by Molly Fitz
He didn’t take the time to listen to her and wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulder. “People should learn to take a joke.” He let out another loud guffaw.
Victoria looked at her husband, but when he didn’t open his mouth to say a word, she turned and marched straight for the ladies’ room near the back of the bar with tears in her eyes.
Victor watched his wife go and then turned to Clive. “We can order for ourselves, thank you very much.”
Scarlett’s cheeks were bright pink, but Clive held her close. He opened his mouth to say more, but Victor simply held up a finger toward him and said, “Ah—Ah—” When Clive finally closed his mouth, Victor went on in a low, angry tone. “My wife suffers from serious depression, brought on by certain foods and life situations. I’ll ask you to keep your distance for the rest of the tour.”
Clive’s scoff was quieter than his earlier outbursts, but he repeated Victor’s words, “I’ll ask you to keep your distance,” in a mocking tone on the way back to his stool.
Victor ordered a water. Liam, it seemed, didn’t feel Clive Richards was worth arguing with, even if his abrasive attitude was wreaking havoc on the tour, and popped out of his own stool to have a conversation with the bartender.
Victoria was in the bathroom for so long that a drink and a platter of appetizers landed in front of me on the bar.
Amber already had a drink in her hand, but I didn’t notice until Clive said loud enough for us all to hear, “How old are you? Are you even allowed in here?”
Amber’s response couldn’t be heard at our end of the bar. She vacated her seat beside Scarlett to come and see what had arrived at our end.
“What are you having?” I asked at the same time she asked the same thing of me. I shrugged. “Actually, I have no idea. The bartender and Monsieur Dubois cooked up some sort of order for me.” Now that it had arrived, my control issues subsided. This seemed fun.
“I’m having a virgin mango margarita,” Amber told me, offering me a sip of her layered orange drink. I shook my head. I’d try some later, but I wanted to keep my palette clear for what had been chosen for me.
A platter filled with what looked like hot peppers arrived down the bar in front of Clive. Little tent cards with numbers sat among the peppers, reminding me of the markers used at crime scenes.
“Liam’s in for the challenge, right, mate?” Clive bellowed, badly imitating his accent. “Who else?”
“They’re having a pepper eating contest,” Amber explained. “Apparently, it’s a regular thing at this pub.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you’re not interested?”
She shook her head. “Not with him. He’s like a child who can’t get enough good attention, so he’ll try for any kind of attention.”
It surprised me when Monsieur Dubois stood from his stool. “You may count me in.” His voice was self-assured enough that we could all hear it. Two other gentlemen at a nearby table also volunteered to take part.
“This should be fun.” I elbowed Amber.
Most of the food on the platter before me was deep-fried, and I could only recognize the shape of the zucchini wedges. Everything else was a mystery. My golden drink was in a short heavy glass, with a floating mint leaf.
“A mint julep?” I asked the bartender. I had read up on Louisiana cuisine and knew the drink only by name. I’d never tasted one.
The bartender winked at me. “Donnie’s Irish Mint Julep. Taste it. It has our special twist.”
I took a small sip and then a bigger one. It wasn’t my favorite mix of flavors, but still so unique I had to figure out the possible ingredients. “What’s your special twist?”
The bartender only winked again and then moved down the bar to pick up discarded napkins as Clive and his competitors had consumed their first peppers seemingly without a problem.
“I bet that’s a fried pickle.” Amber pointed to something on my platter. Fried pickles were popular in West Virginia. However, I could only see their appeal when served with an appropriate entrée, not so much as an appetizer on their own.
“Go ahead,” I told her. “Try it and tell me.”
Amber slid onto Monsieur Dubois’s empty stool. She took a bite of pickle, and her eyes widened. “You have to try this, Mallory.”
“Why? Is it spicy?”
“There’s something in the batter.” She cut a small slice. “See if you can figure out what it is.”
While I chewed and considered, the bartender returned and answered my unasked question. “That’s buttermilk you’re tastin’. Nice, yes?”
Amber nodded hyperactively. “Nice!”
