Chapter 3
AS IT TURNED OUT, THE TOUR OF THE MARLETTE Robbins Center of the Arts was quite entertaining. It didn’t hurt that we all carried glasses of champagne through the facility and as I showed the chefs the main auditorium, the pottery classrooms and kiln areas, the spacious textile workshop complete with weaving looms, the woodworking room, and the smaller spaces devoted to painting, drawing, and jewelry making, they became quite jovial.
At first, I’d wondered if I should have stopped Bryce St. John and Maurice Bruneau from grabbing bottles of bubbly from two flummoxed Voltaire’s waiters as we left the Dragonfly Room. But when the good-humored men passed out glasses to their fellow chefs, I decided the sparkling wine might lend a celebratory air to our little trip around the building.
“We’ve seen all of the other arts, no?” Maurice asked me, tipping the last of the champagne into Charlene’s cup. She thanked him in French and the two of them clinked glasses and exchanged companionable smiles. “Where does the culinary magic happen in this beautiful place?”
I was pleased to hear him praise the center. The facility meant a great deal to me personally because of my connection to the man it was named after, but I knew that every Inspiration Valley resident was proud that our little town featured such a magnificent structure dedicated solely to arts education.
“The architects devoted an entire wing to the culinary arts,” I told him and saw the chefs stand a fraction taller. In that brief moment, I realized it was unlikely that any member of this group had had a quick or painless rise to the top of their field. To become a renowned chef, each one of them must have paid his or her dues working endless hours, enduring biting criticism, staying on the cutting edge of the latest food trends, and continually honing their skills.
When we reached the cooking demonstration area, I turned to my followers and said, “Through the door behind me is a service kitchen where food is prepared for functions like tonight’s dinner. But this kitchen is where the culinary arts are taught. It’s not much bigger than some of your TV studio sets, but all the appliances are state-of-the-art. Klara, this gas stove has just been installed, and since you will be the first one presenting a demonstration, you’ll be the first one to use it.” I gestured at the rest of the gleaming equipment. “How different is this setting from the kitchens where you first learned to cook?” I asked, genuinely interested in how they’d gotten their starts.
“My oma’s kitchen was messy and wonderful,” Klara answered. “She had knickknacks everywhere and her recipes were written in chicken scratch in a battered old notebook.” She seemed to quickly get lost in the memory. “Food stains were on every page and she always put on this silly ruffled apron even if she was only boiling water. Oh, that woman could make anything! That’s why my cookbook is called My Grandmother’s Hearth.”
Bryce St. John was listening raptly and when Klara was finished he ran his fingers through his golden hair and said, “I think your relationship with your grandmother comes through in your food, Klara. Me? I don’t have any heartwarming stories to share. I learned to cook in the Navy and my skills have come a long way since the slop I used to serve to those poor sailors.”
I hate to admit it, but after having seen Bryce St. John jogging earlier in the day, I spent a few pleasant seconds imagining how he’d look in uniform.
Leslie Sterling disturbed my fantasy by sliding a hand across one of the pristine butcher blocks and saying, “I got a job working for a catering company so I could pay for college. I loved the work so much that I dropped out of school and became the company’s manager.”
Joel Lang examined his reflection in the metal blade of a carving knife. “I was born in China. My parents were poor farmers and their dream was for me to be the first Lang to escape a life of backbreaking manual labor.” He put the knife down. “When I decided to become a chef, they told me I’d dishonored my ancestors—that I should have become a successful businessman.”
Everyone was silent, caught up in Lang’s raw emotion.
“That’s why I try to use something Chinese in every dish,” he explained. “I want to pay my respects to my family’s heritage and to my country whenever I cook. Thankfully, my parents lived long enough to attend the grand opening of the Purple Orchid and to see me fulfill their dream of me as a businessman, but sadly, they died shortly afterward.” He dropped his gaze.
I turned my attention to Maurice, who’d once been Lang’s partner at the Purple Orchid. He was staring at his former friend and co-chef with a wistful expression and for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glimpse of longing in the Frenchman’s blue eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder what had caused the rift between Joel and Maurice, his former mentor. “Although I taught Joel many, many things, he also educated me,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I didn’t fully appreciate the way a great chef can blend two seemingly opposing flavors to create an entire new experience for the palate. We French have great skill with the artistry of presentation and I was born with a raw talent for dreaming up beautiful dishes, but when Joel and I worked together, we made meals that had even the toughest critics swooning at our feet.”
