A crowd had gathered outside The Bull and Whistle and the sultry afternoon heat baked the sidewalk; powerful odors of alcohol and sweat floated up from the cement like hot steam from a dirty griddle. The noise deafened me as I waded into the onlookers who shouted encouragement to the fighters. I wormed my way through the costumed bodies, hoping desperately that Danielle was not in the fight ring.
“Cat fight! Cat fight! Cat fight!” chanted one tipsy reveler.
“Carpetbagger, go back to where you came from!” shouted another.
Two women wearing sparkly rhinestone headdresses and toga costumes circled around each other. The older, heavier woman lunged in to take hold of Danielle’s beautiful hair and began jerking her in figure eights. Her body flopped like a freshly caught tarpon.
“Somebody help,” I yelled, trying to figure out whether—and how—I could dart in and distract the bigger woman so Danielle could get away.
“Ladies, stop right this minute,” called Lieutenant Torrence in a stern voice.
Danielle’s glittering tiara flew off her head and sailed into the crowd. The people standing in the vicinity of where it landed scrambled for it as though it was a home-run baseball. Danielle looked terrified, but also stubborn and angry. A stocky woman police officer waded into the fight, brandishing a warning nightstick.
“Knock it off ladies,” she yelled. “I don’t want to have to use this thing.” Neither the presence of the cops nor the nightstick dampened the fury of Danielle’s opponent.
Torrence pulled a whistle out of his pocket and blew an eardrum-shattering shriek. The woman holding Danielle startled, and loosened her grip just enough that the cops could pull the two of them apart. Lights flashed from the smartphones in the crowd, and one of the Key West Citizen’s photographers muscled in to snap photos. Danielle’s beautiful hair hung in clumps around her face, her royal purple sash choked her neck, and the right shoulder of her dress was shredded, leaving glimpses of too much bare skin. This was not the kind of publicity that Danielle craved for her campaign and her reign.
“What the hell is going on here?” asked the policewoman.
“This witch is an attention-grabbing cheat,” shrieked the heavy woman, lunging at Danielle again like a mean dog on a short leash.
The crowd began to chant again. “Cat fight! Cat fight!”
The cop pulled the stocky woman’s hands behind her back and snapped them into handcuffs. “You women are supposed to be representatives for charitable giving and ambassadors for our city,” she said. “This is ridiculous. We expect this from tourists, not from our locals.”
Danielle began to sniffle, quickly escalating into weeping so hard she couldn’t get any words out.
“Let’s get these ladies out of here,” Torrence said, taking my bedraggled friend by the elbow and leading her toward the cruiser with flashing lights waiting up the block toward Caroline Street. “We’ll sort this out down at the station.”
I trotted after them. “Does she need a lawyer?”
Torrence paused, looking at me over the top of his glasses. “We’ll take care of her, Hayley. We need to get them out of here, away from the maniacs.”
“I’ll phone Wally to give me a ride home,” Danielle called, flashing a tremulous smile. “I know you have company coming.”
3
Food and everything associated with it, especially the quality of ingredients, should be marked by generosity.
—Patricia and Walter Wells, We’ve Always Had Paris … and Provence
After wading into the crowd to wrest Danielle’s crown from a bystander, I trotted back to the Custom House to recover my scooter and Miss Gloria, who was pacing by the giant Seward Johnson statue of a dancing couple.
Miss Gloria’s eyes widened as she saw what I was carrying. “What in the world?”
“I’ll tell you on the way home.”
As we buzzed up Fleming and over the Palm Avenue bridge to our marina, I shouted over my shoulder to explain what had happened. I felt terrible about abandoning Danielle to the wolves, but my mother and her fiancé, Sam, would be arriving at our houseboat at any moment.
I had purposely planned a dinner that would be easy to produce after a busy day, but special enough to welcome Mom back to the island. Food is a major deal in my family—life-sustaining, of course. But it also provides clues to the cook’s inner life, like a psychologist’s inkblot test. According to my mother, and her mother before her, the menu that the hostess selects always, always sends a message to the guests.
