Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (3 page)

If you’re cooking with love, every plate is a unique event—you never allow yourself to forget that a person is waiting to eat it: your food, made with your hands, arranged with your fingers, tasted with your tongue.

—Bill Buford,
Heat

Before blasting across the island to the old harbor for my second visit to the Bistro on the Bight, I read over the document called “Do’s and Don’ts for Servers” that Edel had e-mailed me last night. “Extremely detailed” was one way to describe the list. “Anal,” “obsessive,” “controlling,” and “neurotic” were others. I concluded that it might be a miracle her staff hadn’t bumped her off rather than simply played practical jokes or quit in droves. Or however else her problems had manifested themselves. By now I was extremely curious.

To be fair, I agreed with many of the items on her list: If she managed to keep her drill-sergeant proclivities confined to the kitchen and waitstaff, her diners would be in for an exquisite experience. Whoever had launched
the trend of having waiters announce their names and proceed to treat diners like old maiden aunts deserved what they had coming. And don’t get me started on staff sharing their own experiences with why they’d switched to gluten-free diets or the pounds they’d lost by eliminating carbs, or, worse yet, any white-colored food. Or clearing plates before everyone at the table was finished . . . or asking diners if they were “still working on” their meals, as though dining at that particular restaurant was a Herculean task rather than a pleasure. Servers could stumble into a lot of traps, and Edel seemed determined to sidestep all of them.

I parked my scooter in the pay lot near the old Waterfront Market, hoping the Cuban Coffee Queen was open. The CCQ, a concrete shack painted as though it’s a giant postcard of Key West, dispenses some of the best coffee on the island. If Edel worked me as hard as she worked her staff, I would need every jolt of energy the caffeine offered.

Not only was the coffee stand open, but it was also jammed. I wended my way through a big family from India, a couple with two babies in strollers, and two workers from the Fury pleasure boats, probably headed to man the sunset cruises, which at this time of year cast off earlier and earlier. As I waited in line to order my Cuban coffee, one of the CCQ workers pushed out through the trailing strands of heavy plastic that separated the little kitchen from the outdoors. He offered a chunk of ham to a waiting Australian shepherd with spooky blue eyes, who snatched the meat and nearly took his fingers off.

I sat on the yellow bench to wait for my coffee, then recognized the man next to me as Wes Singleton, the former owner of a fried-fish-and-burger joint on the harbor. A funky-smelling bar can survive in Key West
with the right music and the right party vibe, but a funky restaurant is a turnoff. Wes’s place had finally succumbed to a series of bad customer reviews online and a brief shutdown by the health department. Rumor had it they’d found a horde of rodents in his kitchen. The restaurant had been in my queue of places to review; I was grateful that it had closed before I had to weigh in. Even though I recognize it as a necessary duty, I still despise writing negative reviews.

Wes lit up a cigarette and slurped a slug of his coffee.

“How’s it going?” I asked, inching away from the smoke.

“Slowly,” he said, blinking sleepy gray eyes. “Looking for work.”

“Have you tried Edel Waugh’s new place? I’m certain she’s looking for experienced staff.” Then I wished I’d kept my big mouth shut. Because of course Edel’s restaurant had replaced his, after the little rhubarb with the health department and the financial problems that had followed.

He stared back at me. “Don’t you think it would be a little weird to work for someone else in what should by rights be my space? Besides, I’ve heard she’s hell on wheels.” Then he cackled, and I laughed with him, because what else could I do?

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’ll let you know if I hear of something,” I added, just to be polite. The worker at the cash register called my name and I said good-bye and eased through the crowd to collect my café con leche.

Inside Edel’s place, I was greeted by the waiter I’d seen yesterday. “How did the dinner go last night?” I asked. “The soft, soft, soft opening?”

He held out his hands, palms up. “We were okay in
the front of the house”—he gestured to the empty tables and chairs—“some issues to work out in the back. But I’m sure Chef is all over it.”

“We didn’t meet formally yesterday. I’m Hayley Snow.”

He shook my hand and smiled. “Leo McCracken.”

“Do you hail from New York or were you hired here in Key West?”

“I’m down from New York for the high season. After that, we’ll see.” We both cringed, hearing a clang of pans clashing to the floor and a harried, screaming voice. “She said to send you in when you arrived,” Leo said. “Good luck.” He gave an apologetic smile and went back to folding crisp white napkins into neat triangles.

