Death With All the Trimmings

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Death With All the Trimmings Page 21

by Lucy Burdette


  Edel bustled in from the backyard and the tension in the room kicked up a couple of notches.

  “How are you feeling? Everything okay here?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, looking tightly wound. “We’ve taken reservations for every seat in the house, from opening moment to closing time at ten. It’s just a matter of whether this staff can manage the heat. If you don’t mind,” she said, “I prefer that you sit out back or in the dining room for a bit while we get the preparations completed.”

  “Okaaaay,” I said, drawing the word out and trying to figure out what the heck was the subtext of her message. Besides “Get lost.” This was the first time I’d been banished. “If you’re sure there’s not something I can do to help. I’m pretty good with a knife and very good at stirring—”

  “I would just as soon any nonessential, nonprofessional personnel move out of the way for a while,” she said, not meeting my eyes.

  “Have you heard anything more from Paul Woolston’s staff?” Paul was the critic for the New York Times. Having him come all the way to Key West to critique Edel’s food was a huge deal. He held an enormous sway over foodies across the country, with an emphasis on the tri-state area around New York City. He was not known to be soft or subtle with his criticism.

  “Nothing new, nothing different,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure he’s coming. And if he does, I would love for you to go out and chat with him. I don’t need a sycophant or a cheering section, just a friendly Key West welcome. And I’d rather it didn’t appear to be set up. Maybe more like you happened to be dining here, too, and you recognized him and wanted to say hello.” Offering a very thin smile, she turned away to shout orders at Glenn, the sous-chef. Nothing he was doing at the stove or the counter appeared to be up to her standards. Honestly, if I’d been him, with the way she talked, I’d have been tempted to quit. Walk straight out the front door, opening-night jitters or not.

  “I’ll be out in the back if you need me.” I gathered my backpack and phone and slipped through the swinging screen door. Maybe that was the real reason she’d asked me to be here tonight: not to help out in the kitchen or watch her back, but to help handle the most important restaurant critic in the world.

  I retreated to a stone bench in the rear yard, which seemed to serve as the staff’s smoking and break station, based on the cigarette butts clustered on the surrounding dirt. The faint odor of burned wood from the big fire still lingered. And the not so faint memories of Edel’s beleaguered ex-husband with it. I pulled out my phone and began to formulate the opening paragraph for a story about Bistro on the Bight. If I no longer had a job at Key Zest, perhaps I could use this piece as a sample of a profile in food journalism when I applied somewhere else.

  It’s not easy to leave an environment where your food is well-known and wildly successful. Nor is it easy to leave a partnership that has those same qualities. But Edel Waugh was determined to do both. “I adore Key West,” Waugh said in an interview days before the opening of her new Key West establishment, Bistro on the Bight. “I don’t know how well anyone can ever know this island—she’s a tropical beauty, but mercurial, multilayered, fickle, and quirky. I had visited many times over the past two decades and I was pretty sure I could cook here in a way that I would be able to cook nowhere else. I intend to make dishes that reflect this island’s Caribbean roots and her migrant past. But I will also cook dishes from my own past, dishes that reflect the best of my influences.”

  That was the easy part of the article. Next I’d have to talk about whether Edel had been successful in the task she’d laid out. No question in my mind that the food would be successful—but whether the woman and the restaurant would make it in Key West was up for debate.

  The screen door squeaked open, then slammed shut behind Rodrigo, who carried two enormous black bags of garbage to the Dumpsters a hundred feet away. He lingered at the end of the alley, lit up a cigarette, and leaned against the wall of the building next door, which housed the public restrooms. At first glance, I thought he was killing time, looking at nothing in particular—the sky, the diesel tanks, the weeds bordering the open space behind the Bistro. Probably relieved to be out of Edel’s spotlight for a few peaceful moments. But then I noticed the flowers laid out on the ground. I got up and walked over.

  “Hola,” I said when I got nearer to Rodrigo. Pathetic, but the only Spanish I knew.

  He startled, then grunted a greeting in reply.

