by Peter King
I tasted. “Excellent,” I said. “Can’t tell the difference … So the general had his last meal here before the battle?”
Jenny pursed her lips, her eyes twinkled and she lifted her chin to continue. I wondered why.
“He had that last meal here with Governor William Clayborne; Commodore Daniel Patterson, veteran of the wars against the Barbary pirates; Colonel George Ross, commander of the infantry; and, of course, Jean Laffite.”
“Ah, the French pirate. Quite a hero here, isn’t he?”
“Actually, he made his reputation as a slave trader and a smuggler. But it sounds better the other way—the man whose pirate fleet saved the day for Jackson.”
I took a longer taste of the gin fizz. “You have a strange look on your face, Jenny. Come to think of it, your tone of voice has changed. Is there something you want to tell me?”
She chuckled. “You’ve sussed me out. I’ve given you the tourist version but the truth is more likely that there probably was no such meal. Oh, the general may have eaten—or drunk—here on other occasions but maybe not the night before the battle. If he was here then, the assembly probably wasn’t as distinguished as the story tells it. For one thing, Jackson distrusted Laffite and called his men ‘hellish bandits.’”
“Was the name here always associated with the general?”
“No. It was called the Governor’s Tavern at one time because he often came here, but then he had them change it when he ran for reelection. His opponent was making speeches stressing the excessive amount of time he said the governor was spending here.”
“Reassuring to know that politicians haven’t changed, I suppose.”
“There’s another intriguing possibility,” Jenny said.
“You love this local history, don’t you?”
“It’s fascinating. Tales are told of the efforts by French factions here to storm St. Helena Island and release Napoleon from captivity then bring him here. The idea being to rally enough French to be sure of winning the Battle of New Orleans which everyone knew was coming.”
“No doubt he had enough followers to make a difference,” I said. “How much of that is fact and how much fiction?”
“The efforts to release him were probably discussed but it didn’t go beyond that.”
“Anyway, Andrew Jackson won the day without Napoleon’s help.”
“He did.”
“And how much has the menu changed from those earlier days?” I asked.
“Considerably, in its nutritional value, but I’ve tried to preserve the original appearance of the dishes and certainly to improve the taste. We know so much more about seasoning and flavoring than we did then.”
The waiter had left a menu on the table and Jenny handed it to me. “See what you think.”
“Corn chowder,” I commented, looking at the first page. “That was a New England preparation originally, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right, Massachusetts. When it was brought to the South, tomatoes were added. Potatoes and onions are the other main ingredients beside the corn.”
“Here’s another interesting one. New Orleans pepper pot—is that similar to Philadelphia pepper pot? That’s a very old recipe.”
“It is. You know the story …?”
“Tell me.”
“When morale was low in Jackson’s army, the general wanted to lift it by serving a hearty meal. All that was available, however, was tripe, peppercorns and a few scraps. The cook improvised and New Orleans pepper pot has been a popular dish ever since.”
“That cook’s name should be immortalized.”
“It should,” she agreed, “but I don’t believe anyone knows it. Today we use knuckle of veal with all the meat left on, tripe, onions, potatoes and carrots. We season with parsley, bay leaf, thyme, cloves, marjoram and parsley. We drop dumplings into it just before serving.”
“Sounds very authentic.” I did a double take as I turned over the menu page. “A whole page of breads? That’s unusual.”
“One of our historical touches. Breads were very important in those days.” Jenny was warming to her theme, obviously fascinated with the challenge of reviving the cooking of the past.
“Pain perdu. Now there’s a bread you rarely see.”
“Do you know it? It’s like French toast and a good use for bread which is going stale—they had a lot of that in the past when they didn’t know much about food preserving.”
“Then you’ve got pecan bread, walnut bread, buckwheat cakes … but enough. I have to make a decision. Tell me, Jenny, which do you consider your specialties?”
