Lovesick

by James Driggers

  In the evenings after the kitchen was closed, and the dishwashers had finished cleaning for the night, and the night porter was napping behind the front desk, Butcher was free to explore the kitchen on his own. He loved especially to wander into the pastry room, a section of the kitchen set off from the rest of the kitchen by two swinging doors. During the afternoons, the doors to the pastry room would be propped open for easy access, and no matter how noisy or dirty or crowded the kitchen itself was—waiters calling out orders, the cooks yelling to each other on the line to fire a course, Roland barking loud above the rest—the pastry room was always ordered, quiet, serene. It was the only place in the kitchen where women were allowed to work, and Butcher noted even Ronald treated these women, even though every one of them was black, with a certain deference. The women cranked out pies, cakes, cobblers, banana pudding, biscuits, rolls, tea cakes without seeming to ever raise even a slight dust of flour. Butcher could feel these women in the pastry room deep in the night, long after they had gone for the day, could feel the heart and love that they put into these dishes to be sliced and sold to strangers. He understood what that meant to them, and he drew strength from it. He was tempted to make something for them, morning bread fresh from the oven when they arrived. A mysterious gesture of love and appreciation. But he knew he could not risk it.

  The hotel, and the kitchen in particular, had been busy getting ready for the arrival of “Colonel Claiborne’s Ladies,” which is what everyone called the women who were coming to compete in the Mystic White contest. Butcher feigned ignorance, appeared disinterested in the contest, though the topic was certainly the buzz. Very little of it was flattering to Claiborne or the women.

  “Wonder if they know they gonna have to fuck him to win that contest. They should be calling it The Lady in the White Knickers.”

  “Maybe he’ll just have ’em make doughnuts on his old-man pecker pole.”

  “The only white hat they gonna be wearing is a Klan hood.” Butcher ignored the chatter, concerned himself with the layout of the baking room, where each of the women would prepare her recipe for judging. Once the initial recipe had been accepted, the contest rules became more complex. There were several categories that had to be covered: biscuits/rolls, batter, pie crust, cake, cookie. Also, each recipe was to be a part of a larger menu, and while Butcher had painstakingly mapped out the details for each meal, it had not been easy. Virginia was terrified of all the multiple components, and he had fought with her over what to include for each menu—she was not confident she could make any/most/all of the items he suggested. However, he was just as adamant that she could learn. “Besides,” he said, referring to the guidelines, “it says ‘each contestant will choose recipes that best showcase her abilities as a cook and as a hostess.’ They aren’t gonna ask you to make anything that ain’t on this list. This isn’t about making you look bad. And I am here to make you look good.” He coaxed, he prodded, and soon they had crafted the three required menus for submission.

  Menu One—Weekend Breakfast

  Half a Grapefruit with Maraschino Cherry

  Shirred Eggs

  Sausage

  Fried Potatoes

  Popovers with Homemade Preserves

  Coffee

  Virginia had wanted to do waffles or pancakes since that would satisfy the batter requirements, but Butcher insisted on the popovers. “Every one of those women is gonna make a waffle. Or eggs and grits with biscuits and gravy. You have to do something different. Separate yourself from the crowd. Don’t want to just plop a mess of grits on the plate—I don’t care how good they are. You might as well be slopping a hog. A popover is as simple as a pancake batter, but it is like eating a cloud. Plus, I will give you some homemade preserves to serve along with it. Just tell them you brought ’em from your own pantry. That will impress them. Besides, won’t be anyone to question you about that. And it will show you have skills beyond just baking.”

  “But we spent so much time with the biscuits,” she complained. “Am I just to abandon those now?”

  “We can do the biscuits for the Sunday dinner,” he said.

  Menu Two—Sunday Dinner

  Cream of Tomato Soup

  Fried Chicken

  Mashed Potatoes and Gravy

  Garden Peas

  Biscuits

  Coconut Cake

  “This one’s got flour in the chicken breading, a cake, and the biscuits, so you have three things to show,” he said, holding three fingers in the air. “Plus, chicken for Sunday dinner will make them think you are a lady of real refinement.”

