Roux Morgue

by Claire M Johnson

  “Perhaps,” she said in a conciliatory tone, but threw the clipboard down on the desk and then wrapped her arms tightly around her body.

  “Oh, you’ll need to order more eggs from the storeroom. An entire case ended up in the trash. A student actually put whole eggs in the mixer. In their shells, believe it or not. Anyway, do you know Benson’s take on this? He sat there mute during the water fight while we all got drenched. He should put up Lost and Found posters, with a big reward for the first person who finds his spine.”

  Her arms went down and her hands balled up into fists.

  “Robert’s got enough on his plate without these chefs making trouble. The curriculum here has been perfectly adequate for twenty years.”

  I stared at her in amazement. Although I disagreed with Marc’s methods, he did have a point; the school wouldn’t maintain its student population if it didn’t keep up with the times. A new cooking school seems to pop up every month, competing for tuition dollars.

  “Oh come on.” It was my turn to snort. “How can you say that? American cuisine of the last twenty years has undergone a total revolution. It’s no longer jello for dessert; it’s fresh fig and marscapone tart. The tuition here is ten thousand dollars a quarter. The students deserve to learn both the traditional and the trendy.”

  “What do you know?” she hissed. “This is your first day on the job and already you’re making pronouncements from on high, acting like you know better than anybody else. As usual.” She jabbed my shoulder blade with a pointed finger. “You always had to be smarter and faster than anyone else. Always running to Antonello to brag how competent you were.”

  What? I never saw her as a rival. Our strengths lay in entirely different areas. My forte was execution and organization; she was exceptionally creative. Paradoxically, I went into restaurant work, which would have been the perfect venue to showcase her talents, while she stayed to teach at École, a job that was tailor-made for me. And as for Antonello, he flirted with both of us. I admit, sometimes the sexual innuendo got pretty thick, but I never crossed that line between flirting and fondling. Nor did I think he wanted any more than trading lascivious comments. I was engaged and he was married.

  People who cook are intense. I know this. But I’d never stepped on so many toes in such a short period of time in my life. Okay, there was that hotel where I walked out after only two hours on the job, but other than that….

  “Allison, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Why don’t you work here for a month or two before trying to solve all our problems.”

  I tried again. “I’m sorry. I—”

  She cut me off with a wave of her hand and averted her head. The rage and jubilation of ten minutes earlier had faded. Her classic peaches and cream complexion was the color of old croissant dough, and stress lines framed her forehead and mouth.

  “Are you sick, Allison? You don’t look well. Do you want me to take your class tonight?

  “No, Mary. I’m fine. I’d hoped that everything would be…taken care of by now. I thought that by Christmas…” She grabbed her apron. “By the end…”—she wrapped her apron around her waist—“of the week…”—tugged on the strings and cinched it tight around her waist—“all this will be solved.” She secured the apron with a perfect bow. “One way or another.”

  I opened my mouth to ask another question, but our conversation was cut-off by the afternoon class shuffling in the door.

  One way or another. That sounded ominous.

  Chapter Five

  You can always tell what kind of day I’ve had by where I leave my car keys. A great day and the car keys actually get hung up on the hook just inside the door. A so-so day generally means they get thrown in the general direction of the dining room table. A bad day and they end up getting dumped on the sideboard where I keep a bottle of Remy V.S.O.P. This makes hunting for car keys at 5:30 a.m. always a challenge.

  The minute I got home, the keys barely hit the sideboard before I grabbed the neck of the brandy bottle, twisted the cork out with a practiced yank, and sloshed a hangover-sized amount of cognac into a Waterford crystal brandy snifter. I used to have two of these glasses. Wedding present, of course. When my marriage became the kind of statistic lamented by those promoting family values, Jim got one, I got the other. Sometimes I didn’t have the heart to use it and just poured the brandy into a coffee mug. Nothing screams, “Danger, Will Robinson, danger, danger!” potential alcoholic more than only one brandy glass. I seriously have considered ordering another one to give myself the illusion I’m not drinking alone.