Charlene glanced at Maurice with admiration. “For me, most flavors are coaxed forth using flour, butter, and sugar. My parents owned a small café in Nice. They were famous for their light-as-air croissants and their chocolate pot de crème. My passion for all things sweet began at a very early age. It was always my dream to be the pastry chef at a famous restaurant.” She dropped her arm and turned to Joel. “I’m sure your parents were just as proud of you as mine are of me.”
Joel bowed stiffly in gratitude, but as he straightened, his gaze met Maurice’s and I saw a shadow of hurt in his eyes.
Maurice’s expression of wistfulness instantly disappeared. “They would have been more proud if you hadn’t ruined everything by trying to have your finger in every pie. You should have left the finances to me. But no, you did things behind my back because you thought your way was better.” His mouth tightened into a thin line of anger. “See where that got us! That’s how you decided to repay me for all I’ve done?”
Wordlessly, Joel Lang walked away and Maurice watched him go, his fists clenched and a look of venom on his face.
“There’s always a flare-up of testosterone when a bunch of chefs get together. It’s like two roosters squaring off in the henhouse,” Klara announced with false gaiety. I appreciated her attempt at levity and realized that there was far too much tension in the room. Before I could alter the atmosphere by reviewing Saturday’s lineup, Klara’s cell phone rang. The absurd sound of her yodeling ringtone made everyone giggle, successfully diffusing the tension. Klara excused herself and strode off to a corner to answer the call.
Meanwhile, Leslie and Charlene busied themselves by opening and closing drawers. Joel was also trying to become familiar with every utensil, pan, and pantry item before tomorrow’s demonstration.
“That was Annie Schmidt, my assistant,” Klara informed me once she’d dropped her cell phone back into her Chanel purse. “I wanted her and my sous chef to join us so they know the lay of the land. Annie keeps me organized and looking good, and Dennis is my second pair of hands in the kitchen.”
“And I remember reading somewhere that your husband has never missed a taping,” I said. “That’s so sweet.”
She sighed happily. “I’ve got it good, don’t I? I never imagined that I’d have an entourage. And it’s going to be even bigger this weekend because Ryan’s kids from his first marriage are flying in from New York to be here.”
I was going to need a personal assistant to keep all these people straight!
Annie arrived a few minutes later, pressing a phone to her ear with one hand and holding an appointment book with the other. A slim blonde with delicate hands and fine features, Annie wore stylish cat-eye glasses and a cotton dove gray dress. Everything about her was meticulously tidy. Concluding her phone call, she showed Klara the entries she’d made in the appointment book.
“Excellent.” Klara rubbed her hands together. “I expect the new cookbook to sell out. But I’m surprised that the bookstore owner ordered so many of Joel’s Fusing Asian. I thought I was the headliner at the signing.” She studied Joel Lang with displeasure. “I don’t know why our two books are being released on the same day anyway.”
Speaking in soothing tones, Annie assured Klara that she was the true star of the event. “Your dress is laid out in your hotel room. You’re going to look beautiful at tonight’s dinner.”
That got Klara’s attention. Checking her watch, she gave a little gasp and hustled over to where I stood. “Lila, are we finished here? I need time to primp before our little get-together this evening. You and Annie can show Dennis where everything is, right?”
I nodded. “Sure.” I cleared my throat and spoke loudly enough for all the chefs to hear. “I just wanted to make sure everyone was comfortable with the space, so if you’d like to change before dinner, you can head out whenever you’d like.”
Most of the chefs were finished examining the space, and it wasn’t long before Annie and I were the only ones left in the kitchen. She asked me a few questions about when the taped segments would air and on which television stations. As we talked, I was impressed by her thoroughness. Klara had found a real gem in Annie Schmidt.
Her sous chef, Dennis Chapman, was another matter. He stormed in the room and, without even bothering to introduce himself to me, started to complain to Annie about all the work he had to do.