  “I am a lady of real refinement,” she snapped back.

  “A lady of means,” he said. “A chicken is not as easy to come by as a piece of pork or stew beef. You watch. Those other women will have a mock turtle soup and call it sophisticated.”

  “I could never make all of this in a million years,” she complained. “It’s too much.”

  “You won’t have to make it all,” he replied. “I guarantee they are only going to be interested in what you tell them you can bake. You have to sell them on the idea of it. And when you roll out those angel biscuits, they probably will just write you the check right there and then on the spot.”

  The final menu—Ladies’ Luncheon—had proved the most cantankerous of all. Butcher had wanted to do a cold menu, which he explained to Virginia would show her to be a hostess who knew how to plan ahead. The problem was that as the centerpiece to the menu, he had proposed a baked pâté in aspic, which would fulfill the pie crust requirement, but also something he said was so refined that it would elevate her to an entirely different level. Virginia protested no sane woman would ever attempt such a thing.

  “That’s just because they couldn’t think of it. Won’t imagine a savory pie. They will all be doing lemon meringue or peach or chocolate chess. I guarantee it,” said Butcher. “And this is as simple as the pie crust really. Ain’t nothing more than minced pork baked in a shell. A meatloaf when you get down to it. It’s just when you slice it that it shows off.” Butcher had seen Laurent slice one to lay out on a platter for the dining room at the brothel. Spiced ground pork encased in a shimmering golden pool of aspic surrounded by a delicate, flaky pastry. He had called it a country pâté (pâté de campagne). Butcher didn’t think there was anything country about it. It was the most pleasing dish he had ever seen—worthy of a king or queen.

  He had finally convinced her, but only after Mona had taken his side. They had fallen into a rhythm again, he sensed.

  “Remember when we had the chicken liver spread on toast?” she asked. “You said how much you liked that—how elegant it was. Pâté of chicken livers,” she said, as if scrolling the words through her memory. “It was on the menu at the hotel.”

  “Where was that?” asked Butcher.

  “Before we were in Fayetteville,” she said. “We were staying in a hotel in—”

  “What difference does it make?” said Virginia. “Yes, I remember the chicken liver spread. Perhaps you are right. It would make a good impression. But you can’t call it anything that sounds foreign. That will sound like I’m putting on airs. And country just sounds . . . well, so common.”

  And so the final menu fell into place.

  Menu Three—Ladies’ Luncheon

  Tomato Juice Cocktail with Celery

  Waldorf Salad

  Farmhouse Pâté in Pastry

  Chilled Asparagus

  Shortbreads with Berries and Cream

  Butcher liked that Mona had taken his side against her boss, tried not to imagine that it meant more than it did. Tried to squash down the feeling that he had become sweet on her. He had missed her since he had left Fayetteville, and he was looking forward to her arrival in Atlanta. She had awakened something in him, and though he was surely twice her age, she had made him feel like a young man again.

  He agreed to work any shifts that were available in the days before and during the contest. He had no idea when exactly Mona and M
iss Virginia would arrive, and it came almost as a surprise when Mona opened the door to the room when Butcher had been sent to deliver afternoon tea. She motioned to the table in front of the window.

  “Put it down over there,” she said. “And don’t worry about pouring. I will do that for Miss Virginia.” Then, closing the door behind him, she added, “Don’t you look a sight all dressed up in a uniform.”

  “It’s hotter than Hades, I can tell you that,” said Butcher. “And it scratches like hell.” Miss Virginia stood in the corner in a simple celery-colored dress. She was as still as a mannequin in a window, but he could tell she was nervous from the way she held her hands, clasping and unclasping them in front of her.

  “Good afternoon, George,” she said.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Virginia. I hope you had an easy travel.”

  “Pleasant enough. So how are things here?”