  Not even bothering to find a chair. I leaned my back against the wall and slid down to the floor, my knees offering my elbows a convenient shelf, which left my hands free to cup the glass and warm the booze. I drank half of it before I had the energy to begin what I knew was a pointless debate with myself about the wisdom of calling my ex-husband.

  Two years later and seriously expensive overtime with a therapist, Jim and I’d finally reached the point where we could talk to each other without the conversation spiraling into a screaming fit on my part, a defensive whine on his.

  Unfortunately for me, it didn’t mean I’d reached the point where I could do this fully sober. Which explains getting half-toasted before having the nerve to call him. But dammit, he was the only person I knew who could give me the scoop on O’Connor.

  “Inspector McCreery, Internal Affairs.”

  “Jim, it’s Mary.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Nobody’s dead.”

  “Well, it must be that or the second coming of Jesus Christ for you to voluntarily call me.”

  I ignored his pathetic attempt at sarcasm.

  “The scoop on O’Connor. Give. He’s a student at École. Doesn’t he have a mortgage, kids, and car payments? Plus a wife that doesn’t work.”

  There was a pause.

  “What’s the big deal, Mary? He’s on medical leave from the department.”

  Medical leave?

  “Let’s try this again, Jim. At École he’s going to be lifting sixty-eight pound butter blocks, hoisting twenty-gallon stock pots from one burner to another, and standing on his feet for hours on end, working diligently on those varicose veins that no amount of surgery will repair. I have trouble envisioning Workman’s Comp rationalizing that O’Connor training as a chef would be appropriate after suffering several gun shot wounds to his chest. Bullet-proof vest notwithstanding.”

  Silence for a couple of seconds and then…

  “I don’t feel comfortable telling you this, Mary, but when O’Connor got shot, it did something. His docs put him on disability for post-traumatic stress syndrome. Anyway, why are you calling me about him? Didn’t you see him today?”

  Soooooooooo desperate. In feint and attack mode. Lie first and then turn the tables.

  “Stop. Can I put you on hold for a minute? The bullshit is getting so thick on my end of the line that I’m going to need to get the shovel from the garage to clear a path from the phone to my front door.”

  Silence again. Which in hindsight was a sign Jim was making a real concentrated effort not to push my buttons; however, I was well past the point of no return. The metaphorical smell of bullshit tends to do that to me.

  “O’Connor doesn’t get stressed. He just runs another six miles. Please stop,” I reiterated and gave the receiver a little shake in lieu of smacking him on the arm in frustration. “And yes, I did see him. We got into a fight. I didn’t get the whole story.”

  Jim laughed. “Sounds like the status quo, Mary. When aren’t you and O’Connor fighting?”

  Which enraged me because it was true.

  Back in October when we were slobbering all over each other. A distinct change in the status quo.

  For years, O’Connor and I suffered each other. As Jim’s wife, I barely tolerated, with ill-concealed poor grace I must admit, his supremely annoying best friend, and O’Connor easi
ly matched my sarcastic remark with sarcastic remark, the subtext of his not so subtext; his utter astonishment that his best friend had chosen such an über bitch for a wife. Facing each other across a stovetop was literally the only time we weren’t arguing, yelling, and insulting each other. Our camaraderie in the kitchen was as infamous as our incessant snarking at each other out of it.

  The murder investigation last fall whisked us out of the comfort zone of mutually satisfying antagonism. Suddenly cooking amicably together and verbally abusing each other the rest of the time, morphed into cooking amicably together, but please shut up now so that I can jump you. Before we could investigate any further, was this lust, was this love, we tacitly agreed to stay away from each other. I needed to cobble together a new life, now that Jim’s and my declarations of “till death do us part” turned out to be as real as the ridiculous claims that tofu has a taste. O’Connor needed to go back to his wife and three kids. Where he belonged.

  “What’s the big deal?” Jim complained, a trifle testy. “The only time you two get along is when you two are in a kitchen. I think you’d be ecstatic to have someone who knows what he’s doing. Aren’t you teaching freshman pastry?”

