Dead to the Last Drop (19 page)

“The finished basement has a pullout couch,” I informed him flatly. “And there’s always a hastily purchased air bed. I suspect you have enough hot air to inflate it.”

“Well, if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

“We’ll see . . .” His brown eyes flashed with mirth as he checked his watch. “Tuck should be pulling in around three o’clock, long before the Jazz Space opens, and I’ll help behind the bar.”

“Thank you.”

“So you’re set.”

“Not by a long shot. I can’t keep our pastry case stocked. We have a limited time to prep our supper club menu, and we’re stuck creating it from the food Tad Hopkins already bought . . .”

By now, Matt had heard an earful about Hopkins’s shortchanging our customers to launch a catering business on the side. My anxiety must have shown on my face because he put a hand on my shoulder.

“Clare, you did the right thing. You shouldn’t second-guess it.”

“What I should have done is fire him
sooner
. Or found some other way to—”

“Stop! My mother has some things to say about that, but I’ll leave that for her to discuss with you.”

Great.
“I
really
didn’t want her to find out this way.”

“She’s a tough old girl, you know that.” He squeezed my shoulder. “And so are you.”

“I’m a tough old girl?”

“No . . .” He stroked his beard. “You’re more of a scrappy MILK.”

“Milk? As in Harvey?”

“As in
Mother I’d Like to Kiss
.”

“You sure cleaned that up, didn’t you?”

“Hey, no need to be vulgar. And there’s no need for panic. We’ll get through this like a family should. Together.”

“I appreciate family. I really do. But to get through
this
, we’ll need more.”

“What?”

“Some of Gardner’s musical talent.”

“You want us to play jazz?”

“Absolutely. Today is the day the Village Blend learns how to improvise.”

F
ifty

“T
HAT’S an awful lot of cream cheese,” Joy observed, twenty minutes later. “What do you suppose Hopkins planned to do with it?”

The three of us (my daughter, my new chef, and I) were standing in the walk-in, taking stock of what we had—and what we didn’t.

Luther Bell shook his head. “I hesitate to share it with you ladies.”

Joy and I exchanged glances.

“Come on, Chef Bell,” she teased. “Now you
have
to tell us!”

Luther folded his big arms. “Japanese-Style Crepes . . .”

“That’s not so bad,” Joy said. “What did he plan to fill them with?”

“Flaked Halibut and . . .” He sighed. “Miso-Infused Cream Cheese.”

Joy blanched. “For
this
club? Really?”

“Really.”

“Farfelu!”
she cried.

Luther tilted his head. “What is that, Ms. Allegro? A French recipe?”

“No, no!” She laughed. “It’s what my brigade used to say to our chef when his menu suggestions became so pretentious they entered the realm of harebrained.
Usually
he would listen and wise up.”

“Well, Ms. Allegro, not Tad Hopkins.”

I nodded. “Now you see what I was up against, honey?”

“Mom, I feel for you. You, too, Chef Bell . . .”

Luther and I exchanged relieved glances. After the smug Chef Hopkins, Joy’s positive energy and cooperative attitude were like a breath of fresh air in this kitchen. It energized us both.

“So what should
we
do with this cream cheese?” I asked them.

“Cream cheese with butter makes a nice smooth chocolate frosting,” Luther suggested. He snapped his fingers. “How about we use it to frost my Black Magic Cake?”

“Awesome idea!” Joy nodded. “That will go fast.”

“How many?” I asked.

“Eight slices per cake, one hundred servings,” Luther calculated. “Make a baker’s dozen . . .”

I nodded, jotting
13
down on my notepad. We’d already agreed to turn Mrs. B’s catering kitchen into our own little bakery. It was up to pro code, and Luther would get us started (as the law required). Madame, her maid, and I would then work on the dessert menu while Luther and Joy prepped savories and main dishes in the Village Blend kitchen.

Now Joy snapped her fingers. “Mom, why don’t you make your favorite cheesecake, too? The one you adapted from that old
New Yorker
recipe.”

“The
New Yorker
may have published it, but the recipe came from the CUNY Graduate Center cafeteria . . .”

The light and creamy cheesecake became so popular with students that it continually sold out, becoming the talk of the town. I smiled, remembering the legendary Emilio, the cafeteria chef who’d created that recipe. He had a lot in common with our Luther Bell.

“That version bakes and chills fast, too,” I noted. “Good idea, honey.”

“You know, I like to use cream cheese in my Southern Pimento Cheese. It’s my secret to getting it nice and smooth. How about we offer little plates with black pepper crackers and celery stalks—for the light eaters?”