Tonight’s meal was a delicate balancing act. Because we were going to be out most of the day, I’d organized the ingredients for a shrimp boil so we wouldn’t have to fuss much once the company arrived. The boiled part of the dinner screamed “utilitarian,” which my mother would no doubt notice, even though no one would argue with the quality of the ingredients. But the strawberry sheet cake with cream cheese/whipped cream/strawberry icing that waited in the fridge was totally fit for a bride-to-be and would trumpet an enthusiastic welcome.
Once home, Miss Gloria worked on rinsing the lettuce and chopping radishes, tomatoes, and cucumbers while I washed the purple, white, and red heirloom baby potatoes and cut the black pepper sausages into chunks. As I was whisking Dijon mustard, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar into a salad dressing, the boat rocked slightly and I heard my mother’s voice out on the deck.
“Yoo-hoo,” she hollered. “The honeymooners are here!”
They appeared at our screen door and Sam knocked before pulling the door open. “Not honeymooners yet,” he said with a deep chuckle. “I still have the week to change my mind.”
I rushed to greet them, kissed my mother’s cheek, and then gave Sam a big hug and whispered into his ear: “Better not make any changes now, buddy; the rest of us could never live with her.”
He blew a kiss at my mother. “I’ve made my bed and I plan to happily lie in it for the rest of our natural lives.”
She grinned and fluffed her auburn curls, looking younger and lighter than I’d seen her in years. Then she turned to hug Miss Gloria and greet the two resident cats, Evinrude and Sparky. “You all look wonderful. Now, where’s that new baby?”
Our friends and neighbors Connie and Ray, as if sensing my mother’s force field, came down the finger from their boat, carrying their months-old daughter. Cheeks were kissed and greetings exchanged, and then my mother settled into a spot of shade on the deck, the baby nestled in the crook of her arm.
“So you’re calling her Clare. After your mother, of course. It’s lovely—she’s lovely. Your mom would have been so thrilled.”
Connie’s mother had died of cancer during our freshman year at Rutgers—so all the transitions that a mother would have attended and cherished were tinged with a little sadness. The baby kicked her tiny little feet and cooed, and the bittersweet moment was broken.
I passed out flutes of sparkling prosecco and we toasted everything—the baby, the upcoming nuptials, the idea of the strawberry cake. Then I returned to the kitchen and dropped the heirloom potatoes into the pot of bay leaf and Cajun seasoning–scented water boiling on the stove. Sausage and shrimp and lengths of corn on the cob followed the potatoes. When the timer went off, I drained the mixture in the sink and served the steaming bowl on the table outside on the deck. As the sun dipped behind the houseboats across the finger, with the help of a little breeze, the temperature dropped too. Lucky, because our tiny window air conditioner and tiny living area would be no match for a roomful of people. Miss Gloria brought out the tossed salad and a lovely sliced baguette stuffed with walnuts and Maytag blue cheese from the Old Town Bakery and lots of extra napkins.
We descended on the dinner, chattering about what to serve at Mom and Sam’s small reception. Should it be the raspberry cake recipe I’d developed last winter for Valentine’s Day? Or Eric’s famous coconut? Or even those pale lime cupcakes I’d made for Connie and Ray?
“No chocolate?” Sam asked.
“For a weddi
ng, darling?” my mother asked, her eyes wide.
He only grinned.
“Actually, we’ve been thinking seriously we should have the party upstairs at Louie’s Backyard. It fits more people than you can manage here on your deck, and Chef Martha has wonderful menu suggestions,” said Mom. “Maybe a buffet of chilled Key West pinks, and Chinese green beans, and smoked scallops, and a Caesar salad, and sake beets—”
“And frites,” said Sam. “And fried artichokes and short ribs.”
“Everything on the menu!” I laughed. “Whatever you guys want is fine with me,” I told her. “It’s supposed to be so hot all week, not cooking sounds appealing.”
I was peeling my third enormous pink shrimp, ready to dunk it into the cocktail sauce we’d mixed with horseradish—almost but not quite too hot to bear—when my phone rang. Danielle.
