Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (29 page)

He never seemed to mind working late. When it came to breakfast though, he started out cooking for the first week or two and then he made sure I learned how to do it. I figured out real quick Peter was not a morning person, but he sure was a big help to me, anyway. Jumping in and handling all the restaurant duties, such as ordering the food and the wine, was only the beginning. Peter designed a new wine list and taught me about matching
wine with food. One of the guys he had worked with at the Wild Duck, Jim, heard the news about Peter’s new position and applied to be his sous-chef. Head chef Peter Owen was on his way.

Right after Helga and Rolf left, the two of us got to work on our new menu for the Peach Blossom Inn. The first thing I wanted to do was throw out that nasty head cheese. Next it was out with the canned eggplant caponata and a big sayonara to the pickled herring. Peter spent a great deal of time creating the new menu and both of us spent time designing it. We felt it was important to keep some of the old traditional favorites for which the Vermont Haus Inn had become famous. We needed a balance of old and new.

For starters, our new appetizers included smoked North Atlantic salmon, served in buckwheat crepes, with horseradish cream and golden caviar. We added a chilled jumbo shrimp cocktail, served with either traditional cocktail sauce or a creole remoulade sauce. We kept the house favorite from the old menu, escargot maison, as well as a soup of the evening and a European style pâté. Peter changed the pâté recipe a tad but since it was the only thing Princess Grace Kelly would eat now, thanks to Pierre, we couldn’t change it all that much.

The final appetizer was created in honor of Daddy. His favorite first course came from an old famous restaurant in Memphis called Justine’s. Lump crabmeat, lightly seasoned and topped with hollandaise, served over toast points. We named that one after him: Crabmeat Henry.

Our new entrées were equally as delicious. The first item on the menu was a roast Statler breast of chicken, served with sautéed seasonal fruits and a sauce supreme, which was a creamy yet light sauce made with crème fraîche. Veal scaloppini was next, prepared either classic way—marsala or piccata. Peter’s filet mignon was always perfect, served with either a fresh béarnaise or sauce au poivre. Roast Long Island duckling was another old favorite that needed to stay on the menu; Peter just changed the sauces du jour more frequently.

A daily pasta was added, as pasta was Peter’s specialty. He could conjure up the most beautiful creations with the most delicious flavors. Peter changed the lamb dish a little to a roasted rack of baby lamb. He served it
with roasted garlic and a port wine rosemary sauce. Another one of my favorites was the shrimp dijonaise. Jumbo shrimp were sautéed with shallots and tarragon, flamed with cognac, and finished with a white wine and grainy mustard cream sauce. The next item threw me for a loop when Peter suggested it, though. Calf’s liver was permanently added to my menu—thinly sliced and sautéed with balsamic vinegar and red onions, topped with apple-smoked bacon. Peter told me to trust him and that’s exactly what I did.

A grilled fillet of salmon topped with a mango chile salsa was added and the sweet of the fruit mixed with the salmon formed a delicious sensation. Last but not least was a loin of pork, center cut, boneless, and grilled, wrapped in apple-smoked bacon and glazed with apricot and curry.

Our desserts were finally something to boast about, too. I found a local lady whose cakes were works of art. Instead of
canned
peach melba, I was proud to offer homemade peach cobbler. Alice came through with her promise of sending me fresh peaches from home, so I could remain true to our name. And finally, my all-time favorite dessert was added—straight from the kitchen of Kristine “Kissie” Johnson—Southern pecan pie.

All this delicious food aside, I still missed my good ole down-home Southern cooking. You simply could not buy grits in the grocery store. When I called the Smuckers 800 number to inquire about where to buy a simple jar of cherry preserves, the guy on the phone told me that I’d have to go down south to find them. Barbecue to Northerners meant “grilling out” so if I wanted a barbecue sandwich I might as well set my taste buds on a hamburger.

If you do find a restaurant that serves fried chicken, it’s usually chicken tenders, and you can flat forget about a decent glass of sweet tea to go with it.