“The Poached Stuffed Chicken in Lemon Sauce is extremely popular. The Louisiana Bluefish—now, if you want a dish that’s local and historical, there’s one.”
“Don’t see bluefish very often,” I said. “It’s a real Gulf special, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is. We bake it with chopped onion and tomato juice over it. We pour Creole sauce over it, sprinkle breadcrumbs and melted butter, then broil to finish.”
“Brunswick stew, I see here. That’s a famous old dish for sure.”
“Yes. Virginia and North Carolina fight over who cooked it first.”
“Originally cooked with squirrel, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and this region had a lot of them. Then squirrels disappeared from the recipe, as people ate so many of them.”
“There are plenty to go around today but I don’t suppose modern taste would go for them,” I said.
“We use chicken now.”
“What else do you put in it?”
“Lima beans, corn, tomatoes, celery, ham and potatoes. We season with bay leaf, basil, parsley and red and black pepper.”
I pondered. “A tough choice. I’m torn between the Veal in Wine Sauce and the Pheasant in Casserole.”
We discussed and I settled for the corn chowder and the veal. The chowder was thick and creamy and Jenny told me that some restaurants serve it with pieces of chicken. The veal came as thick cutlets that were sautéed, then mushrooms, garlic, salt, red and white pepper and tarragon were added along with Worcestershire sauce. In a separate pan, butter was melted, flour added, then white wine. It was simmered until thickened, poured over the cutlets and served on rice.
Jenny had to leave to take care of other customers while I ate. When she returned, she said, “Now you must taste our dessert specialty. It’s flummery.”
“An old Welsh word meaning ‘nonsense, humbug.’”
She laughed. “So I believe. I don’t know how it came to be used for this dessert, perhaps because it’s light, frothy, not too substantial. But it’s delicious, I assure you.”
She was right, it was, with a similarity to English trifle—sponge cake immersed in white wine, raisins and chopped almonds sprinkled over it, a layer of fruit jelly, then a smooth and rich custard poured over it. Spoonfuls of red currant jam, slices of orange dipped in sherry and dried, were added before serving.
“Far from flummery,” I assured her. “Very real.”
“How many of the other girls’ restaurants do you have to visit?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, you’re the last of the five.”
“Which did you enjoy the most?” she asked, leaning forward in a mock-threatening attitude.
“I plead the Fifth Amendment. They have all been so good, I would have to use the ‘eeny-meeny-miny-mo’ method.”
“Very diplomatic,” she smiled. “And now, I have to ask you—the other Witches are very insistent I do this—”
“You want a report.”
“Right. In fact, we’re having a meeting tomorrow, so a statement on the present situation will be requested and I have to give it.”
“Fair enough. Here goes …”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“THE TWO DEAD MEN, Richie Mortensen and Earl Whelan, were probably working together in the plot to steal the book.”
“That’s what Leah said,” Jenny nodded enthusiastically.
So the
members of the Witches were keeping in close touch with each other on progress in the case. I should have expected it, I suppose. They were all clever, ambitious women and each could offer a contribution that must make their organization very effective.
“One thing I don’t understand is how they knew the value of the book,” Jenny said.
“Richie worked for Gambrinus in his bookshop,” I reminded her, “so he must have learned quite a bit about books. And didn’t Earl work with Leah in her restaurant?”
“Before she threw him out,” Jenny agreed. “The no-good—”
“That’s what she told me,” I said.
Jenny eyed me thoughtfully. “Leah also told you that she thinks one of us Witches wants the book.”
They really were keeping in close communication. “She didn’t have any suspicion which of you, though.” It was my turn to study her reaction to that. Her full face gave an impression of honesty and her large eyes held mine.
“Several of us are beginning to agree with Leah. Emmy Lou, Marguerite, Harriet—they’ve all said or hinted very strongly that they think so. I can’t believe that any of us would condone murder to get the book, though.”