I trudged across the dining room and pushed open the swinging door. Edel was looking up at a tall man with a shock of white hair wearing a chef’s toque and checkered pants. “Did you taste that before you added the salt?” Her voice was hoarse with fury. She grasped a big wooden spoon and stabbed it at his apron-wrapped belly. “Go ahead, taste it now.”

The sous-chef dipped the spoon into the pot, sniffed the pale pink sauce first, and then took a sip. And instantly recoiled. “Oh my god,” he said, clutching his throat, his eyebrows arched in horror.

“Explain,” said Edel, squeezing her hands into fists. She was shorter than the sous-chef by a good eight inches, possibly even a foot, but in spite of his vantage point looking down on her, he appeared terrified. “Explain how our signature pasta sauce is so spicy and salty that no customer would eat it.”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged helplessly. “It was fine when we made it. I’ll start another batch right now.” He turned away from Edel and called out to two of the
other workers. “Mary Pat, get tomatoes, shallots, garlic, butter, and cream from the cooler. Rodrigo, get this shit out of here.” He slammed the spoon against the big pot, splattering the ruined sauce around his station. A swarthy man with an impassive face who’d been washing dishes scuttled over to whisk the stockpot away.

Then Edel noticed me hovering inside the dining room door. “Come in,” she said, waving me forward and mustering a smile. She wiped her damp face with the sleeve of her white coat. “I’m sorry for that introduction to our kitchen. Apparently, we’ve got soft-opening-night jitters.”

Then she swept me through the kitchen and introduced me to the staff—the sous-chef she’d just bawled out was Glenn Fredericks. After Glenn, I met the line cook, Mary Pat; the pastry chef, Louann; and Rodrigo the dishwasher; and then I lost track. I perched on a stool and took notes as I watched them prepare everything that would be needed for the night to come.

“What’s the best thing about Christmas in Key West?” Louann asked me. “Sounds like you’ve been around for a while.”

“Hmm, so many choices. But probably my favorite event is the lighted boat parade. I’ve been invited to ride on my friend Ray’s little Boston Whaler. He’s going to have lighted reindeer and lots of chickens. I suspect we’ll be the smallest boat in the harbor, but with the best seat in the house.”

“Where should we watch if we don’t have a boat?”

“Somewhere along the dock in front of Schooner Wharf,” I said.

Edel stopped by Mary Pat’s station and examined a pile of julienned carrots. “These are too big. These could choke a horse, not to mention a yellowtail snapper. They are meant to be delicate matchsticks, to
garnish the dish. I thought we had been over these specials in detail, but apparently not enough detail.”

The sous-chef stomped over, snatched the cutting board off the counter, and scraped the vegetables into a trash can, muttering something about idiots and bullshit. He sent Mary Pat back to the walk-in cooler for another enormous bag of carrots, and they began again, with Edel watching.

By five o’clock, the prep work was finished and the kitchen was filled with amazing smells—one of them I could have sworn was an Italian red sauce.

I stopped Edel after she’d delivered a bowl of key limes to the pastry chef. “What incredible dish am I smelling? I didn’t see anything Italian on your menu, aside from the tomato-vodka sauce.”

She broke into a wide smile and tipped her head at an enormous pot bubbling on one of the back burners of the farthest cooktop. “Bolognese sauce. My grandmother’s recipe. We’re serving it for our family meal—for good luck. You’ll eat with us.” A decree, not an invitation. But I wouldn’t have missed it.

Fifteen minutes later, I was seated with Edel and her staff around a long table at the back of the dining room. Edel took the head chair, heaved a big sigh, and raised her glass of water. “To all of you who have chosen to travel with me on this new adventure, thank you.” She looked as though she had more to say, but choked up. She waved to Leo, the head server, and he delivered steaming bowls of pasta smothered in red sauce to the table. “Eat, eat,” she said. “We’ll all need our stamina tonight.”

I loaded a heap of spaghetti on my plate, topped it with shredded parmesan, and began to eat. “This is amazing,” I told Edel. “You should put this on your menu.”

“I’d vote for that,” said one of the line cooks.

“Red wine and milk?” I asked, hoping she’d spill her recipe.

“Red wine and white,” Edel said with an impish grin. “And milk. And that’s all I am willing to say. A chef’s recipes are her greatest assets. The jewels in her crown.”

