Just in Time. Suzanne Trauth
about Dale’s hair piece.”
“That’s dangerous territory.” Everybody knew about Dale’s explosive temper and great head of hair, but no one mentioned it—until now. “I guess Walter’s feeling neglected.”
Lola wiped her mouth on a napkin. “I can’t keep playing his nursemaid. He has to get over me and grow up.”
“Easier said than done.” I paused. “What exactly did Walter say?”
“Oh…something about if they didn’t get the cues straight for Dale’s ‘Put on a Happy Face’ number there’d be hell ‘toupee.’”
I tucked an inventory sheet onto a clipboard. “Actually, that’s kind of clever—for Walter.”
“I guess so,” Lola conceded.
We both giggled.
“Hey you two,” Benny, bartender and Windjammer assistant manager, sidled up to the booth. “You gotta cheer up.”
“Wise guy,” I said.
Things definitely felt more relaxed at the restaurant these days. Henry’s specials were attracting more traffic than at any time in the last year. He was almost on a par with his crosstown nemesis La Famiglia—since he’d gotten an extra half star from the Etonville Standard’s restaurant reviewer this spring. The Windjammer came in with three and a half stars to La Famiglia’s four. We were gaining on them.
“Henry wants to know if you’re going to announce the contest winners tomorrow night?” Benny asked.
I’d been promoting the Windjammer/Etonville Little Theatre connection for several years now by producing some pretty hot theme-food ideas: a seafood buffet for Dames At Sea, Italian night for Romeo and Juliet, a 1940s food festival for Arsenic and Old Lace, and early American concession treats for Eton Town. Each event had its own hiccups, but those are other stories…
Bye, Bye, Birdie had me stumped. What to do with a 1960s musical about a hip-thrusting rock star drafted by Uncle Sam? Inspired by Elvis Presley’s actual army induction, Bye, Bye, Birdie had a good run on Broadway and in the movies, but my usually peppy creativity was snoozing and I was ready to say bye-bye to the entire theme food project.
Then it hit me! In the musical, there’s a fan club competition to choose a young woman on whom Conrad Birdie would bestow one last kiss before he’s inducted into the service. Why not an Etonville contest to choose dishes to serve during the run of the show? When Etonville got wind of the contest, there was a deluge of entries. Who knew the town was so competitive? Appetizers, salads, entrees—the whole enchilada. Henry chose the winners, since he’d be responsible for actually creating the meals. As usual, he grumbled his way through the process, but, secretly, he was pleased to have so many people interested in his menus. We ended up with three entrees and an appetizer.
“Announcing the winners is a good idea.”
A loud crash from the kitchen yanked our attention toward the swinging doors that led into Henry’s inner sanctum.
Benny and I locked eyeballs. “Wilson!” we both said in tandem.
“How’s Henry’s new assistant coming along?” Lola asked tentatively.
“I miss Enrico,” Benny answered and headed back to the bar.
“Me too, but he has bigger fish to fry now.” Enrico, Henry’s second-in-kitchen-command, returned to cooking school to up his future prospects. He now worked part-time, mostly on weekends. In his place, Henry had taken the suggestion of his restauranteur cousin and hired newly minted sous chef Wilson. I was the last person Henry’s cousin recommended for hire. That worked out. Wilson was a young Haitian—a new culinary institute grad. Cheerful, full of laughter, always smiling—
Another clatter. “Wilson!” Henry bellowed, his voice audible in the dining room.
—and sort of gravity challenged. He dropped things.
Lola winced. “It was good of Henry to hire Wilson. Being a mentor—giving him a chance to kick off his career.”
Henry poked his head into the dining room. “Dodie,” he hissed, and motioned for me to join him in the kitchen.
Customers were trickling in for lunch. I jumped up. “Gotta soothe some ruffled feathers.”
Lola finished her coffee. “I have to run too. Don’t forget you’re coming by rehearsal tonight. Last run-through in the theater before we move to the park. I’d like you to see Act One—some new choreography for Dale and me.”
“Benny’s closing so I can sneak over after seven.”
* * * *
Dinner was well under way. Regulars stopped in to eat before rehearsal next door. Henry, though cautious, let Wilson try his hand with some items this week and the result was definitely multi-cultural. Sole meunière—complemented by rice and beans and fried plantains—were served on Saturday. Tonight’s feature was moules frites. I tried explaining to customers that it was simply mussels and fries. I’d eaten variations on the dish down the Jersey Shore many times.
“We know Wilson is very continental,” said one of the elderly Banger sisters—Etonville’s gossip mavens who kept their arthritic fingers on the pulse of the town’s affairs.
“Very French, don’t you know,” said the other. They bobbed their curly gray perms in unison.
“But we’d be happy with the other type of French food,” said the first one.
I refilled their coffee cups. “What other type?”
“French fries, French toast—”
“French onion soup—”
Geez. “Nice to see you ladies. Have a good rehearsal,” I said and scooted away. Walter was no particular friend of mine, but I had to sympathize with him on this one. Directing the Banger sisters in Bye, Bye, Birdie had to be an act of self-flagellation. Of course they were only in the chorus, like a number of other Etonville citizens, but—
“I hear we’re going French tonight?”
I looked up from the cash register. My heart did a flip-flop whenever I heard Bill’s husky voice, the corner of his mouth inching upward in that quirky smile, and glimpsed his former NFL running back-physique. “Hey handsome. Leaving work early?” I leaned over the counter exposing a bit of cleavage.
Bill’s ruddy face turned a shade deeper. “Shh! You want the whole town to know our business?”
“What parallel universe are you living in? We’re already the topic of steady conversation.” The occupants of most tables in the dining room had swiveled their attention in our direction. “See what I mean?” I murmured.
Bill ducked his head and walked to my back booth. I followed with a menu and a table set-up. “Must be a slow gossip day.”
“What happened to privacy?” Bill grumbled.
“That ship has sailed in Etonville.”
Bill settled on the moules frites and a glass of cabernet, digging into the mussels with relish. “Wilson is a good addition to the staff.”
A racket in the kitchen made us both flinch. “Agreed. Are you going to rehearsal tonight? I’m dropping in later and maybe I can catch a ride home…” I let the image dangle before his imagination. Bill and I cemented our growing relationship two months ago when we’d begun sharing living accommodations: most weekends at his place because it’s larger, tidier, and he loves to cook, and occasional weeknights at my bungalow, which I scramble to make presentable.
“Your Metro out of commission?” he asked innocently.
There was nothing wrong with my red Chevy and its one-hundred-thousand-plus miles. “No, but after you tread the boards tonight you might need a little rest and recreation,” I said provocatively.