“So I’m modest,” I said. “I’m from New Jersey.” Which only made them laugh harder.
I began to help Danielle tack lights to the wooden board, and then duct tape swirls of lights on the body of the cart. Finally the whining of Wally’s band saw wound down.
“Did you get a chance to meet the new chef at the Bight?” Wally asked.
“Did I ever,” I said. “She’s as tough as my grandmother’s cast-iron frying pan. But I liked her. In fact, she’s invited me to have the family meal with the staff tomorrow and then spend a couple hours in the kitchen. It’s their soft opening.”
“Do your best work,” Wally said, “because Ava fought me tooth and nail about assigning this to you.”
“I’m your food critic. Who else was going to write it?” I asked, indignant. I spend a lot of time feeling indignant when it comes to Ava Faulkner.
Danielle piped up, “She said, and I quote, ‘We have half a dozen new restaurants debuting in Key West every season. Let’s concentrate on the ones that make it, not waste space on some damn fancy-pants New Yorker who wants to make a big splash by dragging her old ideas to a new location.’” She wagged a finger and pinched her lips in an excellent imitation of my nemesis. Except for the gorgeous cleavage, which Ava lacks.
I sighed. “She’s such a pain. Do you think anyone would notice if we fed her rat poison?”
“Maybe something a little more subtle, considering that her sister was murdered,” Danielle said, and grimaced. “Besides, rat poison makes an awful big mess. And how would we get it into her? She hardly eats anything and she certainly wouldn’t eat something you cooked.”
“So true.” We worked a few minutes in silence, attaching the gigantic pie shell to the sides of the cart and installing the blinking KEY ZEST sign on top.
“Why do you suppose Edel Waugh wanted to open a restaurant in this town?” Danielle wondered, when we stopped for a break.
“You know, I asked her that question, but she never really answered. Other than talking about how grim New York is in January. And she did say this was her chance to prove herself separate from her ex-husband.”
“All the biggest chefs want to expand their domains,” Wally said. “It’s like a McDonald’s franchise, only different. And much, much better. Design a menu and a concept that diners love, then set up another one just like it, somewhere else. Double the reservations, double the money, double the name recognition. People want familiar yet fresh. In this case, New York food with Key West flair.”
“But you can’t cook in two kitchens at once,” Danielle said.
“I don’t know how much she cooks at this point—she’s the grand director and idea woman. But imagine training the staff in two places—that must be a major headache,” I said. “Making sure the dishes are the same whether you order them in New York City or Key West. Maybe that’s why she was yelling at the staff.”
Danielle looked at her watch. “Oh shoot, I have to run home and get changed. My date is picking me up in an hour.”
“Why don’t you wear what you have on?” I said. “You’d sure make a big impression.”
She grinned and blew me a kiss, then gathered her things, turned off the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and trotted away. That left Wally and me alone in the shadows of the garage, now lit only by the twinkling of a thousand little white fairy lights. He switched on the Christmas music soundtrack, which began to play “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” and started around the golf cart toward me. My heart thumped and skin tingled as I anticipated his embrace. Eight months since he’d declared he might have feelings for me and we still hadn’t figured out how to handle them in public. Or really in private, either. He reached for my hands and pulled me closer.
“Helloooo!” called a voice from the yard outside. The dreaded Ava Faulkner. We sprang apart and Wally yanked the chain of the overhead light, shocking the room with the sharp brightness of the bare bulb. I busied myself cleaning up scraps of wood and paintbrushes and hammers so Ava wouldn’t see what I was certain was my tomato-red face.
Wally began to yammer about the design of the float and explain how the elves would come bursting out of the pie to distribute candy canes emblazoned with the Key Zest Web address. Ava looked unimpressed.
“I didn’t even think to ask,” he added, eyebrows lofting. “Would you like to be an elf, too?”
“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, a look of horror on her face. She turned to me. “Could you excuse us? We have some business to discuss.”