“Klara barely lifts a finger.” he grumbled. “And she never gives me enough time to prepare! Tonight, while she and Ryan enjoy a free meal, I’ll be crushing spices and labeling bowls of ingredients.”
Annie gave him a sympathetic look. “One of the head chef jobs you’ve applied for will come through, you’ll see.”
“It’d better! These high and mighty chefs—and I’m not just talking about Klara—aren’t the be-all and the end-all of cooking. I have talent, too, and they know it!” Dennis growled, yanking the waist of his pants over his substantial paunch. With pallid skin and deep-set beady eyes, I couldn’t help but picture the thirty-year-old man as a two-legged pig. The more he complained, the more his voice sounded like a squeal. I knew I had to say something before I threatened to blow his house down.
“Dennis, everyone at Novel Idea wants this experience to be a pleasant one. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” I gave Klara’s sous chef an ingratiating smile, though I’d taken an instant dislike to him.
Finally remembering his manners, he reached out and shook hands with me. “Sorry,” he said without the slightest indication of remorse. “I get grumpy when I’m hungry.” He turned to Annie. “Wanna grab a bite before we review her majesty’s menu one more time?”
Annie hesitated and I got the sense she’d rather eat alone. “Let’s do it now and be done for the night. Then we’ll meet back here at six tomorrow morning to prep for Klara’s demo.” She looked at me. “That’s okay, isn’t it Ms. Wilkins? The kitchen will be open then?”
“Absolutely.” I watched Annie take Dennis through the kitchen, showing him the equipment and food supplies. I again marveled over her people skills—how she was able to diffuse Dennis’s foul mood as they discussed what he needed to do in the morning to get ready for Klara’s demonstration.
When they had finished, I turned off the lights and shut the kitchen door. Without a key, I was unable to lock up, but assumed the security guard would do so on his rounds after our dinner tonight. I led Annie and Dennis through the corridors and back to the front lobby.
“Does this town have a decent barbeque joint?” Dennis asked as we stepped out into the late afternoon sun. “I’d love some shredded pork.”
I managed to keep a straight face as I told him about the Piggy Bank. “But it’s outside of town,” I told him. “Just on the outskirts of Dunston.”
“I think I’ll pass,” said Annie. “I’m not up for a drive, even a short one. I’ll just get something from How Green Was My Valley and eat in my room.”
“Suit yourself,” Dennis said. I gave him directions, and he trotted off to his rental car.
Visibly relieved, Annie bid me good-bye and walked in the direction of the grocery store.
I hopped on my scooter, buckled my helmet, and murmured a Mother Goose nursery rhyme that reminded me of Dennis Chapman:
“The greedy man is he who sits
And bites bits out of plates,
Or else takes up an almanac
And gobbles all the dates.”
Two hours later, I sat in the Dragonfly Room, sipping excellent wine and nibbling a heel of warm French bread. The evening felt magical. All of the Novel Idea agents and celebrity chefs were already having a good time and the meal had barely gotten underway. Gentle laughter intertwined with pleasant conversation and for a moment, it appeared as if the chefs had put aside their rivalries and were intent on enjoying each other’s company.
I exchanged a contented glance with Sean and then cast my gaze around the room, noting how the soft flames of the candles on the tables caught the sparkles on the women’s dresses and cast a soft sheen on the fabric of the men’s tailored suits.
Voltaire’s waiters moved as silently as ghosts. They cleared the soup bowls and refilled our wineglasses before serving our entrée of grilled rosemary lamb chops. The scent of lemons and garlic rose from the table and Leslie Sterling, who was seated to my left, asked the other chefs at our table to name their favorite dessert featuring the versatile yellow fruit.
“Tell us yours first,” said Klara.
“Mine’s not that exciting,” Leslie stated. “But I do make a lemon chiffon cake that simply melts in the mouth.”
Ryan whispered something into his wife’s ear and she nodded and then smiled at the rest of us. “We were trying to agree on our favorite,” she explained. “And I’d have to go with my oma’s griesmeelpudding met bessensap.” She pronounced this as “grease meal pudding met bessen sap,” and I wondered how something with the word “grease” in it could be anyone’s favorite fruity dessert. “It translates to ‘semolina pudding with currant sauce.’ What makes it so wonderful is the boiling of the lemon peel in a pan with milk. The flavors just fuse, as you’d say, Joel.”
