Lovesick (6 page)

But Roland was right. The pride of Atlanta society did come calling at Plantation House. The dining room was usually full not only with guests, but also with local people who could afford to eat out or wanted to celebrate a special occasion. There was no heart in this food, but Butcher had to admit that at least they did manage to serve it hot—he knew that when you were serving to order that could be a challenge. They dressed it up so that it looked nice, served it under little silver lids that the waiters would remove in unison when a table was served. It was all for show, but it worked. Butcher couldn't help but think how different it would be when he was the man in charge again, only this time with a kitchen of his own.

In the evenings after the kitchen was closed, and the dishwashers had finished cleaning for the night, and the night porter was napping behind the front desk, Butcher was free to explore the kitchen on his own. He loved especially to wander into the pastry room, a section of the kitchen set off from the rest of the kitchen by two swinging doors. During the afternoons, the doors to the pastry room would be propped open for easy access, and no matter how noisy or dirty or crowded the kitchen itself was—waiters calling out orders, the cooks yelling to each other on the line to fire a course, Roland barking loud above the rest—the pastry room was always ordered, quiet, serene. It was the only place in the kitchen where women were allowed to work, and Butcher noted even Ronald treated these women, even though every one of them was black, with a certain deference. The women cranked out pies, cakes, cobblers, banana pudding, biscuits, rolls, tea cakes without seeming to ever raise even a slight dust of flour. Butcher could feel these women in the pastry room deep in the night, long after they had gone for the day, could feel the heart and love that they put into these dishes to be sliced and sold to strangers. He understood what that meant to them, and he drew strength from it. He was tempted to make something for them, morning bread fresh from the oven when they arrived. A mysterious gesture of love and appreciation. But he knew he could not risk it.

The hotel, and the kitchen in particular, had been busy getting ready for the arrival of “Colonel Claiborne's Ladies,” which is what everyone called the women who were coming to compete in the Mystic White contest. Butcher feigned ignorance, appeared disinterested in the contest, though the topic was certainly the buzz. Very little of it was flattering to Claiborne or the women.

“Wonder if they know they gonna have to fuck him to win that contest. They should be calling it The Lady in the White Knickers.”

“Maybe he'll just have 'em make doughnuts on his old-man pecker pole.”

“The only white hat they gonna be wearing is a Klan hood.” Butcher ignored the chatter, concerned himself with the layout of the baking room, where each of the women would prepare her recipe for judging. Once the initial recipe had been accepted, the contest rules became more complex. There were several categories that had to be covered: biscuits/rolls, batter, pie crust, cake, cookie. Also, each recipe was to be a part of a larger menu, and while Butcher had painstakingly mapped out the details for each meal, it had not been easy. Virginia was terrified of all the multiple components, and he had fought with her over what to include for each menu—she was not confident she could make any/most/all of the items he suggested. However, he was just as adamant that she could learn. “Besides,” he said, referring to the guidelines, “it says ‘each contestant will choose recipes that best showcase her abilities as a cook and as a hostess.' They aren't gonna ask you to make anything that ain't on this list. This isn't about making you look bad. And I am here to make you look good.” He coaxed, he prodded, and soon they had crafted the three required menus for submission.

Virginia had wanted to do waffles or pancakes since that would satisfy the batter requirements, but Butcher insisted on the popovers. “Every one of those women is gonna make a waffle. Or eggs and grits with biscuits and gravy. You have to do something different. Separate yourself from the crowd. Don't want to just plop a mess of grits on the plate—I don't care how good they are. You might as well be slopping a hog. A popover is as simple as a pancake batter, but it is like eating a cloud. Plus, I will give you some homemade preserves to serve along with it. Just tell them you brought 'em from your own pantry. That will impress them. Besides, won't be anyone to question you about that. And it will show you have skills beyond just baking.”

“But we spent so much time with the biscuits,” she complained. “Am I just to abandon those now?”

“We can do the biscuits for the Sunday dinner,” he said.

“This one's got flour in the chicken breading, a cake, and the biscuits, so you have three things to show,” he said, holding three fingers in the air. “Plus, chicken for Sunday dinner will make them think you are a lady of real refinement.”

“I am a lady of real refinement,” she snapped back.

“A lady of means,” he said. “A chicken is not as easy to come by as a piece of pork or stew beef. You watch. Those other women will have a mock turtle soup and call it sophisticated.”

“I could never make all of this in a million years,” she complained. “It's too much.”

“You won't have to make it all,” he replied. “I guarantee they are only going to be interested in what you tell them you can bake. You have to sell them on the idea of it. And when you roll out those angel biscuits, they probably will just write you the check right there and then on the spot.”