This was vintage Ava—humiliating the minions by treating them like children or undervalued underlings. But there would be nothing to gain by confronting her or refusing to leave, so I scurried to collect my backpack and helmet. “See you tomorrow,” I said to Wally. Outside, I paused in the shadows by the open window to catch my breath. Which suddenly made eavesdropping irresistible.
“You wanted to talk?” Wally was saying.
“I’m not happy with how things are going,” Ava said. “I’m sorry that your mother has been ill. And I’ve been willing to tolerate your absence over this period of months—but it was with the understanding that you would be sure the business was covered.”
“I have made sure,” Wally said in a firm voice. “I’ve said this every time you and I have talked. Hayley and Danielle have been handling the day-to-day issues and we have been in touch by e-mail and phone daily. I’m doing the best I can, considering that my mother is dying.”
I would not have been that polite. I would have melted into a blubbering, outraged puddle.
“As I mentioned, I am sorry about your mother,” said Ava, “but I beg to differ. Very little has been handled. Our subscription numbers have stagnated. I’ve picked up several phone messages from potential advertisers who have not been contacted—they are offering us easy money, and we can’t be bothered to follow up. But worse than that is a lack of editorial direction.”
I peered through the window into the garage. Wally had sagged against the workbench on the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his glasses pushed up to his forehead so that even from a distance the sadness in his eyes was clear. I wanted to rush in and hug him, and then lambast Ava for her insensitivity, which would only make things worse. Then I realized that if his job was in trouble, so was mine. Over and over, he’d protected me from her misplaced wrath. If he was going to be squeezed out, I was a goner, too.
“Do tell me about the problem with editorial direction,” he said in a quiet voice.
Ava gave a quick nod. “I know I mentioned the piece about Bistro on the Bight. If Hayley Snow”—I flinched at the sound of my name barked from her scornful lips—“is supposed to be a food critic, then how can she possibly spend time in this woman’s kitchen and write a puff piece on this supposedly up-and-coming chef and retain any scrap of impartiality? Can’t you see that every restaurant on the island will be demanding equal treatment? And then every reader will assume that the chef has been greasing the skids to earn what is not a review but essentially a monstrous advertisement?”
“I don’t agree,” Wally said. “You’ve been saying for months that we need articles with more depth, more heft. Profiling new business owners is part of that. And Hayley is a consummate professional. She will not cross lines, nor will she produce a so-called puff piece.” He pushed away from the bench and stood up taller. “What are your other concerns?”
Ava huffed and stalked around the golf cart to slap her bag on the workbench. “I’ve made a list,” she said, as she pulled her iPad mini from the satchel.
I’d heard enough. Hell would be paid if I got caught listening in on her harangue. Besides, her insensitivity made me sick to my stomach.
One thing was certain: the more she insisted I should not interview Edel Waugh, the more determined I was to continue.
4
If you’re cooking with love, every plate is a unique event—you never allow yourself to forget that a person is waiting to eat it: your food, made wit
h your hands, arranged with your fingers, tasted with your tongue.
—Bill Buford, Heat
Before blasting across the island to the old harbor for my second visit to the Bistro on the Bight, I read over the document called “Do’s and Don’ts for Servers” that Edel had e-mailed me last night. “Extremely detailed” was one way to describe the list. “Anal,” “obsessive,” “controlling,” and “neurotic” were others. I concluded that it might be a miracle her staff hadn’t bumped her off rather than simply played practical jokes or quit in droves. Or however else her problems had manifested themselves. By now I was extremely curious.
To be fair, I agreed with many of the items on her list: If she managed to keep her drill-sergeant proclivities confined to the kitchen and waitstaff, her diners would be in for an exquisite experience. Whoever had launched the trend of having waiters announce their names and proceed to treat diners like old maiden aunts deserved what they had coming. And don’t get me started on staff sharing their own experiences with why they’d switched to gluten-free diets or the pounds they’d lost by eliminating carbs, or, worse yet, any white-colored food. Or clearing plates before everyone at the table was finished … or asking diners if they were “still working on” their meals, as though dining at that particular restaurant was a Herculean task rather than a pleasure. Servers could stumble into a lot of traps, and Edel seemed determined to sidestep all of them.