The table’s only male chef rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t use semolina often.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful!” Klara exclaimed. “Tell him why, Ryan.”
Klara’s husband seemed delighted to participate in the discussion. “Semolina or griesmeel is one of the oldest of the ground grains.” The way he pronounced the word sounded very different from Klara, with the “g” coming from the back of his throat. He sounded more Dutch than his wife. “‘Meel’ is how you say ‘flour’ in Dutch and ‘gries’ is similar to the word ‘gravel,’ as semolina comes from the middlings of hard wheat. Many cultures have their own version of semolina. For example, the Italians have polenta.”
“And the Moroccans have couscous,” Leslie added.
“Precisely.” Ryan grinned at her and then cut a piece of his lamb.
Joel Lang studied Ryan with interest. “You are very knowledgeable about food, Mr. Patrick.” He dipped his chin as a show of respect.
“I spent many years traveling throughout Europe when I was stationed overseas with NATO. The base was in Brunssum, in the Netherlands, and I could hop on a train and be in another country in a few hours.” He smiled, as if remembering a happy time in his life. “I became fascinated with the different cuisines of each place.”
“I couldn’t manage without him.” Klara leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek. “And now it’s your turn to answer the lemon question, Joel. How do you make an Asian fusion dessert using lemons?”
“Lemongrass and Asian pear sorbet,” he answered. “Though there is an ancient custom in China that good friends or lovers never share the same pear, for dividing the pear would lead to separation.” He cast a quick glance at Jude’s table, where Maurice and Franklin were laughing heartily and clapping each other on the back. “I have made the mistake of sharing a pear before.”
Once again, I found myself wondering what caused the rift between the two chefs as an awkward silence settled at our table. The moment the waitstaff began to clear our plates, I hurriedly changed the subject. “Tomorrow’s cooking segment should be very interesting,” I said. “‘Great Love Stories from Literature Interpreted Through Food.’ I’m intrigued to know what each of you will be preparing for the event. Leslie, what famous couple are you representing?”
Leslie dramatically placed her hands over her heart. “Oh, just the saddest couple in the world.”
We gazed at her questioningly. In my mind, I ran through famous literary couples—Jane Eyre and Rochester, Lancelot and Guinevere, Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler—it seemed to me that most literary lovers were tragic.
Leslie looked at us incredulously. “Surely you know who I mean? Why, their love was so fierce and rapturous that it overpowered all their values and other allegiances.” Obviously pleased that she had stumped us, she declared, “Romeo and Juliet, of course.”
“Ah,” we all responded simultaneously.
The server placed desserts in front of us. Leslie stared at the rich red strawberry compote flowing over the creamy vanilla panna cotta on her plate. “This looks delicious,” she declared as she picked up her spoon. “To represent the passion of the star-crossed lovers, I’m making a variation of the traditional tiramisu. Rather than blending coffee with chocolate, mine will be a perfect marriage of raspberry and dark cocoa. And because there was such violence associated with their love, I’ve added a special ingredient to the chocolate cream.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “A hint of pepper to give it a little bite. It’s remarkable how pepper and chocolate meld together.”
“That sounds interesting,” I said as I tried to imagine the spark of flavor in the chocolate.
“Hmph,” remarked Klara as she dug in to her dessert. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to ruin chocolate with pepper.”
Sean laughed. “I’d say the same thing, Ms. Patrick, except that as a joke, I once tipped some pepper into a brownie mix my college roommate was baking—you know the pranks guys pull in college—and I have to say that those were some of the best brownies I’d ever eaten.”
“Well, I suppose you just never know until you try,” Klara said, smiling at Sean.
I gave Sean a playful nudge. “I’ll have to bake them for you sometime.” I put a spoonful of the panna cotta in my mouth and almost moaned in delight at the sweet creaminess and sumptuous berry flavors. “Oh, this is divine. Klara, who are your famous literary lovers?”
