Joe looked back at Avrogado. “I don’t know. Are we?”
The cop rubbed his eyes, grimacing. “That depends. Do you want me to catch this fucker or not? If you start working in here, there’s no way I can collect evidence.”
Joe stared at the box again, his forehead furrowed. Then he shook his head. “You won’t find enough. And even if you do, chances are the asshole will get off just like he did the last time. This stuff’s expensive, but it’s not worth enough to make it a felony.”
Avrogado looked like he’d just tasted something sour. “Okay then, have at it. I’ll file a report, but there’s not much else I can do.”
“Understood.” Joe was already heading for the back door and his cabin. “You, Ezra, pick this place up. Darcy, get the service started. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Ezra stared at the open cabinet doors, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know where anything goes.”
MG sighed. “Come on, kid, it’s no big deal.” She picked up the nearest sauce pan, hanging it from the overhead rack. “Just follow my lead.”
Ezra gave her a terrified glance and then began gathering up pans and bowls, putting them in the cabinets and racks as she did.
Darcy glanced her way, smiling grimly. “If you find anything dented or broken, let me know. We’ll file an insurance claim.”
“You didn’t find the
fois gras
,” MG said, stretching toward the overhead rack.
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “No, there’s no extra. We don’t use it that much.”
“Can you get some more before Saturday?”
She shook her head. “It comes from New York. Special order. No way we could get it here by Saturday morning. We’re just lucky we had quail on hand.”
“So what happens now?”
“Now, we serve breakfast.” Joe walked back through the rear entrance, buttoning his chef’s coat across his broad chest, his black chef’s beanie crumpled on his head. “Later on we do damage control. One thing at a time, darlin’, one thing at a time.”
MG glanced around the still-cluttered kitchen. Right now her “one thing” seemed to be getting the place back in running order.
She divided her time between putting things away and chopping the occasional onion. Fortunately, they had enough prep done from the day before to carry them through the breakfast service. Also fortunately, they didn’t have much of a breakfast rush to contend with. Maybe the guests had heard there were problems in the kitchen, which was, of course, another thing to worry about.
Two-thirds of the way through the meal, Ezra appeared at her elbow. She glanced at him, then put down the potato she was scrubbing. “What?”
His skin was the color of old parchment, his eyes back to Necco wafer size. “I think I’m in trouble.”
MG leaned back against the counter. “In trouble how?”
“It’s my fault,” he blurted. “All this…stuff that happened. It’s all my fault.”
For a moment, he looked as if he might burst into tears. MG restrained her impulse to pat him on the arm and say “There, there.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“I saw Chef Fairley downtown a couple days ago,” he said in a rush. “And he asked me how things were going, and I said okay. And he asked if I was learning anything, and I said I was.”
MG gritted her teeth. “And then?”
“Well…” Ezra took a breath. “Then he asked about the contest. About how it was going and all.”
She felt a drip of ice water slide down her spine. “Did he ask you for the menu?”
“Well, not exactly, no. I mean I wouldn’t tell him the menu. I know better than that.”
“But…”
“But he asked me, you know, what I was learning and all. And I said something about how quail seemed like a lot of trouble for so little meat.” His mouth tightened, his eyes suspiciously bright.
Do not cry. Do not even think of crying.
“What did he say to that?”
“He asked if I’d gotten to try seared
fois gras
because that was what you usually served with quail, and I said”—he took a deep breath, as if he were trying to get himself under control—“I said no because it was so expensive and all.”
MG raised an eyebrow. Getting information out of Ezra was almost too easy. Fairley didn’t deserve any points for ingenuity. “Did you tell him about the mango syrup too?”
Ezra nodded miserably. “He was talking about fruit compotes to go with the
fois gras
and I said something about mangoes working pretty good.”
“Right.” She blew out a breath. “You need to tell Chef LeBlanc about this.”
Ezra’s face was now the color of dirty snow. “But…but he’ll fire me.”
Most probably.
“He still needs to know. And at least you’ll get points for honesty.”
“Couldn’t…” He stared down at his feet. “Couldn’t you, like, tell him. Since you and he are sort of…friends and all.”
MG put a hand on his arm. “It would be better coming from you. Trust me.”
Ezra sighed. “Okay. I’ll talk to him when he comes in from the omelet station.” He shambled away, his shoulders bowed, the picture of dejection.
She almost hoped Joe didn’t fire him. Of course, firing him was preferable to killing him, which was probably going to be Joe’s first choice.
She turned back to the sink full of potatoes. At least it was something she could work with. As opposed to chickens and mortgages, currently in the hands of fate and Great-Aunt Nedda.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Joe stood in the middle of the pantry, trying to pretend he wasn’t feeling an incredible adrenaline rush. By all rights, he should still be pissed as hell. And in fact, he
was
still pissed as hell, largely at Fairley. Sooner or later, he’d have to do something about the little pissant, but right now he had other things to think about. Namely, what to do for the main dish at the contest Saturday.
Fois gras
was out, but he found he wasn’t too upset about that after all. The whole
fois gras
thing had messed up their regional cred, seeing as how nobody in Texas was producing it currently. Now he stared up at the shelves of bottles, cans and jars, waiting for inspiration to strike and hoping inspiration didn’t take too long doing it.
Orange soda and Starburst Fruit Chewies.
He sighed. He wasn’t going to go that route, but he hoped he could come up with something that would at least give Fairley a case of heartburn.
What he couldn’t exactly explain, though, was his feeling of elation as he sorted through possibilities. He couldn’t possibly be enjoying this, could he? That would be thoroughly perverse.
The pantry door swung open and MG stepped inside carrying a couple of bags in her arms. “What’s up?”