So, one night Peter surprised me by featuring Southern fare as his “chef’s special” for the evening. He made fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, corn pudding, and spoon bread, just like Kissie would have made it. I had told him all about Kissie and her famous Southern cooking. I wondered why he wanted to know, in detail, my favorite Kissie meal and how she made it. Now it made sense.

Right before the dinner rush, in late August, he knocked on the inside door to my apartment. His hands were behind his back when I opened the door. “I have a surprise for you. Okay if I come in?”

My hair was still wet, but I was dressed for work. “Of course. What’s behind your back?”

“Close your eyes and open your mouth wide.”

“What for?”

“Just
trust
me,” he said, as he had numerous times before.

So I did. Even though I was embarrassed he would see my gold filling, I closed my eyes and opened my mouth. A spoon filled with the most delicious thing I had tasted in so long rested upon my tongue. White chocolate—creamy, rich, and so yummy—along with a whole, fresh raspberry. It created that bite, that salivating sensation I get on my tongue when tasting a perfect blend of tart and sweet.

I opened my eyes to his big, wide smile. “That’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. What is it?”

“White chocolate mousse.”

“How’d you know I love white chocolate?”

“Roberta told me. White chocolate, moose, and Leelee seem to go together, so I thought it was the perfect dessert—even though it’s not peach.”

“And who needs peach, when you can have this?” I threw my arms around his neck to hug him and when I did, he held on to me an extra second or two. Something curiously familiar shot through my body. I quickly pulled away. “Thank you, Peter. That was mighty sweet of you.”

“Anytime, Leelee. I mean, boss.”

Could it be that I was
enjoying
what I was doing? I was spending time in the dining room at night, getting to know the customers. I even made the bold step to convert the front parlor into a dining room and turn the back dining room, right off our apartment, into another sitting room and waiting area. Now I could go in and out of our quarters at will, without going outside during dinner to get to my children. Moving that table made life so much simpler. It was my second big step toward independence.

For the first time in ten months, I didn’t wake up every morning dreading my day. Sure, I was still looking forward to going home, but at least the weather was nice, the Schloygins were gone, I had a little money in my pocket, and I had a new fun friend in Peter.

When Kerri got an offer to move back home to Idaho to work at a dude ranch, I would be lying if I said I was really all that sorry to see her go. I know she had nothing to do with Baker leaving and all, but she was still a big flirt and I don’t know, that gets under my skin after a while. I’m not saying that I really cared all that much, but when she flirted with Peter it was truly nauseating. Even Roberta thought so.

She would steal behind the line every chance she could and offer to knead Peter’s neck muscles. Then she’d work her way down his back. “You look beat,” she said once. “I bet you could use a good rubdown. My neighbor’s getting her masseuse license and she’s been practicing on me. Here, sit down on this stool and I’ll get your neck.”

Roberta’s face killed me. She raised her eyebrows and nodded her head up and down. As if she knew exactly what Kerri was doing. Peter let her knead his neck. I mean who in their right mind turns down a massage? I certainly wouldn’t. Male or female—I love nothing more than having someone caress my flesh.

Sarah started kindergarten at Fairhope Elementary and I have to say it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Her teacher, Miss Bev, was adorable and Sarah seemed to be crazy about her. The bus picked her up in front of the inn each morning and dropped her back off every afternoon around 3:30
P.M.
Tears welled up in my eyes the first morning she boarded, proudly displaying her Barbie backpack and clutching her Little Mermaid lunch box. She hopped on eagerly, as Issie and I waved from the curb. Sarah never let on, but I was sure of the void inside her that must have ached without a daddy there to see her off. The idea of what it meant to be the child of a single mama had not yet taken root, but in the months to come, I was sure she would become more aware.

Since Issie’s fourth birthday was approaching in January, the Elfin
Academy admitted her into their three-day-a-week program from nine to two. I had a few hours to myself in the morning, but I still hated all the time I had to spend away from them at night.

Fall arrived in a blaze of color. Leaf Season starts around the last week of September and lasts through the middle of October, with the peak occurring around October 5. I had heard about the fall foliage, but until you are there for Leaf Season there is no way to fully appreciate it. It’s the maple trees that make all the difference. They take on a pink tint at first before turning into their full vibrant shade of crimson red. The birch and the aspen will glow yellow; and the oaks will become a warm purplish brown.