  When he leaned to straighten a paper weighted down by several pieces of coral rock, I realized he’d been standing over a mini shrine to Juan Carlos: photos of the man in his New York restaurant, toasting the cameraman with a glass of wine and a cigarette, and, at the bottom, a photo of him and Edel, arms around each other. In earlier, happier times. And in front of the photos, a pile of wilting flowers—roses mostly, with a few carnations mixed in.

  “Good man,” Rodrigo said, his words perfect though his accent was heavy.

  “Did you know him long?” I asked.

  “Twenty years New York. Then I followed her.” He jerked his head toward the restaurant. “Hate cold. And my family’s Miami.”

  “Did you see him before the fire?”

  He glanced behind him, looking both ways, as if he worried that I’d set a trap. “No cops?”

  I shook my head and held my palms open. Which could have meant anything, but if he told me something that would lead to the killer or a shooter, I wouldn’t keep it to myself.

  “They fight,” he said. “Like always, only worse.”

  “A physical fight?” I asked.

  He put his hands around his own throat and squeezed.

  Edel stepped onto the porch, beckoning frantically for me. “Hayley?”

  I patted Rodrigo’s shoulder and trotted back to the restaurant.

  “What was all that about?” Edel’s eyes had narrowed, her hands on her hips.

  “I think he’s in mourning,” I said. “He was talking about Juan Carlos.” I did not mention the pantomimed choking. Not yet.

  “Paul Woolston is in the house,” Edel said, after one final glare in Rodrigo’s direction.

  The New York Times critic. I felt a little frisson of excitement—a current of the same seemed to be running through the kitchen staff, too. They were working faster, their faces intent, chattering about the meaning of the visit—the possible benefits. And costs, if he didn’t like the food. What would he order? Should they send him something extra? Who had come with him?

  I peered through a crack from the swinging door leading from kitchen to dining room. Woolston had been seated at a table for two near the window overlooking the harbor. Despite his sway in the world of food-obsessed Americans, he looked like an ordinary diner, maybe a little too recently deplaned from New York to have relaxed completely. His companion, a middle-aged woman with streaked blond hair, was dressed in a black shift with pearls and kitten heels. Woolston himself wore sharply creased khaki trousers and a long-sleeve button-down shirt, also neatly ironed.

  An amber-colored cocktail sat in front of Woolston, and something pinkish—a cosmopolitan, maybe?—in front of his companion. Leo McCracken, Edel’s head waiter, was hovering near the table with a wine list and two leather-bound menus. Edel pushed the door closed, nearly pinching my fingers.

  “Wait a while until he’s had a chance to order his starters,” she snapped. “I don’t want it to look like I’ve set the dogs on him.” She grinned, baring teeth like a stray dog herself, a mutt that you couldn’t be sure was smiling or growling.

  Leo burst through the door into the kitchen, still holding the menus. “He knows we’re onto him,” he said. “He told me nothing extra from the kitchen. He wants what everyone else is getting when they order and nothing special.”

  “What did he order for starters?” Edel asked, her face relaxing a little.

  “They weren’t ready,” Leo said. “They wanted to enjoy their cocktails.”

  Edel took a small white bowl and filled
it with her smoked fish dip, then centered it on a plate and surrounded it with toast rounds. She shoved the finished plate at me. “Will you take this out? I’m too nervous to talk to him. I can’t bear to know they’re sitting there with nothing to eat.”

  So I stumbled out of the kitchen and over to the water-view table, a frozen smile on my face. “Hello, Mr. Woolston. I’m Hayley Snow, the food critic for the local style magazine, Key Zest. This dip comes with compliments of the chef. I know you said nothing special, but she couldn’t help herself.” I shrugged and grinned and slid the plate onto their table. The toast rounds shifted. I reached over to straighten them, then snatched my hand away. Good gravy, who would want my fingers all over their snacks?

  “Paul,” the woman said, “why don’t we ask Ms. Snow to join us?” Her eyes twinkled and a friendly smile played across her lips. “As long as you’re no longer incognito.”