She sliced and divided the rest of the appetizers. This was normally my job, but I was so intrigued with my mystery mint julep, I sipped at it in an effort to place the ingredients.
The pepper competitors moved onto their next heat challenge. Some hand-waving in front of mouths and quick drinking followed.
“I told you to order milk,” Clive gritted out toward Scarlett, loud enough that the whole bar could probably hear. She lowered her head. Clive spoke quieter to her, and his contorted face told me they were angry words. A second later, she jumped up from her stool and ran for the ladies’ room, covering her face. That was becoming a habit with the women in our group.
“See? Child.” Amber raised her eyebrows and speared another chunk of deep-fried mystery food. “Okra?” she guessed, passing a speared chunk to me. I took it, glad she was along to help me eat all this fried food. If not for her, I would be rolling down Bourbon Street by the end of this tour.
I agreed it was okra, pleasantly surprised that Amber could place it, and she went on to tell me about the conversation she’d had with Scarlett.
“She works right here in the French Quarter and says it’s a lot of fun living in the city.”
“A lot of fun, even with that boyfriend?” I chuckled under my breath.
“Yeah, really. He’s critical of everything she says and everything she orders.” Amber shook her head. “I suppose being a food critic is the perfect job for Clive Richards.”
Just as she said his name, Clive threw up his hands, perturbed, and said, “I’m out,” clearly hating to lose. “But you guys have to endure the next round to be declared winners.” His words sounded like a threat.
Liam chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m out, too.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and took a big swig of his highball drink. The two other bar patrons also held up their hands and backed away.
Everyone looked to Monsieur Dubois, expecting his forfeit, but he popped the final hot pepper, a bright reddish-orange one, into his mouth. He stared at Clive Richards as he chewed and then swallowed, not even relieving the sting with a mouthful of water.
“We have another Donnie’s Pepper Champion, ladies and gentlemen!” The bartender offered a black and green T-shirt to Monsieur Dubois, and the people in the bar erupted in applause. Amber and I joined them.
“I must excuse myself,” Monsieur Dubois said and headed for the restrooms. Whether he was bothered by the heat or not, he kept his composure.
I looked at Amber, her last words sitting with me. “Is Clive Richards really a food critic?”
She nodded. Monsieur Dubois had a clear dislike for the man, but I’d thought it had been a simple personality clash. I wondered if Clive had actually given Monsieur Dubois’s restaurant a poor review.
Scarlett returned from the restroom with a forced smile and watery eyes. She remained standing to finish her drink, not getting close enough to Clive that he could blame her for his recent loss. A second later, he stood and beckoned the bartender to the wall of T-shirts.
“That Dubois character cheated!” Clive’s words were whispered, but even his whispers were louder than the average talking voice. He pulled out some cash, but the bartender shook his head.
Apparently, Donnie’s Irish Pub T-shirts weren’t for sale, even in the event of an unfair loss. They could only be won.
I had barely turned back to
Amber when Liam O’Conner popped off his barstool and clapped his hands. “It’s time to move onto our next stop, ladies and gents.” His tight smile made me wonder if we were cutting this stop short due to Clive’s abrasiveness.
Everyone downed their drinks, gathered their things, and headed for the door. Amber had been snapping photos since arriving in New Orleans and pulled out her phone to get a snapshot of the antique bar. I took an extra second to try the rest of the items on my platter, and Clive must have still felt the heat from the peppers because he knocked back two more cocktails and a glass of water before heading for the door. By the time we made it outside, Monsieur Dubois had reappeared, looking composed, and Liam explained the directions to the next stop on our food tour. Clive and Scarlett stood a few feet down the sidewalk, arguing.
“We’ve barely started the tour!” he hissed.
“I have to work. I told you that.” Scarlett stepped away, but he grabbed for her hand to tether her back.
Scarlett tried to yank her hand away, but Clive held it firmly.
Before I knew what was happening, Amber approached the arguing couple. “Have a great day at work!” she told Scarlett, narrowing her eyes at Clive.