“Tristan and Isolde. I was inspired by their story of the black or white sails. The story is that Tristan was in love with Isolde, even though he was already married. After falling ill, Tristan sent a ship to Isolde asking her to come to him in the hopes that she could cure him. If the ship returned with white sails, that would mean she was coming. If the sails were black, it would mean that she denied his love. Tristan’s wife saw the white sails, but lied and told Tristan they were black. Heartbroken, he died of grief before Isolde arrived. When Isolde heard of her lover’s passing, she died, too. So terribly, terribly sad.” Klara shook her head but then immediately brightened. “I decided to do a dish that reflects their tale.” She glanced at Ryan, who nodded encouragingly. “A duo of soups. I’m making a variation of my oma’s brown bean soup, which is very Dutch, but I use black beans instead. I’m also making her to-die-for white bean soup.”
“And we were very fortunate,” Ryan excitedly interjected. “We found some small black and white bowls that are shaped a little like boats. We plan to stand a cheese crisp shaped like a sail in each one.”
“The cheese crisps are made with Gouda, of course, broiled under a flame for added crispness,” added Klara. “They’ll provide nice contrast to the color of the soup.”
Leslie frowned. “So the white cheese crisp is in the black bean soup and the black one in the white?” At Klara’s nod, she asked, “How do you make the black one?”
Klara seemed surprised by the question and looked at Ryan.
“With squid ink,” he answered quickly. “Just a drop or two makes it very dark, and it adds an interesting flavor element as well.”
Joel perked up. “Ah, squid ink. It has a very fishy flavor. I use it in some of my own recipes to great effect.”
“Who are your literary lovers, Joel?” I asked, sipping the coffee that the waiter had just poured.
“I will be honoring my heritage by representing the story of Liang Zhu, or in English, The Butterfly Lovers.” Joel sat back and stared off in the distance as he continued. “It’s a tragic romance like Romeo and Juliet. Zhu Yingtai was a beautiful young woman from a wealthy family who lived in a time when girls were not allowed to go to school. She, however, convinced her parents to allow her to disguise herself as a young man and attend school away from home. For three years, she was the roommate and best friend of Liang Shanbo, a bookish young fellow who never discovered that she was a girl. When their studies were over, they returned to their separate hometowns and missed each other greatly. After months of being apart, Liang visited Zhu, discovered she was a woman, and they became passionate lovers who vowed that if they could not live together, they would die together.”
“How beautiful,” said Leslie.
“But the legend does not end there,” Joel said. “Zhu’s parents arranged for her to marry the son of a rich family in their neighborhood, and when Liang found out, he became ill from grief and died. On the day that Zhu was to marry, the wedding procession was halted by a strong wind as it passed Liang’s tomb and Zhu left the procession to pay her respects. As she cried in front of his tomb, a flash of lightning struck it open. Without hesitation, Zhu leaped into the grave, and when the rain stopped, the sky cleared, and the spirits of Zhu and Liang turned into a pair of beautiful butterflies. They flew happily among the flowers and were never apart again.”
I sighed. “What a moving story. How will you translate it into food?”
Joel sat up straighter and smiled proudly. “I am making a trio of dishes. The first dish will have two fresh spring rolls, one with basil, tofu, and fennel and the other with cilantro, chicken, and lemongrass. These represent the lovers’ time at school, when they were two young men sharing a room. The second dish will be a fiery seared tuna crusted with hot Szechuan pepper and served over wasabi and lemongrass noodles and accompanied by ginger green beans. My secret to the searing is that I broil it under extreme heat. It makes for a very quick sear and increases the intensity of the Szechuan pepper. This dish, of course, represents their passion.”
Klara frowned. “But don’t you think the Szechuan pepper and the wasabi with the lemongrass will battle for dominance on the palate? Not to mention the ginger. There are too many different kinds of heat in one dish.”
“No, there aren’t.” Joel’s eyes darkened. “It’s the perfect blend to illustrate fiery passion.” But even as he made this statement, his brow creased and he looked as if he doubted his own words.
Sean exchanged a glance with me and asked, “What’s the third dish of the trio, Joel?”
Joel blinked. “To symbolize the lovers as butterflies flitting among the flowers, I will make a cilantro and lime sherbet that accentuates the floral character of the herb and sprinkle it with sugared jasmine blossoms.”