  Evil Mary emerged. Really, she’d been waiting in the wings for several minutes whispering, nagging, “Now? Can I come out NOW?” I’d been keeping her at bay until I realized I’d been unconsciously gripping the brandy snifter—the single brandy snifter without its mate—and the cut glass edges were ripping into my palm.

  “You been checking up on me again, Jim?”

  “Maybe. No law against it.”

  And we were off and running. The lessons learned from thousands of dollars of therapy vanished into nothing more than a signature on a bunch of checks as I began to yell. We slid easily into the me screaming/him whining mode, bringing with it a certain comfortable predictability, both of knowing the script of this particular play backwards and forwards. I played the sarcastic shrew who put more energy into her career than her marriage and yet resented it when her husband complained that working eighty hours a week seemed a tad much. The other actor in this sad little repeat performance was Jim, whose portrayal of the cheating husband who justified his infidelity because of abject loneliness was destined to get a nod for Best Actor. We’d thought this performance had closed, but apparently it’d been brought back for a limited run.

  We both ran out of steam at the same time, an exhausted silence on his end of the line complimenting mine.

  It wasn’t cathartic. Or even satisfactory. Just pathetic.

  “Let’s stop,” I begged, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice. If I started crying, he’d keep me on the phone forever. Then when I’d finally force him to end the conversation, he’d call my mother and tell her he was worried about me. And then she’d call me….God, I couldn’t go there tonight. “Need to go.”

  “You okay?” he insisted.

  “No, I’m not, but I’m going to lie, and say yes, I am. Then I’m going to ask you if you’re okay, and you’re going to lie to me and tell me that, yes, you are. Because if we don’t, we’ll end up saying even more hurtful things, and I don’t really feel like drinking my dinner tonight. So, are you okay?” I asked in a deadpan voice.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” he replied with equal enthusiasm and defeat.

  “Good,” I managed to mumble and hung up.

  “Make dinner, Mary,” I ordered out loud and moved my legs in direction of the kitchen, forestalling the temptation to pour myself an entrée.

  ***

  I shoved Puccini opera highlights into the CD player and cranked up the volume to full blast because cooking alone can be almost as soul destroying as drinking alone. Filling a pot with water, slopping in a goodly amount of olive oil, followed by a generous helping of salt, covering pot with lid, I upped the gas. I zested an entire lemon, minced parsley and the lemon zest together very fine. I tossed ridiculously expensive salad mix with balsamic vinegar and oil. Threw angel hair pasta into roiling water. Cooked it precisely two and one-half minutes. While the pasta was cooking, I sautéed garlic until it smelled nutty but not burned. The heft of the knife in my hand, the tart smells of lemon and parsley, the heavy scent of cooked garlic, the soprano in mourning, all brought me back to myself, or at least a part of me that felt halfway human and somewhat hungry. I drained the pasta. Tossed the parsley, lemon zest, garlic, and more olive oil with the pasta. I forced myself to sit at the kitchen table, light the candles, use a cloth napkin, and three forkfuls of pasta later, the muscles in my neck stopped jumping sideways.

  Having cooked an actual meal and seated myself at a table with appropriate accoutrements, I rewarded myself and poured a glass of Pinot Grigio.

  Review of the evidence. O’Connor on stress-related leave?

  Bullshit.

  Did he exhibit any signs of physical illness? Hands the size of hams. Check. Skin its usual Black Irish swarthy cast. Check. Poor fit of the chef’s jacket notwithstanding, shoulders firm and broad. Check with a cherry on top. Mental attitude? Business as usual. Which meant loaded for bear. On a bad day, O’Connor packed enough attitude for five people. After our little encounter today, I’d say his attitude meter was off-scale.

  In other words, bullshit, again. I didn’t believe it. If he was so damn stressed, what was he doing in the pressure-cooker environment of a kitchen? Prying anymore information out of Jim was out of the question. Another stroll down that not-so-garden path would ensure flunking out of Therapy U.

  In four weeks O’Connor transferred to another section. I’d say some sleuthing was in order.

  Mary Ryan meet Nancy Drew.

  Oh, I see you’ve met.