“Hayley, can you pick me up at the police station? Wally seems to be out. I’ve called him six times over the last hour. He’s not answering his phone.” Her voice quavered and I feared she was crying. I felt instantly guilty that I’d forgotten about her, assuming she’d long since gone home. Poor thing had been at the police station now for hours.
“Of course. Are you hungry? We’re just having dinner.” I excused myself, leaving Miss Gloria to explain the fight between the women in front of the Duval Street bar. “She sounded awful,” I called back over my shoulder. “Don’t eat everything. I have a feeling she’ll need some shoring up.”
Sam hurried after me. “Let me drive you over.”
Five minutes later, we arrived at the shell-pink police station across Roosevelt Boulevard. Danielle was huddled in a sad-looking lump on the tiled bench in front of the building. I leaped out of the car and ran over to hug her. Her makeup was smeared around her eyes, with runnels of black down her cheeks. Her lovely toga was stained with black streaks and pinned together, and the purple sash had been torn almost beyond repair. “I’m so glad you called,” I said as I hugged her again.
Sam walked up behind me. “Let’s get this young woman back to the boat and get her something to eat and drink.” He put a comforting hand on her back and rubbed her the way a mother would pat a child.
My mother had found a good man this time. Not that my father isn’t a good man, but he’s not touchy-feely. And he sometimes overlooks the finer points of empathy. I hoped that my almost boyfriend, Nate Bransford, would grow into all that. If pressed, I’d explain his attributes this way: He is very good at sparks and flame, less accomplished at tending embers.
Mom was waiting at the end of the dock as we pulled in. She rushed to greet Danielle as soon as we parked, taking her hand and looping a strand of my friend’s golden hair behind her ear. “Not one question to this girl until she’s had a glass of wine,” she warned us as we trooped back onto the boat. Within minutes, Danielle was settled in the chair with the best view, a glass of white wine in her hand. I set a small bowl of pre-peeled shrimp on the table beside her.
“Protein,” said my mother. “You need protein and alcohol right now. And sugar later,” she added.
Danielle mustered a smile.
“Tell us what in the world went on,” I said. “And good gravy, what is that awful woman’s problem?”
She took a dainty sip of her wine and set the glass on the table. “All the royal candidates had a meeting this afternoon to go over the timing for this week’s events,” she said. “And then we were asked to do a meet-and-greet along lower Duval Street.”
“Danielle won the contest two nights ago,” I said to the others. “She’s the queen of Fantasy Fest for the entire year.”
“That’s wonderful, sweetie,” said Mom. “How did the competition work?”
“It’s basically a fund-raiser for AIDS Help,” Danielle explained. “So the results were based strictly on how much money you raised. It didn’t really have to do with talent.”
“But Danielle was tireless,” I said. “The coconut bowling party at Blue Heaven was a huge splash. And everyone loved the homemade brassiere party. It had a little zip of Key West without being raunchy or gauche.
“Women and men were absolutely fighting to bid,” I told my mother and Sam. “The creativity was staggering. And it didn’t hurt that the gals Danielle had modeling were young and pretty.” I raised my eyebrows to indicate that those were not the only assets they had.
“Honestly, I don’t know why she went after me. It’s like the pressure was building for the last couple of weeks and suddenly she lost control and blew sky-high,” said Danielle. One great big tear squeezed out of her right eye and ran down her cheek. “I can’t really explain it.”
“It sounds like you won fair and square,” said Sam. “Your opponent was simply a bad sport.”
Danielle adjusted her torn toga costume, her lower lip quivering a little.
“People have been so generous,” said Danielle, tears glazing her eyes again. “I can’t believe this dumb fight is how I’ll be remembered. Guaranteed it’s going to be on the front page of the Citizen. And that will reflect so poorly on the magazine. Wally and Palamina are going to have a fit.”
“Pffft, don’t worry about those two,” my mother said, patting her knee. Evinrude took that as an invitation, jumped onto Mom’s lap, and began to butt her hand with his head and rumble his signature purr. “With all the ruckus over Fantasy Fest, this will blow over in an instant.”