I touched Joel’s hand. “Your trio sounds like a very interesting mix of flavors. I can’t wait to try them all.”
“I don’t think the three dishes work together, Joel,” Klara said. “They seem in opposition to each other.”
Joel stood, scraping his chair back. “All you do is criticize my food. What do you know about Asian fusion cuisine anyway? You’re just a Dutch hausfrau cook.”
As he strode out the door, Ryan put his arm around Klara’s shoulders. “Don’t listen to him, hon. He doesn’t even know the difference between Dutch and German.” He kissed her cheek. “And I think you’re right about his trio. Come on, let’s call it a night.”
“Don’t you worry, darling. I don’t take a word he says to heart.” Klara picked up her purse and turned to me. “Lila, dinner was lovely. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
I looked around the room and saw that most of the guests were leaving. Jude and Franklin were just exiting to the front lobby, so I grabbed Sean’s hand and we hurried after the two agents.
“How’d things go at your table?” I asked when we caught up, keeping a safe distance between us and the celebrity chefs walking ahead of us.
Franklin grinned. “That Maurice is a card. He had me in stitches most of the night.”
“But some of those chefs sure have inflated egos,” Jude added quietly.
Sean nodded. “We had a couple at our table who were rather puffed up with self-importance.”
“But wasn’t that dinner delicious?” Flora said as she joined us, holding hands with her husband, Brian. “I think the evening was a great success.”
“I agree, Flora. It was a good night.” I glanced at the door of the Dragonfly Room. The last of the waiters was heading out with Zach, who flicked the light switch and closed the door. I waved him over.
Zach bounded in our direction. “Hey, people! Wasn’t that totally the most—”
His words were lost in a thunderous roar that shook the room. Flora screamed. Two of the waiters bolted outside. I clenched Sean’s arm. “What was that?”
“I have no idea.” Sean frantically scanned the lobby and his hand went to his hip, as if instinctively reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. “All of you, wait here. Jude, come with me.”
The two men disappeared into the hall. Jude returned almost immediately. “Everyone get out of the building,” he ordered. “There’s smoke coming from the culinary arts wing. We think something exploded. The fire department is on the way.”
“Oh, man!” Zach slapped his forehead as he started for the door. “Don’t tell me something was wrong with that brand-new equipment.”
I quickly glanced behind Jude. “What about Sean? Where is he?”
“He’s checking to see if anyone else is inside. Don’t worry, Lila, he’ll be right behind us. Let’s go.” Jude herded us all to the door.
A cool evening breeze chilled me as I stood staring at the Arts Center’s fa?ade, exhaling in relief when Sean came running out alone. His hair was plastered to his head, and his suit was wet.
“The smoke was getting pretty thick and then the ceiling sprinklers came on.” He ran his hand through his hair. “But I couldn’t find anyone else in the building. At least no one answered when I called.”
“Thank goodness,” I said, expelling a pent-up breath. “I hope there’s minimal damage to the center. What do you suppose happened?”
Sean shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll go talk to the waiters and see if they can shed some light on the situation.”
Zach glanced over to where Klara stood with the other chefs. “It better not be something to do with that gas stove that Miss Top Chef insisted we install. I swear I can smell gas. Can’t you?”
“Dear me, I am getting a whiff of it,” said Flora, wringing her hands. Brian put his arm around her shoulders.
Jude added, “I’m glad the celebrity chefs were already out of the building.”
Sirens howled in the distance. We all huddled in a group on the sidewalk, staring as smoke billowed out the side of the building. The fire engine pulled up, followed by an EMT truck. Although we were only witnesses, I felt caught up in the drama of activity, noise, and urgency as firefighters unrolled the hose, hooked it up to a hydrant, and ran inside. Members of the emergency crew asked us all if we were okay.
Suddenly, a fireman came rushing out of the building and ran up to one of the paramedics, pulling him away from an ashen-faced waiter standing beside me. The fireman spoke in a quiet voice to the paramedic, but I was close enough to hear.
“I need a body bag,” he said. “Someone was in the kitchen when the explosion went off and I don’t want these folks to see what’s left of the poor soul.”