I parked my scooter in the pay lot near the old Waterfront Market, hoping the Cuban Coffee Queen was open. The CCQ, a concrete shack painted as though it’s a giant postcard of Key West, dispenses some of the best coffee on the island. If Edel worked me as hard as she worked her staff, I would need every jolt of energy the caffeine offered.
Not only was the coffee stand open, but it was also jammed. I wended my way through a big family from India, a couple with two babies in strollers, and two workers from the Fury pleasure boats, probably headed to man the sunset cruises, which at this time of year cast off earlier and earlier. As I waited in line to order my Cuban coffee, one of the CCQ workers pushed out through the trailing strands of heavy plastic that separated the little kitchen from the outdoors. He offered a chunk of ham to a waiting Australian shepherd with spooky blue eyes, who snatched the meat and nearly took his fingers off.
I sat on the yellow bench to wait for my coffee, then recognized the man next to me as Wes Singleton, the former owner of a fried-fish-and-burger joint on the harbor. A funky-smelling bar can survive in Key West with the right music and the right party vibe, but a funky restaurant is a turnoff. Wes’s place had finally succumbed to a series of bad customer reviews online and a brief shutdown by the health department. Rumor had it they’d found a horde of rodents in his kitchen. The restaurant had been in my queue of places to review; I was grateful that it had closed before I had to weigh in. Even though I recognize it as a necessary duty, I still despise writing negative reviews.
Wes lit up a cigarette and slurped a slug of his coffee.
“How’s it going?” I asked, inching away from the smoke.
“Slowly,” he said, blinking sleepy gray eyes. “Looking for work.”
“Have you tried Edel Waugh’s new place? I’m certain she’s looking for experienced staff.” Then I wished I’d kept my big mouth shut. Because of course Edel’s restaurant had replaced his, after the little rhubarb with the health department and the financial problems that had followed.
He stared back at me. “Don’t you think it would be a little weird to work for someone else in what should by rights be my space? Besides, I’ve heard she’s hell on wheels.” Then he cackled, and I laughed with him, because what else could I do?
“I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’ll let you know if I hear of something,” I added, just to be polite. The worker at the cash register called my name and I said good-bye and eased through the crowd to collect my café con leche.
Inside Edel’s place, I was greeted by the waiter I’d seen yesterday. “How did the dinner go last night?” I asked. “The soft, soft, soft opening?”
He held out his hands, palms up. “We were okay in the front of the house”—he gestured to the empty tables and chairs—“some issues to work out in the back. But I’m sure Chef is all over it.”
“We didn’t meet formally yesterday. I’m Hayley Snow.”
He shook my hand and smiled. “Leo McCracken.”
“Do you hail from New York or were you hired here in Key West?”
“I’m down from New York for the high season. After that, we’ll see.” We both cringed, hearing a clang of pans clashing to the floor and a harried, screaming voice. “She said to send you in when you arrived,” Leo said. “Good luck.” He gave an apologetic smile and went back to folding crisp white napkins into neat triangles.
I trudged across the dining room and pushed open the swinging door. Edel was looking up at a tall man with a shock of white hair wearing a chef’s toque and checkered pants. “Did you taste that before you added the salt?” Her voice was hoarse with fury. She grasped a big wooden spoon and stabbed it at his apron-wrapped belly. “Go ahead, taste it now.”
The sous-chef dipped the spoon into the pot, sniffed the pale pink sauce first, and then took a sip. And instantly recoiled. “Oh my god,” he said, clutching his throat, his eyebrows arched in horror.