“Pimento cheese has made a real comeback,” I agreed, nodding happily. “We’ll need a light main dish, too.”

“What about the halibut?”

“We can grill it simply with lime butter,” Luther suggested. “I did that for the U.S. Senate Dining Room and it sold out the first hour.”

“Done!”

Joy’s face lit up. “When did you work in the Senate Dining Room?”

“After the CIA cafeteria.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Boy, I was glad to get out of Langley. The security there was crazy!”

The sound of tramping boots made us all look up. Two Secret Service agents in combat vests were moving toward Agent Cage’s command post
in the back of the kitchen. Joy and I tensed at the sight of the huge rifles slung over their shoulders.

Chef Bell didn’t bat an eye.

“Well,” I said, “I’m glad at least one of us is used to cooking around live ammunition.”

F
ifty-one

W
E continued going through ingredients: blue cheese, local honey, Vidalia onions,
lots
of heavy cream, day-old baguettes, apples, frozen puff pastry shells . . .

“Joy, what about your Mini Tarte Tatins? Madame and I can prep ramekins with caramel and apples—and since there’s no time for scratch puff pastry, you can use the frozen shells and bake them to order.”

“Good idea.” Luther nodded. “And if they’re tarte Tatins, I assume you flip them onto dessert plates?”

“You got it,” Joy said. “They’re foolproof, too, one fast flip out of the oven and they’re ready for service. The caramel sauce looks amazing, flowing over the baked apples and pastry—as if you’ve sauced them with care.”

“One problem . . .” I tapped my chin with the pencil. “
Individual tarte Tatin
doesn’t fit with the Great American Food theme we’ve got going.”

“Well, apple pie is about as American as you can get,” Luther argued.

“A rose by any other name?”

“As long as the rose is something the customers enjoy. That’s my motto.”

“Mine, too.”

“Mine, three!”

Like one of Gardner’s Open Mike trios, we continued improvising what we could with what we had. Finally, I pointed to the flank steaks. “What was Hopkins going to do with those?”

“Stew them in a curry,” Luther said, “with pecans, dried figs, and blueberries.”

“Blueberries?!” Joy and I cried together.

“To be served on a bed of herbed polenta and topped with caramelized fennel foam.”

“For a relaxed, coffeehouse jazz club?” Joy smacked her forehead. “Ahh!
Farfelu!
”

“How about my Bourbon Sugar Steak instead?” Chef Bell offered. “I’ll slice it nice and tender, against the grain.”

“Beautiful,” I said. “Your Sugar Steak is one of my favorites.”

“With shoestring fries, Chef Bell?
Pretty please?
I’ve been missing my steak
frites
!”

He laughed. “Okay, then.”

“I know Mom’s making good use of those blueberries. I can smell them baking in her muffins. What about the pecans and figs? Shall we use them for dessert?”

“I’ll have a savory in mind for the figs,” the chef promised. “As for the pecans, how about my pecan pie? Or we could do Pecan Sandies?”

“Your pecan pie makes my knees go weak,” I confessed, “but let’s make it in slab form and cut it into bars. We can make the sandies, too, and sell both at the outdoor stand tonight.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Joy whispered as Chef Bell stepped away. “I’ve been out of the country awhile. What exactly are ‘Pecan Sandies’?”

“
Sables
,” I whispered back.

“Oh!” She clapped her hands. “Give that job to Grandmother. She can make
sables
in her sleep!”

“Done,” I said, and our menu was complete.

F
ifty-two

A
FTER sending Matt and Freddie out for last-minute supplies and ingredients, I called my music director to the kitchen.

“We’ve got it, Gard.”

“Got what?”

“Your
new
Jazz Space menu . . .”

Village Blend, DC
Jazz Space

SWINGIN’ HEADLINERS

Bourbon Sugar Steak, freshly seared and sliced, served with Crispy Shoestring Fries, Smoked Tomato Ketchup, Truffle Oil Mayo

Fresh Halibut, grilled simply with Lime Butter, served with a side of Roasted Vegetables, Lime-Garlic Bruschetta

Buttermilk Fried Chicken Wing Plate, dipping side of Alabama White BBQ Sauce, Cheddar-Corn Spoon Bread, Luther’s Hard Cider Green Beans

California Cobb Salad with juicy Grilled Free-Range Chicken, sliced avocado, crumbled bacon, House-Made Garlic-Parm Croutons

BEBOP BITES

Trio of Steak Burger Sliders, topped with melted Cheddar, and slices of Seared Pork Belly