  “Waiter!” said Paul, snapping his fingers at Leo. “This lady is joining us.” And to me: “What are you drinking?”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I would kill to … let me try that again. I didn’t mean to insert myself into your dinner …”

  “Since my cover appears to be blown already,” he said, pushing the third chair away from the table and motioning me to sit, “we might as well get some local insights.”

  “A glass of the Paco and Lola Albariño,” I told Leo as I took the seat between the food critic and his wife.

  “Never mind the wine just yet,” said Paul to the waiter. “This looks like a woman in need of a martini. Do you mind?” he asked me. “I’d like to sample something else from their bar without sliding under the table before the entrées arrive.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Lots of olives. Make it dirty.” Which I’d seen on bar menus but never actually sampled.

  Leo scurried off to fill the order while Mrs. Woolston chatted about the amazing weather and the sharp contrast with the polar vortex in New York.

  Within minutes, the martini was deposited in front of me. “Cheers and welcome to Key West,” I said, then clinked their glasses and took an esophagus-burning gulp. “I adore your column in the food section,” I said. “I so admire both what you say and the way you say it. Honest to god, if I could write a review like that …” I trailed off, horrified to find tears filling my eyes.

  The woman patted my hand. “I’m Margaret, by the way, the great critic’s wife.” She grinned. “You should call him Paul. Believe me, he didn’t always write like that and he’s had some excellent editing across the years.”

  “She knows how to take a man down a few pegs if his head swells too big,” said Paul with a chuckle. “She’s also in charge of exercising me, because, as you’ve probably discovered, spare tires around the waist are a serious side effect of the job.” He patted his belly, which had a pleasing roundness without wandering into a pot.

  “Now tell us about Key West. What should we see while we’re in town?” He spread a spoonful of Edel’s fish dip on a crusty piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. “This is very good, by the way, Margaret,” he told his wife. “The smoked fish is outstanding. But the dip has a nice bite to it, too. Tabasco and lime zest?” he asked me.

  “I can’t tell you her secrets, but doesn’t it taste like a dash of Old Bay Seasoning?” I said with a grin. “And a squeeze of lemon.”

  He tasted the dip again. “And maybe a bit of horseradish? I should have known. What else should we not miss on the menu?”

  So I told him about Edel’s signature yellow snapper, and the spaghetti Bolognese that wasn’t listed but he could request it, and the key lime parfaits. When we’d gone over the entire menu, he signaled for Leo and ordered the dishes I’d mentioned, plus half a dozen others.

  “Now,” said Margaret, “where should a brand-new tourist begin to explore this island?”

  “I always recommend that folks start with a ride on the Conch Tour Train. Don’t be put off by the crowds, because the ride gives you an overview of the island. And later you can go back to visit the places that catch your eye.”

  Then I began to describe my favorite tourist attractions—the Hemingway cats, the Custom House Museum, the sunset celebration, Truman’s Little White House, Fort Zachary Taylor park. I barely registered that Leo had brought a second round of cocktails and then set up a wine cooler to the left of the critic.

  But I did notice that I’d begun to feel tipsy, which made me garrulous. And bold. “Tell me about Juan Carlos’s restaurant in New York,” I said. “My mother was a huge fan. And you must have eaten there many times.”

  Paul exchanged a glance with his wife.

  “At least a dozen times over the past ten years,” he said, scratching his head with two fingers. “In fact we visited a couple of weeks ago, and, well—” He shrugged and sighed. “I was rather appalled at the deterioration in his dishes.”

  “In New York circles, Juan Carlos had always had the reputation for being the cooking genius of the pair,” Margaret added, her voice barely above a whisper. “I suspect some of that was old-fashioned sexism. But this visit got us wondering whether, in fact, Edel had been the more brilliant chef of the couple all along.”

  “What kinds of changes did you notice in the food?” I asked.

  Leo approached the table to show the wine bottle to Paul, who nodded briskly. Then the waiter opened the bottle, poured a taste for Paul to approve, and filled our glasses. “Bonne santé,” said Leo as he whisked away the empty cocktail glasses.