  “Some of the ladies started arriving yesterday. They ain’t been going out much, though. I guess most everybody is keeping to themselves.”

  “Waiting for the opening reception to make an entrance,” she said.

  “I saved these for you,” he said, pulling a neatly folded stack of newspaper articles from his pocket. “They have been writing about all of you and the contest in the paper. It gives the names of everyone who is coming. And the schedule of how the contest will run.”

  “I have the schedule,” she said. “They sent that to me last week. The names as well. But it was kind of you to go to the trouble. Who knows? Perhaps there is something here that might be of use.”

  “Maybe so,” said Butcher, turning to Mona. “And how are you enjoying Atlanta, little miss?”

  However, before Mona could reply, Virginia interjected. “I don’t mean to interrupt this reunion, but it might not be appropriate for us to be receiving the colored help in our hotel room,” she said.

  “I understand,” said Butcher. “Besides, I have work to do myself. Everyone here is on high alert, like when the general would come to address the soldiers. Y’all are a big deal.” He opened the door and in an exaggerated voice repeated the words that he had been told to say to all guests, “Welcome to Atlanta. If there is anything we can do to assist you in your stay, please let one of the staff know.”

  After George closed the door, Virginia motioned to Mona. “Pour me a cup of that tea, will you, sweetie? And put just a drop in it to help settle my nerves?” Virginia sat in the overstuffed upholstered chair by the window and began to read the clippings Butcher had brought her. She started with the most recent, which was from the Journal from the previous Sunday:

  OUT AND ABOUT WITH JOCELYN

  More than a Cooking Contest:

  The Best Will Rise to the Top

  By Jocelyn Hind Crowley, Society Editor

  Dear Readers,

  In an event that is sure to have housewives and society mavens alike across the region buzzing like bees in a hive, this weekend brings to Atlanta one of the season’s most highly anticipated events: the Mystic White Flour Company’s search for The Lady in the White Hat. Clayton Claiborne II, President of Mystic White, says he is hosting the competition to find the model of Southern womanhood, who will represent the company for the next year: “Someone who holds the ideals of family, honor, and home as sacred.” The competition, he continues, is not just about cooking. “It is about preserving the principles that represent us as Southerners.” Colonel Claiborne, as he is known to his friends, has spared no expense in mounting the contest, opening the doors to his grand Plantation House Hotel for the ladies and specially invited guests, including yours truly.

  As we have noted in previous columns, festivities begin on Thursday afternoon at a tea and fashion show where each contestant will model a white hat of her own design. I am looking forward to seeing how each woman will customize this “crowning” accessory as a reflection of her personality. Members of our own chapter of the DOC will serve as honorary ambassadors for the event, and I will be on hand to interview the ladies about their menus (Weekend Breakfast, Sunday Dinner, and Ladies’ Luncheon) and their ideas on what makes a successful and gracious hostess.

  And did I tell you, faithful readers, the colonel has also asked me to be one of the esteemed panel of judges? That is an honor, indeed, considering that the other two members of the judging competition will be the Plantation House’s renowned Chef Roland and the colonel himself. The way to a man’s heart may be through his appetite, but I imagine they may welcome a bit of feminine insight to help them in their considerations.

  The ladies are traveling from all regions of Dixie—from as far north as Richmond and from deep in the heart of Texas—to be here. Their interests and profiles show what an exemplary field of competitors has been chosen:

  Muriel Sallis lives in Richmond, Virginia, and devotes her free time to maintaining gravesites of the fallen Confederate heroes.

  Jubal Hart, from Abilene, Texas, says that her grandchildren are her pride and joy, and her favorite people to cook for.

  Virginia Yeager hails from Fayetteville, North Carolina, where the war widow devotes her days to charity.

  Cornelia “Neelie” Bryson, a native of Mobile, Alabama, tells us that she enjoys cooking for church socials where her squash casserole is always a favorite.