“Trying to figure out what to do about the damn quail. It’s got to sit on something, and that something can’t be
fois gras
.”
“Oh.” She pushed the bags onto one of the lower shelves. “Have at it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What you got there?”
She glanced back at the shelf. “Grits. Darcy says we’ll maybe start doing them for the buffet next month. I’m now the grits maven.”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “How’s that?”
“I’ve been cooking grits for days now. I’ve got it down. They take forever, but Darcy says we can do them the day before and then reheat them in the oven.” She sighed. “So from now on I’ll be cooking up a pot of grits and spreading them on a sheet pan before I leave for the day.”
Joe grinned at her slowly. “Okay, grits maven, grab those bags again and head for the stove. I’m thinking those birds can sit on grits as easy as
fois gras
, and this stuff’s local, by god.”
MG watched Joe pour grits into boiling water. He was whistling something between his teeth that sounded vaguely like “Texas Cooking”.
“How can he be having fun?” she whispered to Darcy. “Isn’t this a crisis?”
Darcy sighed. “Everything’s a crisis in the kitchen. That’s life. Chefs like Joe live for this shit.”
“I heard that.” Joe glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “You telling me this hasn’t got your juices going? First, I’m going to beat that little SOB head-to-head, and then I’m going to kick his teeth in after the contest is over.”
“Yeah, well, wait until after the judging. There’s probably a rule against pulverizing your opponent.” Darcy leaned against the counter, watching him. “So what do you want to do to flavor this stuff?”
He shrugged. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“Gorgonzola? Blue cheese?”
He shook his head. “We got goat cheese in the first course. Too much overlap.”
“Cheddar then?”
“Could work.” He stared off into space for a moment. “Maybe try that cheddar and bacon thing you were talking about last week. Use some of that applewood-smoked dry cure. Chop it fine though.”
“Yeah, Chef, I know.” She headed back toward the walk-in, shaking her head.
“Is Ezra still here or did you fire him? And if you fired him, did Darcy think to give Plac a call about coming in early today?” MG pulled a bag of lettuce onto the counter. Might as well start getting ready for lunch, although neither Joe nor Darcy seemed to have remembered they had a lunch to do today. At least chopping vegetables kept her from obsessing about singing at the Faro. Or paying off Aunt Nedda, which was beginning to seem more remote by the moment.
Joe grimaced, running a spoon through the boiling grits. “He should be around somewhere. I didn’t fire him, although I should have. We need the little asshole, at least for the moment.”
“True that,” she muttered, tearing into a head of red leaf.
Ezra walked in a few minutes later. His expression when he saw Joe at the stove reminded her of a rabbit frozen beneath an approaching hawk. “Hi,” he squeaked.
Joe glanced at him, and then ignored him. Darcy reappeared from the cooler, carrying bacon and cheese. She gave Ezra a lazy grin that somehow managed to be full of menace nonetheless. “Greetings, slave. Ready for the worst day of your life?”
Ezra nodded miserably and then followed her to the other end of the kitchen.
“What are you going to do about the sauce for the quail?” MG asked. “Find more mangoes?”
Joe shook his head. “The fruit compote worked with the
fois gras
. I need something else with the grits. Watch this, will you?” He pushed the spoon back in the grits and ambled toward the pantry again.
MG sighed. Between the lettuce and the grits, she’d have a full morning. She only hoped that whatever torture Darcy had in mind for Ezra at least involved lunch prep, so she wouldn’t end up doing everything herself.
By mid-afternoon, they’d worked through a variety of possibilities. Cheddar didn’t work well with the grits, but the bacon did. Joe switched the cheddar to the stuffing for the quail, mixing it with pecans and dried figs. The mixture came together well, but he needed to try it in the quail. The question of the sauce was still up in the air. He’d tried pears and apples, even a plum puree, but nothing seemed right. Now he was back in the pantry, pacing the shelves.
MG stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “You realize you and Darcy are basically letting Leo and Jorge run meal service.”
“So?” He shrugged without looking back. “They’re up to it.”
“I hope so because Darcy doesn’t have time to do more than expedite until the two of you get this settled.” She blew out a breath, following him to the back of the pantry. “What are you looking for exactly?”
“I suppose if I told you I’ll know it when I see it, you wouldn’t be satisfied.” He picked up a bag of sweet potatoes, and then tossed it back.
“Not so much, no. I figure you’ve got the rest of today and maybe Friday morning to get this nailed down and tasted before you’re committed to whatever you’re going to do.”
Joe paused, looking back at her. “You taking a personal interest in this, darlin’?”
She shrugged. “I’d like to see Fairley get his ass kicked. The guy’s a thief who accused me of being one. I guess that’s personal.”
“Well, when it comes to tasting, we’ve got a problem. We’ve only got twenty quail.”
MG frowned. “How many do you need?”
“Six judges. Figure two per in case the first one gets messed up. So minimum of twelve.” He blew out a breath. “But I’d feel better with maybe fourteen saved for the contest. We’ve already had one major screw-up. I’m not ready for more.”
She shook her head. “Why do they each need a whole one? They’re going to be eating four main dishes as it is since they’ve got four restaurants to judge. Why not just give them a half or something?”
Joe gave her a dry grin. “Each one gets a complete serving. Then they take a bite. That’s the way they run these things, darlin’. If they take another bite, you can yell ‘Glory, hallelujah!’” He picked up a bottle of pickled asparagus, grimaced and slid it to the back of the shelf.
“So what are you looking for? You’ve given up on fruit?”
He nodded. “Pretty much. I need savory. But I’d also like sweet. I could go for something like a pomegranate molasses, but we’ve already got pomegranate in the dessert.”