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Chapter One
So, first they sent women from Paris to be brides of the French settlers, then they sent these nuns to help birth the babies and start schools and stuff." Heaven Lee was pacing around Sal's barbershop, waving a hardcover book. Sal was getting ready for his day, setting out his clippers and combs and scissors in a neat, orderly row. Murray Steinblatz, the maitre d' at Cafe Heaven, had brought Lamar's doughnuts to the barbershop and Heaven had brought coffee from the restaurant across the street. She would only drink Sal's coffee under crisis circumstances. The other member of this impromptu coffee klatch was Mona Kirk, the owner of the cat gift store right next to Cafe Heaven. She was the only one who seemed interested in Heaven's history lesson.
"And that was how long ago?"
"Really early, as far as American history goes. Seventeen twenty-seven. My friend sent me this history of New Orleans and it tells all about them, the sisters," she said, waving the book again. "Can you imagine a bunch of nuns coming across the ocean to God knows where." Heaven was glad to have an audience. "New Orleans was just a swamp with a few houses then."
Sal turned his head to face the crowd rather than talk through the mirrors that lined the room as he did when he had a customer. "So what's different from right now? That city is still under sea level and still filled with alligators and other slimy two-legged critters, from what I read in the newspaper."
The word newspaper pulled Murray away from the one he was reading, the Kansas City Star . Murray was really a journalist who had dropped out for a while and was working at Cafe Heaven. He used to write for the New York Times and was sending them a column once again entitled "Letters From the Interior." "That's right, Sal," Murray said. "That city is full of corruption. Once I flew down there for a story when the vice squad had to be disbanded because it was just too corrupt. What a comedy. The bar owners on Bourbon Street complained because the cops would come in and help themselves to the bills in the cash register, just scoop out money and walk away."
It did seem comical but also exciting, and they all chuckled wistfully. Kansas City rarely had scandal anymore, and when it did, it was a more boring, stolid Midwestern variety.
"Remind me, Heaven," Sal said. "What do these nuns have to do with you going down to ol' NOLA?"
"Nola?" Mona Kirk asked peevishly. She was the only one who had been attentively listening and she didn't remember a Nola being a part of the tale. "Who's Nola?"
Heaven patted Mona's leg and knocked some glazed doughnut leavings off her slacks. "NOLA is just a nickname for New Orleans, Louisiana. N and O for New Orleans, and LA is the state abbreviation for Louisiana," she said in a slightly condescending manner.
"I knew that," Mona said crossly.
"The nuns?" Sal asked again. Once Sal started tracking on something, he wanted to get it straight.
Heaven looked around the room like an old maid schoolteacher, pursing her lips slightly. "Now everybody, pay attention. The history stuff was just to show that I'm not leaving you all for some unimportant, trivial pursuit in another city. The nuns, the Sisters of the Holy Trinity, are a very important part of New Orleans history, and my national women's chef group is helping Susan Spicer and Anne Kearney, who are restaurant owners and chefs in New Orleans, we're helping them put on a benefit for the sisters because the sisters' thing is education and that happens to be important to the women's chef group too." She could see by the way Murray's eyes were glazing over that she was losing them again. "And a woman I knew when I was a lawyer, a woman who used to live here but married someone and moved to New Orleans, just happens to be on the committee for this benefit. She called personally and asked me to be one of the chefs and so I couldn't say no to a good cause and an old friend, now could I?"
Murray gamely tried to act interested. "Old friend? I've never heard you talk about an old friend in New Orleans."
"Well," Heaven said defensively, "she was a law school friend. I always liked her; we just didn't keep up after she moved out of town. I've seen her a couple of times when I've been in NOLA."
Sal turned back to his brushes with a roll of his eyes. "You know, it's not a crime to just take a vacation. You could say, `Bye everybody, I'm off to New Orleans for a few days.' No, you have to go and get involved with some big production number. That New Orleans society is different, Heaven. I had an uncle who lived down there. Lots of Italians came through there after the famine of--"
"What are you saying, Sal, that you think Heaven can't breeze through a little Southern society event?" Mona broke in. "Heaven single handedly kept the Eighteenth and Vine dedication from going to hell in a handbasket, with a little help from me, of course. New Orleans will be a piece of cake for Heaven."
"That reminds me, what are you cooking?" Murray asked, trying to change the subject. Sal and Mona could bicker about almost anything.
"We don't have that figured out yet. That's one of the reasons I'm going down there tomorrow, so we can assign the courses and decide where everyone will do prep and take a look at the convent. But Pauline and I have been working on some kind of an outrageous pie with praline bits and strawberries and other decadent things. We're calling it Nola Pie."
