Read Online Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery by Lucy Burdette - Free Book Online Page A

interview, I didn’t want to miss one second of the second panel of the morning—a roundtable of three of the food critics I’d admired for years: Ruth Reichl, Frank Bruni, and Jonathan Gold. They marched onto the stage, Ruth tall and thin with a wedge of curls, Frank small and adorable with dimples that rivaled Detective Bransford’s, and Jonathan massive, with the tan and light hair of a Californian. Jonah Barrows had been set to moderate this panel too, but this morning the organizers had opted to let the three veterans go it alone.
    “You have to have a certain bloodlust to be in this business,” said Ruth, “because a bad review is an arrow in the chef’s side. If you write a negative review,the restaurant may actually have to close. Or at the least, the chef is fired.”
    “Bloodlust,” I wrote in my notebook, and then circled the word as if it might bolt off the page. I’d discussed similar concerns with Eric over the past few months—would I have the necessary taste for blood that a critic seemed to need? And he’d reminded me to think about why I was drawn to the profession and focus on that: People deserved well-informed opinions about spending their money. As Jonah would have said, they deserved
truth
.
    As this discussion wound down, I tapped Mom on the leg. “I have to get out,” I said. “I’m taking Yoshe and Sigrid to lunch.”
    “That sounds wonderful,” she said. “What a terrific idea. Where are we eating?”
    I didn’t have the heart to suggest that I’d feel less self-conscious talking with them by myself. And besides, maybe having her along would keep them off balance. Because what kind of investigative reporter brings her mother along to an important interview?
    “I was thinking of
La Crêperie
,” I said. “I’ve never had a bad meal there. Wouldn’t that be awful, taking a food writer out for a lousy lunch? They’d think I didn’t have a clue.”
    Mom and I hustled out to the lobby, where Sigrid and Yoshe waited. I hailed two pedicabs on Duval Street—bicyclists pulling rolling benches for tourists. No Key West native would be caught dead in one of these, but they’d be perfect for transporting the ladies to lunch. I settled Mom and Yoshe in the firstcab, behind a young Rumanian man with huge, muscular thighs.
    “We’re headed to
La Crêperie
,” I said to him, and then climbed into the second cab next to Sigrid. Our bicyclist/driver pumped his legs hard to get the cab moving. “Considering how badly we feel about Jonah, I think it’s going well so far,” I said to Sigrid. “Don’t you?”
    “It would have been nice if he’d asked us about our most recent work,” she said, sliding on a pair of large black sunglasses. “It’s so awkward to have to cram your own material into the discussion without being invited.”
    An issue I hadn’t noticed her having any trouble with at all.
    Our cabdriver dodged expertly between a turquoise golf cart loaded with drunken college students and two wobbly scooters and turned left on Petronia Street into the Bahama Village, where a large wrought-iron arch was the only vestige of the formerly bustling Bahama Village market. After a few more minutes of vigorous pedaling, he deposited us at the café across from the more famous—and more touristy—Blue Heaven. His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat and he was breathing hard. I paid the tab and added a generous tip for the load he’d carried. Mom and Yoshe descended from their cab and I paid that driver too, wondering how much of this might have to come out of my own small paycheck. Wally hadn’t said anything much about expenses, other than “keep them down.”
    “This little restaurant used to be located onDuval, but it burned to the studs a few years ago,” I told the women. “Both of the chef-owners are from Brittany, France. They rebuilt, and from what I’ve experienced, it’s better than ever.”
    After a short wait, we were escorted to a small metal café