The final menu—
Ladies' Luncheon
—had proved the most cantankerous of all. Butcher had wanted to do a cold menu, which he explained to Virginia would show her to be a hostess who knew how to plan ahead. The problem was that as the centerpiece to the menu, he had proposed a baked pâté in aspic, which would fulfill the pie crust requirement, but also something he said was so refined that it would elevate her to an entirely different level. Virginia protested no sane woman would ever attempt such a thing.

“That's just because they couldn't think of it. Won't imagine a savory pie. They will all be doing lemon meringue or peach or chocolate chess. I guarantee it,” said Butcher. “And this is as simple as the pie crust really. Ain't nothing more than minced pork baked in a shell. A meatloaf when you get down to it. It's just when you slice it that it shows off.” Butcher had seen Laurent slice one to lay out on a platter for the dining room at the brothel. Spiced ground pork encased in a shimmering golden pool of aspic surrounded by a delicate, flaky pastry. He had called it a country pâté (
pâté de campagne
)
.
Butcher didn't think there was anything country about it. It was the most pleasing dish he had ever seen—worthy of a king or queen.

He had finally convinced her, but only after Mona had taken his side. They had fallen into a rhythm again, he sensed.

“Remember when we had the chicken liver spread on toast?” she asked. “You said how much you liked that—how elegant it was. Pâté of chicken livers,” she said, as if scrolling the words through her memory. “It was on the menu at the hotel.”

“Where was that?” asked Butcher.

“Before we were in Fayetteville,” she said. “We were staying in a hotel in—”

“What difference does it make?” said Virginia. “Yes, I remember the chicken liver spread. Perhaps you are right. It would make a good impression. But you can't call it anything that sounds foreign. That will sound like I'm putting on airs. And
country
just sounds . . . well, so
common
.”

And so the final menu fell into place.

Butcher liked that Mona had taken his side against her boss, tried not to imagine that it meant more than it did. Tried to squash down the feeling that he had become sweet on her. He had missed her since he had left Fayetteville, and he was looking forward to her arrival in Atlanta. She had awakened something in him, and though he was surely twice her age, she had made him feel like a young man again.

He agreed to work any shifts that were available in the days before and during the contest. He had no idea when exactly Mona and Miss Virginia would arrive, and it came almost as a surprise when Mona opened the door to the room when Butcher had been sent to deliver afternoon tea. She motioned to the table in front of the window.

“Put it down over there,” she said. “And don't worry about pouring. I will do that for Miss Virginia.” Then, closing the door behind him, she added, “Don't you look a sight all dressed up in a uniform.”

“It's hotter than Hades, I can tell you that,” said Butcher. “And it scratches like hell.” Miss Virginia stood in the corner in a simple celery-colored dress. She was as still as a mannequin in a window, but he could tell she was nervous from the way she held her hands, clasping and unclasping them in front of her.

“Good afternoon, George,” she said.

“Good afternoon, Miss Virginia. I hope you had an easy travel.”

“Pleasant enough. So how are things here?”

“Some of the ladies started arriving yesterday. They ain't been going out much, though. I guess most everybody is keeping to themselves.”

“Waiting for the opening reception to make an entrance,” she said.

“I saved these for you,” he said, pulling a neatly folded stack of newspaper articles from his pocket. “They have been writing about all of you and the contest in the paper. It gives the names of everyone who is coming. And the schedule of how the contest will run.”

“I have the schedule,” she said. “They sent that to me last week. The names as well. But it was kind of you to go to the trouble. Who knows? Perhaps there is something here that might be of use.”

“Maybe so,” said Butcher, turning to Mona. “And how are you enjoying Atlanta, little miss?”

However, before Mona could reply, Virginia interjected. “I don't mean to interrupt this reunion, but it might not be appropriate for us to be receiving the colored help in our hotel room,” she said.

“I understand,” said Butcher. “Besides, I have work to do myself. Everyone here is on high alert, like when the general would come to address the soldiers. Y'all are a big deal.” He opened the door and in an exaggerated voice repeated the words that he had been told to say to all guests, “Welcome to Atlanta. If there is anything we can do to assist you in your stay, please let one of the staff know.”

 

After George closed the door, Virginia motioned to Mona. “Pour me a cup of that tea, will you, sweetie? And put just a drop in it to help settle my nerves?” Virginia sat in the overstuffed upholstered chair by the window and began to read the clippings Butcher had brought her. She started with the most recent, which was from the
Journal
from the previous Sunday: