Read Online Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery by Lucy Burdette - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucy Burdette
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table on the sidewalk, where we took a minute to study the menus.
“I can’t believe we are actually eating outdoors!” said my mother, tucking a white napkin over her lap. “Everything’s gray and frigid back home.”
“Have you tried the Croque Madame?” Sigrid asked me, and then read aloud the description of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich finished with a fried egg.
“That’s loaded with fat and cholesterol,” said Yoshe. “Don’t the salads look fantastic?” She pointed to the woman at the next table, who was eating a spring mix topped with avocado, strawberries, and pears.
Sigrid glared at her.
“I have eaten their Croque Monsieur. It’s delicious and comes with a nice green side salad,” I said, hoping that compromise would be oil on the rough waters between them.
The waitress, a blond woman with a French accent, swung by to take our orders—one sandwich with a side order of
frites
, two salads, one omelet. She spun away to the kitchen.
Before Yoshe could weigh in on the fat grams in Sigrid’s french fries, I said, “I’m curious about how you think the panel might have gone differently with Jonah at the helm. After all, he promised us full disclosure.”
“Threatened us is more like it,” said Sigrid.
“He wouldn’t have been satisfied with Olivia Nethercut alluding to what’s hidden behind her writing,” said Yoshe. “He would have asked her straight out what she didn’t have the nerve to say.”
“Really?” Mom’s eyes widened. “I thought that was so interesting. Did you agree with her comment that all writers show more than they intend?”
Sigrid snorted and smoothed her flowered dress over her belly. “I didn’t appreciate that—if I have something to say about a subject, I say it right out,” she said. “She made it sound like we’re all hiding things or too dumb to know what we’ve written.”
“I think the more interesting fireworks would have come outside of the panels,” Yoshe added. “Of course, you knew that Jonah and Dustin were an item?”
“They were?” Mom and I asked simultaneously.
“Was that recent?” I asked. “Dustin didn’t mention anything about a personal relationship with Jonah last night when we were talking to the cops. He didn’t act like a guy who’d just lost his boyfriend. In fact, he seemed most annoyed that Jonah might have irritated the conference sponsors.”
“Jonah dumped him in record time,” Yoshe said. “He isn’t going to brag about that.”
The waitress delivered our meals: Greek salads thick with feta cheese and Niçoise olives folded into buckwheat pancakes for Yoshe and me, a spinach and mushroom omelet for Mom, and the ham and cheese sandwich crowned with an egg over easy and an order of french fries on the side for Sigrid.
“Besides, if the conference sponsors aren’t happy,”Sigrid said, plunging her knife into the sandwich so that yolk flowed like yellow lava over the ham onto the crunchy stalks of potato, “Dustin’s out of a job.” She carved off a large corner of her sandwich, mopped it through the pool of egg yolk, and wolfed it down. “And I don’t believe it was serious between them. For Jonah, nothing was ever serious outside of his work.”
As we ate, the conversation turned toward admiration of the food—the crispy tang of the buckwheat pancakes, the creamy feta, the fresh tomatoes. A vinaigrette with a secret ingredient. Extra garlic? Tarragon? Mustard? No one agreed.
“Tell us about your new project,” Mom said to Yoshe. “You didn’t get a chance to expand on its ‘point of view.’”
Yoshe blushed furiously and looked hard at Mom, like maybe she’d underestimated her. “What I meant by that is that no cooking occurs in a vacuum. In fact, the best recipes sprouted in some grandmother’s kitchen somewhere. Doesn’t matter whether she was Polish or Italian or a pioneer woman from Iowa. We need to learn from the women who came before us.”
Mom leaned forward eagerly.
“I can’t believe we are actually eating outdoors!” said my mother, tucking a white napkin over her lap. “Everything’s gray and frigid back home.”
“Have you tried the Croque Madame?” Sigrid asked me, and then read aloud the description of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich finished with a fried egg.
“That’s loaded with fat and cholesterol,” said Yoshe. “Don’t the salads look fantastic?” She pointed to the woman at the next table, who was eating a spring mix topped with avocado, strawberries, and pears.
Sigrid glared at her.
“I have eaten their Croque Monsieur. It’s delicious and comes with a nice green side salad,” I said, hoping that compromise would be oil on the rough waters between them.
The waitress, a blond woman with a French accent, swung by to take our orders—one sandwich with a side order of
frites
, two salads, one omelet. She spun away to the kitchen.
Before Yoshe could weigh in on the fat grams in Sigrid’s french fries, I said, “I’m curious about how you think the panel might have gone differently with Jonah at the helm. After all, he promised us full disclosure.”
“Threatened us is more like it,” said Sigrid.
“He wouldn’t have been satisfied with Olivia Nethercut alluding to what’s hidden behind her writing,” said Yoshe. “He would have asked her straight out what she didn’t have the nerve to say.”
“Really?” Mom’s eyes widened. “I thought that was so interesting. Did you agree with her comment that all writers show more than they intend?”
Sigrid snorted and smoothed her flowered dress over her belly. “I didn’t appreciate that—if I have something to say about a subject, I say it right out,” she said. “She made it sound like we’re all hiding things or too dumb to know what we’ve written.”
“I think the more interesting fireworks would have come outside of the panels,” Yoshe added. “Of course, you knew that Jonah and Dustin were an item?”
“They were?” Mom and I asked simultaneously.
“Was that recent?” I asked. “Dustin didn’t mention anything about a personal relationship with Jonah last night when we were talking to the cops. He didn’t act like a guy who’d just lost his boyfriend. In fact, he seemed most annoyed that Jonah might have irritated the conference sponsors.”
“Jonah dumped him in record time,” Yoshe said. “He isn’t going to brag about that.”
The waitress delivered our meals: Greek salads thick with feta cheese and Niçoise olives folded into buckwheat pancakes for Yoshe and me, a spinach and mushroom omelet for Mom, and the ham and cheese sandwich crowned with an egg over easy and an order of french fries on the side for Sigrid.
“Besides, if the conference sponsors aren’t happy,”Sigrid said, plunging her knife into the sandwich so that yolk flowed like yellow lava over the ham onto the crunchy stalks of potato, “Dustin’s out of a job.” She carved off a large corner of her sandwich, mopped it through the pool of egg yolk, and wolfed it down. “And I don’t believe it was serious between them. For Jonah, nothing was ever serious outside of his work.”
As we ate, the conversation turned toward admiration of the food—the crispy tang of the buckwheat pancakes, the creamy feta, the fresh tomatoes. A vinaigrette with a secret ingredient. Extra garlic? Tarragon? Mustard? No one agreed.
“Tell us about your new project,” Mom said to Yoshe. “You didn’t get a chance to expand on its ‘point of view.’”
Yoshe blushed furiously and looked hard at Mom, like maybe she’d underestimated her. “What I meant by that is that no cooking occurs in a vacuum. In fact, the best recipes sprouted in some grandmother’s kitchen somewhere. Doesn’t matter whether she was Polish or Italian or a pioneer woman from Iowa. We need to learn from the women who came before us.”
Mom leaned forward eagerly.
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