  Inez Honeycutt has traveled from Chattanooga, Tennessee, where she works as a third-grade teacher. Inez also teaches Sunday school and sings in the choir at church.

  Wadena Chastain represents our own fair state and hails from Savannah. Not a surprise that she says peach pie is her favorite.

  Patricia “Patsy” Smith resides in Walterboro, South Carolina, where she tends her garden and raises prize-winning flowers. She is also an avid cake decorator.

  Martha Humphrey comes from Meridian, Mississippi, and is a gold-star mother. Her chocolate pound cake recipe was the one her son always requested.

  Good luck to all these extraordinary women, and remember . . .

  Jocelyn will be your eyes and ears for this momentous and historic event, just as she is for all things of social importance in Atlanta.

  Virginia dropped the clipping on the table and swept the whole bunch of them to the floor with her hand. She picked up her tea.

  “Aren’t you going to read the rest of them?” asked Mona.

  “Why bother,” said Virginia. “They’re all the same. These bitches or the ones back in Fayetteville. They all think that just because their daddy or granddaddy fought and died for the Confederacy that they deserve some special attention. They make me sick to my stomach. Why don’t you draw a hot bath for me? I want to rest before the reception this afternoon.”

  Virginia closed her eyes and could hear the water running in the bath. What a bunch of dolts, she thought to herself. A bunch of stuck-up society bags with dreams of grandeur. She would wipe the floor with them. It would be almost as easy as making a batch of Butcher’s popovers. He had been right about those. They were so simple, she could now probably make them blindfolded. And they were perfect every time—the shell would pull apart gently only to melt in your mouth when it had cooled a bit. Yes, easy as Butcher’s popovers. No, not Butcher’s, she corrected herself. My popovers. Miss Virginia’s popovers.

  6

  Lane cake . . .

  The reception was scheduled to begin at three, but Virginia knew some would want to be late to create interest. Virginia thought it not wise to show up late for a job interview, for she understood that was what this hustle and show was about: It was an audition. She had been on enough of those to know what worked. There were always categories of girls—some too eager, some absolutely unqualified, and those with an attitude as enticing as vinegar. But there were a couple of girls every time who knew they could have the job if they wanted it. She could see it in the way they carried themselves, the way they sat, the way they quietly drew attention to themselves. They usually did get the job.

  George had that attitude. He knew he could cook any of these women straight out the ba
ck door of any kitchen. And she agreed that he probably was correct. But this was about more than who could make the best biscuit. She recognized that from the initial request for a photo. These women would run a gamut of sizes, shapes, dispositions, but there was one thing of which she was certain—they would all be white women of a certain age and background.

  For the tea, they had each been asked to wear a hat of their “own creation or personalization” as a “statement of her originality and unique character.” Virginia had found a picture in Photoplay of Constance Bennett wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat with a satin ribbon that she liked, so she took the picture to the milliner at Belk Brothers Department Store, and together they fashioned a similar version for her. Virginia’s hat was also made of white straw, but there was no crown. The milliner wove creamy apricot ribbon around to form a latticework top. “Like a pie,” she said, tying a ribbon around to hide her stitch work. And for a pin to hold the ribbon there was one topped with silver filigreed wings like a butterfly . . . or an angel. Angel biscuits. Virginia thought it simple and sophisticated. That was going to be how she presented herself. Like the girl who knew she could have this part if she wanted it.

  The reception was to be held in the Ladies’ Lounge of the hotel just off the main dining room and opposite the Gentlemen’s Lounge. The room was light, breezy, an extravaganza of wicker and chintz upholstery in contrast to what she supposed were the deep leathers and wood of the Gentlemen’s Lounge. The room buzzed with women, the elite of Atlanta society, all dressed in summer silks, their fashionable best. Here to see her. It made her happy to think that. For the occasion, Virginia had chosen a cream-colored charmeuse with a pleated apricot bodice to match the ribbon in her hat. She studied the room briefly, then walked to the women sitting at the registration table.