  Chapter Six

  Every time I cross the Bay Bridge and see the city lit up, the arc of lights following the curve of the water, I get a nice shiver down my back. San Francisco’s my kind of town. I love the mishmash of different ethnic groups, the odd mix of liberal politics and Brooks Brothers suits. I love the elegant Victorians painted garish colors and the old hotels, the Mark, the St. Francis, the Fairmont, presiding over the downtown like stuffy elegant dowagers who know how to pound back a few drinks and always have a bawdy joke to tell. And I love the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges, embracing the city in their arms like a protective mother.

  After my divorce from Jim, we’d sold our mold-prone house in the Sunset, divided the profit, and I’d bought a tiny two-bedroom cottage in Albany. I hated commuting, and the Bay Bridge was becoming more of a transit nightmare every day, but I was near my mother and I had a yard. In my immediate post-divorce state, those were defining criteria.

  Now that I was getting back on my feet, the pull to get back to the city was strong. Like the children hearing the Pied Piper, it was tea-smoked duck in Chinatown, fresh pasta in North Beach, and more restaurants per square mile than any other city in the United States that snared me with its siren song. Maybe it was time to consider moving back to the city.

  I arrived at school a little after six. Shelley was still changing. We had the locker room to ourselves.

  Although our paths had never crossed until now, Shelley Tam’s reputation had preceded her. One of these size-two women who compensate for their size and sex by being twice as aggressive as anybody else, she’d opened up a number of the big name restaurants in the northwest. She never stayed longer than six months. Shelley’s the type of chef who thrives on the chaos and hype of a new restaurant. Like most high-profile chefs, she’s an adrenaline junkie. I’d have thought École would be way too tame for her.

  On the drive home, Allison’s criticism still ringing in my ears, I’d vowed to stay out of this conflict. Do my job. Get paid. Teach pastry.

  Who was I kidding?

  As we were alone, surely a few questions wouldn’t hurt. And I really wouldn’t be nosing around or trying to solve the situation. If I knew the lay of the land, I might stop stepping on people’s toes. Apparently, my capacity for self-delusion was at an all time
high. Right. I’d just ask her a few questions. Just a few.

  Trying to ignore the tight little somersaults roiling my stomach, I grabbed a clean jacket, pants, and apron from the laundry closet and began to change out of my street clothes. I know it’s stupid, but petite women intimidate me. Maybe because I’m tall with big feet, but when I’m with someone whose waist is the same circumference as my thigh, I revert back to being a gangly, awkward fourteen-year old; clumsy and always saying the wrong thing.

  “Good morning, Shelley. You dried out yet?” I shivered as I leaned against the bank of lockers to thread my legs into my chef’s pants. Although the dining room and kitchens were state-of-the-art, the chefs’ locker room was a little Dickensian. Drafty, with barely enough light, at certain times of the day it smelled of sewage.

  She looked up from tying her red high tops; her crew cut was moussed into tiny sharp spikes, like the tines of a fork. “Whose side are you on, Mary?”

  Shit. I gulped. Nothing like cutting to the chase.

  “Sides? Do I have to choose s…s…sides?” I stammered with cold and hurriedly pulled on my pants. “I know that Chef Étienne can be a little pompous with the Maxim’s stuff, but he’s harmless.”

  “The man should be fired,” she snapped. She finished tying her shoes and stood up. “Or shipped back to France where he can continue making that old-fashioned crap that nobody wants to eat anymore.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” I reached for my chef’s jacket. It’s hard to prove a point when you’re arguing in your bra. “I agree his style of cooking is passé, but the techniques underlying classical French cuisine are an excellent basis for any cooking program.” The minute I said it, I realized how trite I sounded, like a dated brochure.

  Shelley’s eyes narrowed. “I’m surprised at you, Mary. I thought you’d be on our side.”

  “I’m not on anybody’s side,” I emphasized. “There’s room here for many cuisines, many methods. Étienne is just one teacher out of twenty. Why do you and Marc dislike him so much?” My fingers, cold and nervous, fumbled with my jacket buttons.