“You’re suggesting that one of you may have hired, or conspired with, Earl and/or Richie—but perhaps just to get the book, not commit murder.”
Jenny nodded and her blonde hair moved gracefully. “That sums it up pretty well. After all, we’ve known each other quite a while and I can’t accept the idea of one of us committing—or condoning—murder. Especially for a book; not even if it were the greatest cookbook in the world.”
“But you realize that Richie Mortensen and Earl Whelan were not squeamish. They might commit murder if it was the only way to get what they wanted.”
“I suppose,” Jenny said with a sigh.
“You must all have some ideas on what’s in the book, don’t you?” I asked.
“We’ve talked about that, as you can imagine. We’re all fascinated with the idea of a recipe that’s so valuable but none of us can fully accept the notion. The book itself may be worth a lot to a collector but surely not enough to kill for.”
“That’s a thought I hadn’t considered. It implies that collectors who are really fanatical about their own obsession—stamps, coins, autographs, whatever—might see some value in the book that might not be there for anyone else.”
“Something like that, yes. But it applies more to somebody who collects—well, as you say, coins. They come in sets, don’t they? Like stamps? A collector might have all but one to complete a set. That can’t apply here, though—at least, I can’t see it.”
“I can’t either,” I admitted. “Unless there’s some connection that we’re missing. Books like this don’t come in sets like stamps or coins. They stand alone.”
We both did some conjecturing but it didn’t produce any brainstorms. We talked about the restaurant business and about New Orleans and I thanked her for an exceptional meal. The place was filling up by now. “I’ll let you get back to your duties,” I told her.
“Going on the town tonight?” she asked with a knowing smile.
“I might widen my experience of the Big Easy,” I said noncommittally, and she smiled as she took me to the door.
I strolled along the streets of the French Quarter, absorbing the sights and sounds and aromas. I paused to admire the wrought-iron balconies on Royal Street. The city has lots of them but none more impressive than here.
Sounds of considerable merriment were coming from one place I was passing, PADDY O’BANNION’S, the sign said, and I recalled reading about it in one of the brochures at the Monteleone. The bar here was the stuff of legends, it was said. It was the home of the “Typhoon,” a fabled concoction of equal parts of thick dark rum, gin and crème de menthe. I went in.
The first bar was very busy and I could see another bar beyond that was just as busy. An inner courtyard was crowded. It was one of those old-time bars you seldom see anymore, though New York has just a few left. A mahogany bar with a brass rail, bottles on shelves behind the bar, and a mirror that showed its age set the style. The floor looked as if the sawdust had just been swept off and a small platform on one side probably would have been occupied by a harpist and a fiddler at some time. Green shamrocks, old photos of Bantry Bay, portraits of Michael Collins, James Joyce and Eamon de Valera and a color picture of the Irish soccer team decorated the walls which were otherwise that dark-yellow color that comes from decades of tobacco smoke.
I edged my way to the bar. “A pint of Guinness,” I said to the bartender, a crop-headed fellow wearing a black waistcoat with metal buttons over a shirt that would be white again if more bleach was used next time. Very authentic, I thought.
“A pint of Guinness is it you’re after?” he said, reaching for a glass.
“That’s right. In a mug, if you don’t mind.”
His practiced hand found a mug and a beer handle. “You don’t sound Irish,” he said. The black Guinness surged up in the glass, a thick white foam struggling to the top.
“County Cork,” I said.
A man at the bar next to me wore an old black suit and had a careworn face. He turned to me. “Is that right?”
“My father, God rest his soul, sent me to England to school. That’s why I talk this way.” It wasn’t the strict truth but I had found it to be a convenient story to use on previous visits to Irish pubs.
“Ye sound more Galway than Cork,” said the man next to me.
“So I’ve been told,” I said, watching the slow progress of the Guinness up the mug. “Never lost my love for the nectar of Finn McCool, though,” I added for a touch of color.