After twenty minutes, the bowls were empty, the plates cleared, and Edel clapped her hands. “I needn’t tell you all how important this night is to me. I think you understand that. So I will say only one more thing: Never forget the people who will be eating the dishes we prepare. They are what matters—they are eating the products of our care and our love. If we cook with that in mind, our customers will feel it in their hearts.” Her gaze swept the table, meeting the eyes of each of her staff members in turn. She gave a quick nod and then clapped her hands. “Let’s go back in there and show them how great food can taste!”

I spent the next few hours glued to the stool in the corner of the kitchen, watching Edel’s people work. For a new staff, they came together amazingly well. The restaurant was nonstop busy, but from what I could see, all the customers seemed to get a meal and pretty much what they’d ordered.

When the madness ebbed around nine thirty, I edged around the kitchen, watching the workers at each of the stations, from Rodrigo, the dark-skinned dishwasher who seemed to speak only Spanish, to the female pastry chef piping whipped-cream designs on her key lime parfaits, to the head sous-chef, who did his best to keep distance between himself and Edel since the scolding about the ruined sauce and the chunky carrots. For her part, Edel had shifted from irate to professional, flitting from station to station with suggestions, instructions, and even a few compliments . . .

Every half hour or so, Edel exited the kitchen to
make the rounds of the front of the restaurant, where her friends and invited guests were dining. I tasted whatever was offered to me and found every item delicious. Even the signature vegetarian dish—Edel’s takeoff on the more commonplace Key West shrimp and grits, only without the shrimp—which I would not have thought to order—was stunning. Lightly stir-fried vegetables—small carrot coins, bright green spears of broccoli, wedges of red onion, and purple radishes—served over cheesy polenta and garnished with golden Parmesan crisps were sublime.

I was perched back on the stool near the grill when Edel came tearing in from the dining room, barreling toward Mary Pat at the salad-prep counter and brandishing a white plate.

She slammed down the plate and the salad flew over the counter. A few pieces stuck to Mary Pat’s apron and a shred of carrot clung to her cheek. “What kind of dressing did you use on this?”

“That’s our standard mixed-green salad with the house vinaigrette.” She swiped the carrot off her face and flung it to the floor.

“Take a whiff,” Edel said. “Does it smell like balsamic and olive oil to you?”

Mary Pat picked the plate up and sniffed. “Something smells a little off.” She crossed the aisle to the station where the vinaigrette had been made, picked up a large bottle of oil, and sniffed that, too. Looking puzzled, she lifted her shoulders. “There’s something different—this doesn’t smell like olive oil. But I made it exactly the same way as I did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. You told us no variations. You said people want to know what they’re getting.”

“It doesn’t smell like olive oil because, dammit, it’s peanut oil.” Edel’s voice had risen to a shriek. “You understand that this could ruin me, right?”

“But I didn’t use peanut oil.” Mary Pat hurried to the pantry and hauled out an enormous white plastic bottle of oil. She unscrewed the cap and took a whiff, then passed it to Edel, who had the red face of someone on the verge of stroke.

“Peanut oil here, too. You can clock out right now,” Edel told her. “I’ll let you know whether to come in tomorrow.” Her hands shook as she picked up the jug of oil and carried it back into the pantry. When she didn’t come out for several minutes, I poked my head in.

“Is the taste between the two oils so different? I suspect most people won’t even notice the difference,” I said, knowing I shouldn’t butt in, but hoping to calm her down. Her reaction to the salad dressing had seemed severe. Possibly even paranoid.

Edel stared at me and then shook her head slowly. “It’s
peanut
oil. One of the customers felt his lips begin to swell and itch and so he asked the server to remove the salad. He’s highly allergic to peanuts and he knows what happens when he eats anything containing them—he’s suffered several trips to the emergency department.”

I nodded with sympathy.

“All I need is one case of anaphylactic shock in my customer base when I’ve insisted that we don’t use nuts in our mirepoix. Or in our pastry cream. Or especially not in our vinaigrette. We don’t chop nuts on the same cutting surface; we don’t even use the same pans. I put all this in writing on the bottom of every menu—
we will tell you if we use nuts in a dish. We are scrupulously careful about our customers with allergies
. And yet somehow”—she swabbed the perspiration off her face
with the back of her hand—“somehow someone substituted peanut oil in every dish we cooked tonight.”