People come from all over the world to experience Vermont during the foliage. Leaf peepers they’re called and the rooms in the area get booked a year in advance. My inn was no exception. Theoretically, we were supposed to make enough money during those three weeks to sustain us through Stick Season. We were serving on average ninety dinners per night, and every room we had was booked solid. We were right on track to get us back in the black.

Smack dab in the middle of Leaf Season, an older couple with heavy New York accents joined us for dinner, just as we were opening for the evening. We had been running an ad in
The Sugartree Gazette
that offered half-price entrées to anyone arriving by 5:00
P.M.
That helped to stagger the seatings, easing the burden of the 8:00 turnover. We could even turn the tables three times per night if we were lucky, with seatings at 5:00, 7:00, and then 9:00
P.M.

Pierre could always tell by someone’s drink order what kind of meal they would have. No drinks usually meant no appetizers, maybe one dessert to split. When Pierre gave me the order he immediately knew the type.

“No drinks, table nine. Cheap. Vedy, vedy cheap.” As he said “cheap,” Pierre pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and flipped his hand in the air. When he did that, he wasn’t expecting much tip.

Pierre cynically announced table nine’s order to Peter, “
Un
pork,
deux
plates. That’s it. Sheet.” I had figured out by now that “sheet” meant “shit.” They ordered the cheapest item on the menu.

Pierre brought them two salads, even though they were only supposed
to get one. Peter split their pork on two plates, but gave them each the regular amount of potato and green beans—even though they were only supposed to get enough for one. The amount of bread they ate was a meal by itself and they didn’t order a dessert.

When it was time to total their check, I added in a three-dollar plate charge to cover the extra salad, vegetables, bread, and potatoes. The bill came to a whopping $14.81 including the plate charge, tax, and the half-price coupon.

Pierre returned to the kitchen with the bill and no money to go with it. “Ze man, table nine, es not happy. No pay three dollars.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” I said.

“No, ze man es outside ze kitchen. He wants you.”

“Me? Okay. I can handle this,” I said, out loud but to myself.

“Go get ’em, boss,” Peter yelled from behind the line.

Confident on the outside, but scared to death on the inside, I fluffed my hair and meandered out to the waiting room to greet Mr. Cheap. He and his wife were standing just outside the kitchen door where four other people were waiting to be seated. As soon as he saw me, he started right in.

“I have a complaint, miss, uh, what’s your name, miss?”

“Leelee Satterfield. I’m the innkeeper here. And what is your name, sir?” I shot him a big smile.

“No matter.” The man was well dressed but quite short.

“Well, nice to meet you anyway, how can I help you?” I extended my hand, which he, by the way, did not shake.

“I demand that you take this three dollars off my bill. That’s how you can help me. There is nothing on your menu that indicates that you have a plate charge and I refuse to pay it!” As he got to the “refuse to pay it” part, his heels came off the ground and he got right in my face. We were about the same height.

Here’s the incredible part. Mr. No Matter was wearing Gucci loafers! That really bugged me. Wearing Gucci loafers and refusing to pay his three-dollar plate charge. What
nerve.
What
colossal
nerve.

“I see your point, sir,” I said sweetly. “Even after the half-price coupon you still had a balance of ten dollars and fifty cents. I would venture to say that at
all the four-star restaurants around here, a plate charge is pretty standard. But I don’t want you to feel like you didn’t get your money’s worth.”

“That has nothing to do with this hidden charge!” He looked over at his wife, dressed to the nines in a mink stroller and Ferragamo pumps. She was standing about five feet away with her head down, digging for something at the bottom of her Louis Vuitton pocketbook. At least
she
was used to this.

When I realized he was trying to make a scene and that customers like this simply were not worth the trouble, I said, as sweetly as I could, “You know, uh, sir, Friendly’s doesn’t have a plate charge. Perhaps you should try them sometime.”

I thought his ears would start smoking when he blurted out, “Now that you mention it, we would have been better off going to Friendly’s in the first place!” His voice climbed to a shout. “WE PROBABLY WOULD HAVE GOTTEN A BETTER MEAL.”