde Chapel for christenings and weddings. But I had not seen it since the money from Henry VIII’s letter had allowed for a complete refurbishment. The stone walls had been cleaned to a sparkling silver. The multicolored slate floor tiles set off the flat marble stones of the labyrinth’s winding path, which gave the floor an eerie, pure-white patterned centerpiece. Most spectacular were the stained-glass windows. When the just-risen sun shone through them, the effect was like being inside a lighted jewelry box. The ambience was serene, until honking erupted from the parking lot.
“Hey, boss?” asked Julian as he stuck his head outside the carved wooden doors. “The tables are here!” he called. “Where do you want ‘em?”
“I’ll show them, thanks.”
While Eliot and I directed Party Rental, Julian placed champagne bottles in tubs he filled with ice, then ferried in wrapped trays of hors d’oeuvres. Things were going well until he brought out the electrified hot platters: Their cords refused to stretch to the outlets in the stone wall. Looking on, Eliot had become agitated at the prospect of the table people scratching his precious slate floors. Promising to oversee the last table setup, he pointed toward the left side of the chapel and told me there were more extension cords in the storage area.
I skirted the labyrinth and hustled to an unmarked door, which opened into an enormous storeroom that smelled of Sukie’s favorite antiseptic cleaner. Flipping on the light revealed yet more evidence of la Suisse at work: Paint, glass cleaner, wood polish, tools, brushes, a ladder, and every other imaginable odd and end was laid out on shelves - alphabetically. The fancy folding wooden chairs Eliot had bought were stacked along one wall. I found Extension Cords after Choir Cushions and before Fans, then zipped back to the newly opened tables.
After seeing Party Rental off, Eliot had set up the space heaters and serving tables. Now he was busy with his slide machine and screen. He helped me unwind the cords to the outlets, at which point Julian and I plugged everything in. Mercifully, no fuses blew. We then taped down all the cords, a trick to keep even the most inebriated guest from tripping and doing a face-plant on the floor. We were so busy we didn’t hear two women banging on the wooden doors to be let in. They were emissaries from the Episcopal Church Women, there to set the tables. When they finished and I let them out, I was the one .Who reclosed the door. I was sure of this, just as I was sure Eliot had told me we had the only key to the chapel, retrieved from the lockbox outside. So… when Buddy and Chardé Lauderdale slithered unannounced and unadmitted into the chapel at ten after nine, I was more than a bit surprised.
“What are you two doing here?” I demanded.
Startled, Chardé dropped her lemon-colored Chanel purse, which matched a lemon-colored wool pantsuit and lemon beret set at a jaunty slant on her dark hair. When life hands you a lemon… you get Chardé. Buddy, ever the casual type, had his hands thrust into wool khaki pants beneath a black turtleneck shirt, an outfit meant to make him look attractive and powerful, and which succeeded in neither. “How did you get in?” I snapped.
“Eliot?” Chardé called sweetly, ignoring me.
Buddy, meanwhile, glanced nervously around the chapel, obviously ill at ease. I knew he and Chardé had donated five thou to the labyrinth, but that he only came to church at Christmas. He was breathing deeply, and his face was pinched with the guilty expression of a holiday-only churchman. If he hyperventilated, I wondered, would I feel compelled to ca11 911?
“Chardé, darling!” crowed Eliot, striding forward. “Come to check that we’re using your beautiful cushions on our chairs? Of course we are!”
They smooched like old pals and began to murmur. With an air of concentration, Buddy made a shuffling circuit of the chapel. If I stay near the edge, I’m not really here. Meanwhile, I arranged the cups and helped Julian bring the first stack of wooden chairs out of the storage room. We were about to go back for more when the door to the chapel opened again. In walked John Richard Korman, with Viv Martini in tow.
What was this - Open House? I cursed myself for being so surprised by the Lauderdales that I’d neglected to check the chapel doors.
John Richard and Viv, dressed head to toe in black, looked like a couple of undertakers. Then again, maybe they were aiming for that chic eighties rock-star look. Eliot, who was still engaged in intimate conversation with Chardé, glanced up abruptly. His face registered shock, then a deep blush. Now thats a new look for the king, I mused, intrigued.
“Well, Eliot,” said Viv in a mock-accusing tone. “Imagine seeing you here. And with a cute decorator, no less.”
“It is, uh, my family’s chapel,” Eliot began, but Viv
only tilted up her pointed little chin and blew him a kiss. His face went from a patchy scarlet to an even crimson. I actually felt sorry for him.
“And Buddy,” Viv went on, still the charmer. “Hey, Viv,” Buddy replied, his voice low and sexy.
Had Viv slept with every rich older guy in the county? Would John Richard mind being classified as a rich older guy? Ha.
Before I could ask my ex-husband if he remembered the restraining order, he strode across the space between us and wagged a finger in my face.
“I don’t want to hear any crap from you, understand? Arch said you were going to be against it, so I’m warning you now.” His blue eyes blazed in his handsome face. “Viv and I are coming to the fencing banquet. Whether you like it or not. Got it? So don’t give me any of this restraining-order crap. It’s for Arch, and you should recognize he wants me there.”
“Cocky when the cops aren’t around, eh?” I shot back. “Hey, Viv! You don’t know what you’re in for!”
Viv shook her pale hair, which stuck out at every possible angle. “I love what I’m in for!” she proclaimed, as she sashayed closer to the Jerk. Standing behind him, she opened her black leather jacket - Is size carrying, I wondered? How do you slide a gun into pants that tight? She cocked one elbow and used the other hand to pat John Richard’s behind. Her clear voice crooned, “We’re not going to cause any trouble, are we, honey? If my guy here gets out of line, I’ll use force.”
When John Richard blushed, I burst out laughing. “Promise?” I asked.
“Promise,” she replied in a deep, throaty voice that sent shivers down my spine. Well, she was John Richard’s choice. Or vice versa, if she was just using him as a rich-old-fart conquest. Wouldn’t I love to see that? Maybe not, if this blond bombshell ended up taking money designated for Arch. Viv snaked an arm around John Richard’s waist and tilted her head to murmur in his ear. Ever done it in a chapel? Or something like that, because John Richard let out a surprised grunt. I longed to ask my ex-husband if Viv was the type of gal recommended in your average male-menopause support group, but for once I kept mum. I had work to do.
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