This wasn’t the first time Amber had acted impulsively, leaving me imagining a hundred awful repercussions. But a moment later, Scarlett snatched her hand away, skirted around the group, and said, “Bye, everybody!” in a too-bright tone. “I’ll see you at the first stop tomorrow!”
As I watched her go, I couldn’t help but think that if I had a boyfriend like Clive, I’d make up any excuse to get away from him.
Chapter Seven
As tasty as the appetizers had been, I hoped Liam’s Irish influence didn’t mean we’d spend our entire two days in New Orleans at Irish pubs. It worried me even more when Clive sidled up to Lisa and expressed the same concern.
“I’m sure Liam knows what he’s doing,” Lisa argued from in front of Amber and me. Liam was at the front of our pack, trying to smooth things over with the Kinsleys, and Clive, this one time, seemed to take the hint and had fallen behind.
Although, the more he spoke, the more I wondered if he had only fallen back to stir up some gossip. “That guy is choosing ridiculous places. If you ask me, he’s taking bribes from these restaurants, trying to get a little kickback. Maybe I’ll call the magazine, get the guy fired.”
With Clive’s bluster, he neglected to notice that Liam had stopped up ahead to speak about a statue on the corner. By Liam’s wide eyes and stark expression, I guessed he’d heard that last bit of Clive’s plans.
“Maybe we should check on Hunch?” I suggested to Amber, mostly to break the strange silence, but she said she wanted to order first.
This third restaurant wasn’t far, but apparently, it was hard to find. As soon as Liam regained his composure, he said, “This is the statue you’ll want to look for if you’re coming back, as the alley is unmarked.”
Amber touched the trombone on the bronze jazz player and then snapped a photo of it. Someone had strung purple, gold, and green Mardi Gras beads around his neck.
We made our way around the statue and into a nearly deserted alley. There were no signs down the alleyway at all.
Thirty feet along, Liam found a cedar door with a black iron handle. It made me nervous, taking a sixteen-year-old girl into an unmarked door down a deserted back alley, but once Liam had the door held open for us, the joyful cacophony from inside had me feeling more at ease.
There had to be fifty people crammed into the small restaurant, all talking loudly to be heard over the speaker’s big band music. Even with dim lighting, it was easy to find the large empty table with a reserved sign in the middle of the room.
Soon, Liam stood at the end of an oblong wood table, offering a speech on the history of the local cuisine served here at Café Ennoe.
Amber and I slipped silently into two chairs at the opposite end of the table.
“Anyone of you not tried a po’ boy yet?” Liam surveyed the table, where Amber and I were the only two raising our hands.
I knew a po’ boy was a sandwich with deep-fried fish at its center. As appealing as that might have been any other day, and as happy as I was to finally have landed at a restaurant with some local cuisine, I had just wolfed down an array of deep-fried hors d’ouevres and could do with something lighter.
“The po’ boy, originally called the poor boy, is a sandwich developed by the Martin brothers, right here in the heart of New Orleans. The Martin brothers ran the streetcars, and during the strike of 1929, they created a special sandwich to feed their fellow out-of-work operators.”
As Liam went on, I sighed, knowing I absolutely would be trying a po’ boy. I was a sucker for any food that had a story behind it.
“Café Ennoe serves the best po’ boy in town, hands down.”
Clive scoffed at this sentiment. He leaned into Lisa and whispered something. She pulled away, but the man with few boundaries didn’t notice and only leaned closer.
Liam went on, pointedly keeping his gaze from Clive. “I suggest the original oyster loaf if you’re lookin’ for something steeped in culture.”
At this, Clive turned up his nose and jabbered on to the rest of the table with his plethora of opinions on the subject. “The oyster loaf is the only one I wouldn’t get. Go for the fried shrimp or crawfish. Trust me.” He leaned back and crossed his arms.
Our waitress arrived and passed out a string of Mardi Gras beads to each of us as she circled our table. All the wait staff wore cream blouses with black skirts and burgundy aprons. Our waitress had bronze skin and dark hair. Her name tag read: JULIANA. Her strong French accent elevated the choices. “Our most popular po’ boy are the oyster, fried shrimp, fried crawfish, fried catfish, and Louisiana hot sausage. Some of our less common varieties are French fries, fried chicken, duck, and rabbit. We also have a sampler po’ boy platter, where you may choose three kinds.”