A whiskered old man in a heavy jacket was on the other side of me at the bar. “Finn McCool,” he said, rolling the name around in his mouth before letting it out. “Now there’s a name to conjure with. Hurry up filling that mug, Sean, this man looks like he’s in sore need of it.”
The bartender, Sean, finally filled the mug and scrapped off the excess foam. He set the mug in front of me. “Five dollars,” he said, “and we’re taking up a collection for the IRA in a few minutes.”
“Are ye now?” I put a five on the bar and put a one alongside it.
“Been in the Ould Country lately?” asked the man in the worn black suit.
“I was in Dublin and Shannon a few months ago,” I said truthfully. “And a great week it was, too. The salmon were biting and the beer was great.”
“If ye were in Dublin, ye must have had a drink in the Three Crowns,” said the bartender.
“Maybe I did. I don’t remember.” It might be a trick question. I sipped the Guinness and nodded appreciatively.
“First time here?” asked the whiskered man.
“In New Orleans, yes. Tell me, is there really a Paddy O’Bannion?”
“Used to be. Opened his first bar in 1930 and became one of the best bar-owners in these parts.”
“Ye could have taken speech lessons,” said Sean. Busy as he was, he had had time to work that out. It took the three of us a few seconds to catch up.
“I suppose I could,” I said. I drank some more Guinness. “A fine pint that is,” I congratulated him.
“It’s no bad thing to sound like I’m from Galway, though,” I couldn’t resist saying. “People in Cork don’t mind me.”
“I’m from Tipperary meself,” said the whiskered man.
“I’m a Kildare man,” the black-suited man wistfully declared.
“Bah! Ye might as well be from Dublin,” said the whiskered man scornfully.
“It’s fifty miles,” the other said defensively.
“Ye’re a Dubliner! Can’t get away from it!”
The black-suited man pondered over that but couldn’t think of a suitable response so instead he ordered another Jameson’s.
The crowd was mainly men but there were a few women. A jukebox started up with an electronic clatter that led into what was either a rebel marching song or a number from one of the Ir
ish pop groups that have achieved international renown.
“Ye’ll want to follow that with some Irish Punch,” said the whiskered man, nodding to my Guinness.
“Or he can mix ’em,” added the black-suit.
My puzzlement must have been obvious.
“’Tis a specialty of the house,” explained Whiskers.
“Puts hair on yer chest.”
“And fire in yer eyes.”
“Sharpens the mind and improves the memory.”
“Makes ye irresistible to women, a terror to yer enemies.”
The bartender joined in this panoply of praise. “In some parts of Ireland, they call it a ‘Donegal Depth Charge.’ But it’s smooth as Mother’s milk and warm as a colleen’s kiss. Are ye sure ye’ve never run into it?” He made it sound like proof that I had never been near the Emerald Isle.
“Not that I recall. But there was a night in the Rose of Tralee in Limerick when I drank a number of concoctions, all the names of which have slipped my mind.”
“Ye couldn’t have had Irish Punch,” said the bartender darkly.
“Why not? Oh, of course, that’s the one that aids the memory. Still, ’twas quite a night.”
My reminiscence seemed to satisfy suspicion, though that was only in the mind of the bartender, Sean. The other two were affable enough, and as Sean had to move down the bar to quell desperate thirsts, we had a good discussion going on Ireland’s chances in the qualifying rounds of the World Cup, now being played. It was good-natured though controversial and I even had the temerity to say, “Ireland hasn’t had a good national team since you let Jackie Charlton, an Englishman, resign as manager.” That prompted some lively rebuttals and I was enjoying the repartee when I happened to glance into the mirror behind the bar.
It was not as clean as if it had been wiped with one of the miracle solvents that television offers, and its ability to reflect images was also impaired by its age—whether that was real or manufactured. But it was clear enough where I was looking—and that was at a man in a dark suit involved in a conversation. He was standing by a table with half a dozen seated drinkers. He had dark hair and a small dark mustache.