  I was careening toward a whopper headache tomorrow, but I sipped the wine, anyway. This was way too much fun to stop.

  “A couple of the items on his menu were oversalted,” Paul continued. “The fish was overcooked, and Margaret even felt that the bouillabaisse tasted the tiniest bit fishy.”

  “You know what I mean,” Margaret added. “Fish is fish, but fresh fish is vastly different from sea creatures who have lingered a day too long in the cooler.”

  “The restaurant was rather well-known for offering an unusual special any day you visited. At least one or two new dishes a week,” Paul said. “But the last time we dined there was absolutely nothing new. We asked our waiter about specials and he said no, Chef was concentrating on the standards.”

  “More like worn standbys.” Margaret laughed. “Like the old moccasins I can’t get my husband to throw away.” She winked at her husband.

  “I was literally appalled by some of the dishes I sampled. I was going to give it another shot,” he added, “because of their history. I hated to publish a critical review. After all, maybe I’d caught them on a particularly rough day. But then this tragedy happened.”

  “And that’s what gave him the idea of coming here,” said Margaret. “We could pay tribute to Juan Carlos at the same time we tried his wife’s new restaurant. We managed to get a flight at the very last minute. I have never turned down a trip to the tropics. But we’ve gone on too long,” she said, placing a manicured hand on my wrist. “Do tell us about your job.”

  If I hadn’t been so far into a big glass of Spanish white after two brain-numbing martinis, I would not have told the truth. As it was, I spilled everything, from how I’d followed a man to Key West and how quickly that relationship soured to how that led to my dream come true—my job as food critic at Key Zest.

  “But now,” I said glumly, “it looks like my run is over. One of the co-owners of the magazine has invited some investors and they want to revamp everything. Including firing staff and soliciting ads from the restaurants where we do our reviews.”

  “But that’s completely unprofessional,” Margaret exclaimed.

  “I think so.” I shrugged. “Of course, this is a small town and I can’t expect to be anonymous the way you are,” I said to Paul.

  “In most cases, anyway.” He broke into a wide grin. “Your man Leo was onto us the moment we sat down.”

  “Oh it wasn’t just that,” I said grinning back at him. “We knew you were coming yesterday. You’ve go
t a leak somewhere in your system.”

  “Probably one of these transplanted New Yorkers working in the kitchen,” said Margaret. “They all stay in touch, working their fingers on their phones like deranged monkeys. But enough about the famous critic. Why can’t you keep your job and work with the new investors?”

  “The owner can’t stand me,” I admitted. “If she manages to raise enough money to buy out my boss—or buy his silence—I’m finished.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Paul. “I bet you’ll find something else. This is a goofy business, anyway, eating for a living.”

  My heart plummeted. Had I really imagined that the New York Times restaurant critic would magically rescue me from my disastrous life?

  Then the food began to arrive at the table and it was hard to remain depressed. Who could maintain glum spirits in the face of a perfect Caesar salad or a yellowtail snapper pan-fried in butter and garnished with crispy scallions and julienned carrots and a whisker of ginger? Who could feel sad in the presence of shrimp and grits starring local Key West pinks?

  Paul dictated notes into his iPhone as he ate, and I overheard phrases such as “fresh and sweetly crisp” and “animated and lush, with a lingering burn.” And then the idea came to me for the perfect article about this night in Edel’s restaurant: a day in the life of the New York Times restaurant critic. I could talk about the food, but the food as seen through his eyes. And his life, bounding from one meal to the next, seldom at home with his own family, almost always eating more than he should. A meta review. If Key Zest didn’t wish to print it, someone else surely would. I explained the concept to Paul and he didn’t say no. So I pushed ahead, feeling absolutely gleeful and trying not to let that show.

  “I’ll text or e-mail you this week with a draft.”

  “Don’t feel obligated to show me what you write,” he said. “Most publications don’t want their subjects’ input. They tend to want all the juicy stuff removed.” We exchanged contact information as Leo returned to the table.

 

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