“Explain,” said Edel, squeezing her hands into fists. She was shorter than the sous-chef by a good eight inches, possibly even a foot, but in spite of his vantage point looking down on her, he appeared terrified. “Explain how our signature pasta sauce is so spicy and salty that no customer would eat it.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged helplessly. “It was fine when we made it. I’ll start another batch right now.” He turned away from Edel and called out to two of the other workers. “Mary Pat, get tomatoes, shallots, garlic, butter, and cream from the cooler. Rodrigo, get this shit out of here.” He slammed the spoon against the big pot, splattering the ruined sauce around his station. A swarthy man with an impassive face who’d been washing dishes scuttled over to whisk the stockpot away.
Then Edel noticed me hovering inside the dining room door. “Come in,” she said, waving me forward and mustering a smile. She wiped her damp face with the sleeve of her white coat. “I’m sorry for that introduction to our kitchen. Apparently, we’ve got soft-opening-night jitters.”
Then she swept me through the kitchen and introduced me to the staff—the sous-chef she’d just bawled out was Glenn Fredericks. After Glenn, I met the line cook, Mary Pat; the pastry chef, Louann; and Rodrigo the dishwasher; and then I lost track. I perched on a stool and took notes as I watched them prepare everything that would be needed for the night to come.
“What’s the best thing about Christmas in Key West?” Louann asked me. “Sounds like you’ve been around for a while.”
“Hmm, so many choices. But probably my favorite event is the lighted boat parade. I’ve been invited to ride on my friend Ray’s little Boston Whaler. He’s going to have lighted reindeer and lots of chickens. I suspect we’ll be the smallest boat in the harbor, but with the best seat in the house.”
“Where should we watch if we don’t have a boat?”
“Somewhere along the dock in front of Schooner Wharf,” I said.
Edel stopped by Mary Pat’s station and examined a pile of julienned carrots. “These are too big. These could choke a horse, not to mention a yellowtail snapper. They are meant to be delicate matchsticks, to garnish the dish. I thought we had been over these specials in detail, but apparently not enough detail.”
The sous-chef stomped over, snatched the cutting board off the counter, and scraped the vegetables into a trash can, muttering something about idiots and bullshit. He sent Mary Pat back to the walk-in cooler for another enormous bag of carrots, and they began again, with Edel watching.
By five o’clock, the prep work was finished and the kitchen was filled with amazing smells—one of them I could have sworn was an Italian red sauce.
>
I stopped Edel after she’d delivered a bowl of key limes to the pastry chef. “What incredible dish am I smelling? I didn’t see anything Italian on your menu, aside from the tomato-vodka sauce.”
She broke into a wide smile and tipped her head at an enormous pot bubbling on one of the back burners of the farthest cooktop. “Bolognese sauce. My grandmother’s recipe. We’re serving it for our family meal—for good luck. You’ll eat with us.” A decree, not an invitation. But I wouldn’t have missed it.
Fifteen minutes later, I was seated with Edel and her staff around a long table at the back of the dining room. Edel took the head chair, heaved a big sigh, and raised her glass of water. “To all of you who have chosen to travel with me on this new adventure, thank you.” She looked as though she had more to say, but choked up. She waved to Leo, the head server, and he delivered steaming bowls of pasta smothered in red sauce to the table. “Eat, eat,” she said. “We’ll all need our stamina tonight.”
I loaded a heap of spaghetti on my plate, topped it with shredded parmesan, and began to eat. “This is amazing,” I told Edel. “You should put this on your menu.”
“I’d vote for that,” said one of the line cooks.
“Red wine and milk?” I asked, hoping she’d spill her recipe.
“Red wine and white,” Edel said with an impish grin. “And milk. And that’s all I am willing to say. A chef’s recipes are her greatest assets. The jewels in her crown.”
After twenty minutes, the bowls were empty, the plates cleared, and Edel clapped her hands. “I needn’t tell you all how important this night is to me. I think you understand that. So I will say only one more thing: Never forget the people who will be eating the dishes we prepare. They are what matters—they are eating the products of our care and our love. If we cook with that in mind, our customers will feel it in their hearts.” Her gaze swept the table, meeting the eyes of each of her staff members in turn. She gave a quick nod and then clapped her hands. “Let’s go back in there and show them how great food can taste!”
Death With All the Trimmings Page 3