“Worst of all,” Danielle said, “I lost my crown in the fight. It was handmade by Neptune Designs and I’m sure it cost them plenty.” Her voice wobbled. “How will I ever tell them it’s gone?”
“Not to worry, I rescued that,” I said, and ran into the houseboat to retrieve it from the galley counter. Danielle smiled her teary thanks.
My mother stroked the cat and continued to chat with Danielle about the upcoming activities of the royal week. I could see my friend relaxing by the minute under her cheerful nurturing. Then Mom dislodged the tiger cat from her lap and turned to Connie.
“Now that we have Danielle’s problem solved, I suggest you hand over that baby and help Hayley serve the cake.”
Connie grinned and deposited Clare into my mother’s waiting arms. The baby smiled and tapped my mother’s chin with one perfect little hand. “Oh my goodness,” said my mother. “I’ve died and gone to grandmother heaven. What are you all doing tomorrow? I need more time with this child.”
“Tomorrow is the zombie bike parade,” I said. “Last year they attracted ten thousand participants. We’ve been working on our costumes forever. Ray’s going to paint Connie’s face and his own, but he’s got a lot on his plate, so I’m getting my makeup professionally done. The three of us are going as the zombie vaccination squad.”
“We’ve got scrubs, and we’ll wear face masks and stethoscopes around our necks, and carry giant fake syringes,” Connie added. “And we’ve collected bandages and other medical stuff to put in our baskets. Ray’s going to paint red spots on our arms and legs as if we’d come down with the measles.”
“But what about the baby?” asked my mother.
“Oh, she’s going with us,” Ray said. “We figured with the vaccination theme, a baby would be the perfect touch. And we have a very comfortable carrier that I can wear while riding a bike.”
“A baby? On a bike? At the zombie bike parade? A baby zombie? I don’t think so,” said my mother, hugging the child to her chest until she squawked in protest. “I’ll babysit and that’s settled.”
Ray shrugged and smiled. “Okay.”
Connie and I returned to the galley, where we cut generous slices of the cake frosted with cream cheese icing and bits of ripe strawberries throughout. Once we had served everyone and my mother had tasted and declared it unparalleled, she swiveled around to look at me. “And when are we going to get another look at his majesty?”
I felt my face flush red as one of the strawberries and I busied myself smoothing nonexistent crumbs off Miss Gloria’s lace table topper. “By that I guess you mean Nathan? Fi
rst of all, the department is crazy busy with Fantasy Fest—they don’t have time for dinner parties.” I stood up, brushed the hair out of my eyes, and looked at her dead-on.
“And second, to be honest, Mom, you scare him worse than any criminal.”
4
The burger goes well with the cocktails, which are better than you’d expect from an establishment that might have hired Jimmy Buffett as its interior decorator.
—Jeff Gordinier, “A Showstopping Cheeseburger Does a Star Turn,” The New York Times, July 8, 2015
Before the excitement of the zombie parade kicked off this afternoon, I had promised myself to get some work done on the takeout dining article. The idea that I’d pitched (and lord knows I should stick to it or risk the wrath of the big boss, Palamina) was to sample the carryout skills of various restaurants around town. Did their food stand up to the stress of getting packed in plastic or Styrofoam and shuttled across the island? Was the staff careful about packing the orders, and cheerful about it too?
I’d already hit the White Street Station, a food truck at the corner of Truman and White Streets—with their heart-stopping but irresistible fried dishes and quirky motto “Location, Smocation.” Today I planned to focus on small places with tables and chairs that also managed a brisk carryout business. My first stop would be Garbo’s Grill, a food truck tucked into the back of an open-air patio that had served a variety of purposes over the past few years. A tiny kitchen behind the building that housed the Grunts Bar had served fish sandwiches and other locally sourced dishes for several years, until the customers seemed to overwhelm the kitchen’s facilities.
Now Garbo’s Grill was open Monday through Saturday. On Sundays, a man billing himself as Tennessee Steve slathered giant racks of ribs with mouthwatering, spicy red barbecue sauce accompanied by (my only complaint) small containers of luscious baked beans.
Killer Takeout Page 2