Amber and I knew what we would be ordering. Now it was just a matter of choosing our varieties.
Our waitress stopped as she made it to Clive, but then took a sudden step away, pointing at his neck. Her eyes widened, and she said, “Maudeet!”
“What?” He touched the antique eye-like charm.
“You must take that off in here!”
Her tone was grave, but Clive only raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “You can’t tell me what to do, honey. My girlfriend gave this to me. Besides, it’s antique.”
The waitress outstretched a strand of purple Mardi Gras beads toward him, but didn’t step any closer. As she turned to walk away, she balled her fists and muttered, “Mort,” which I recognized, even though I’d never taken French. My French teacher in culinary arts school used to flap his hands up and use that word whenever a dish was past its prime and no longer edible. It meant dead.
The waitress rushed off for more beads, but this was the opening Victoria had been waiting for to send a jab in Clive’s direction.
“Where did your date go, again?” Victoria sneered at Clive. He looked stunned and then angered by the question.
I avoided the tension by turning to Monsieur Dubois. “Have you had a po’ boy from here before?”
He raised his eyebrows. “At Café New Orleans? Ah, but of course.”
Clive stood, slapped his Mardi Gras beads down on the table, and bellowed loud enough for all of us to hear, “Get me a shrimp po’ boy. I’m getting some air.” He knocked our chairs as he pushed past us, and I wondered how many drinks he’d guzzled back in our short time at Donnie’s Irish Pub.
I turned my attention back to Monsieur Dubois. “Café New Orleans? Is that an affectionate term from the locals for Café Ennoe?”
Monsieur Dubois smirked but didn’t answer, and my mind turned over, wondering what I was missing. Then it hit me. With no signage, I’d only ever heard Café Ennoe spoken. “Is it spelled Café N.O.?”
Monsieur Dubois nodded once, chuckling.
“What kind do you suggest? Have
you tried the oyster loaf that Liam suggested?”
Monsieur Dubois shrugged one shoulder. “Oyster loaf is fine. I enjoy catfish or Louisiana hot sausage the best.”
I nodded, and when Juliana made it around to me, I ordered those three varieties, while Amber chose French fries, fried chicken, and duck.
Monsieur Dubois ordered a ham po’ boy, which hadn’t been on the list and definitely hadn’t been listed among his favorites. As soon as the waitress gave him a green strand of Mardi Gras beads and moved on to the Kinsleys and their long list of food requirements, Monsieur Dubois explained without me having to pry.
“I must always try new flavors when I visit the local eateries.”
That made sense. As much as I didn’t want to stir up any agitation, I wanted to ask about his restaurant business before Clive returned. “Have you ever run into Mr. Richards professionally?”
Monsieur Dubois cleared his throat and looked down, clearly uncomfortable. Maybe it made Amber uncomfortable as well because she popped out of her chair.
“I’m going to run back and check on Hunch.”
As she left, Monsieur Dubois asked, “What is a hunch?”
I smiled at his attempt to change the subject. I had been in the investigation business for too long to get diverted that easily. “Hunch is my cat. Unfortunately, my cat-sitter ducked out at the last minute, so he’s along for the ride. But you were about to tell me about Clive Richards?”
“Po’ boy would be a good name for Monsieur Richards. He visited my restaurant as a food critic only one time and he walked out without a payment!” Monsieur Dubois’s eyes flared, the liveliest and most emotional I’d seen him. “He demanded if I didn’t compensate the bill, he would write a scathing review.”
“And he left a bad review?” It sounded as though Monsieur Dubois didn’t have a choice about comping the meal.
Before I could ask more, Monsieur Dubois stood from his chair. “Please excuse me.” He headed for the restrooms near the door, but I suspected he was only trying to escape my questions.
While he was gone, I reprimanded myself. Why did I always have to nose into everyone’s business?