Murray stood up and shook the doughnut icing off his trousers. "Well, let me know when you need a taste tester. I'm leaving. I've got errands to run. See you later."
"You're working tonight, aren't you?" Heaven asked.
"I'm working for the next four days, while you're gone, remember? I'll expect you to give me my instructions tonight, before the open mike."
"It's time for me to open the shop," Mona said as she folded up the newspaper Murray had left in a tangle on his chair. They all knew Sal hated a messy newspaper in the shop. Why couldn't Murray just fold it up himself when he was done with it?
Sal noticed what Mona was doing and gave her a reluctant grunt. "Thanks, there, Mona."
"Bye, Sal," Heaven said and blew a kiss in his direction.
"You might need a trim before you go down to New Orleans," Sal barked, trying to act like he didn't really notice Heaven's hair.
Heaven stopped at the door. "Good idea," she said as she checked her red locks in the mirrors. "Let me go see what's up in the kitchen and I'll come back over later. Are you busy all day?"
"Eleven," Sal said without turning around as the two women banged the door shut.
Heaven and Mona crossed 39th Street to their businesses, stopping for a quick hug on the sidewalk between the two places. "Later," Heaven said vaguely in Mona's direction as she watched the mailman stuffing envelopes in the mail slot of her cafe. She said hello to him as they passed on the street, then unlocked the front door with the key she'd slipped in her shirt pocket when she went to Sal's for coffee. Heaven didn't like to leave the front door open early in the morning. People could wander in off the street and the kitchen crew wouldn't know they were in the dining room. Once, a couple of years ago, Heaven had found a derelict sleeping across a big table hours after the kitchen crew had been working in the back. In the morning, deliveries needed to come to the kitchen door anyway.
The minute Heaven set foot in the restaurant, she felt like a ball in a pinball machine, moving from one problem or task to the next without having a big plan for the day, propelled forward by who needed her the most. The produce guy was on the phone, and Heaven and he talked about what spring lettuces and vegetables were available this week. The accountant called and asked a bunch of questions concerning a few pieces of new equipment he was trying to amortize. Pauline, the baker, and Brian, the lunch chef, had a squabble that Heaven had to referee. The night dishwasher called with the news he had broken his wrist on Sunday playing baseball with his kids. He was waiting at the medical center for a special waterproof cast to be put on and he might be late for work. Because she was thinking of New Orleans, she decided to make Jambalaya for a special, so she started the prep for that.
The next thing Heaven knew, it was time to go get her hair cut. As she headed into the dining room she spotted a stack of mail piled on the bar where a waiter had thrown it so Heaven could look through it. She grabbed it and headed across the street to Sal's.
"Don't let me forget the coffeepot," Heaven said as she walked in the door of the barbershop, shuffling through the mail as she talked. Sal was brushing off the neck of a uniformed policeman. Heaven sat down and started opening envelopes, ripping a few of them almost in two to indicate they were junk mail, putting the rest on the bottom of the pile.
The cop shook hands with Sal, paid, and left. Heaven sat down in Sal's battered leather barber chair. She held up a plain white envelope with a handwritten address and tossed the rest of the mail on Sal's countertop. "Look at this, Sal. It sticks out like a sore thumb among the rest of the day's mail. Guess why?"
Sal moved the unlit cigar he kept in his mouth most of the day from one side of his face to the other. "Easy," he grumbled. "Handwritten, not computer type. No return address, either."
Heaven smiled. "Sal, what a mind. I hadn't noticed the lack of a return address. I hope it's a party invitation." As Sal put a clean smock around her shoulders, she ripped open the envelope. Silence followed. Sal didn't notice for a minute because he had to find his best pair of snipping shears to work on Heaven. By the time he turned back to the chair, Heaven was holding out the letter, her hand shaking.
"What?" Sal asked.
"Look," she said with a small voice Sal hadn't heard before. He took the single sheet of paper and read. The text was in some generic typeface:
CAFE HEAVEN IS FULL OF AIDS INFESTED FAGS. THE COOKS PICK THEIR NOSE IN YOUR FOOD. EAT THERE AT YOUR OWN EXPENSE.
Sal folded the letter carefully by the edges. "I hope none of the guys is that way," he said gruffly. "I think a lot of Chris and Joe."
Heaven started crying. "See. That's what happens when someone writes down that kind of filth. Even you, you who know us all, you tend to believe something that's written down. Not that having AIDS is something that makes a person bad, but the intentions of this letter certainly are."
"Hell, I guess lots of waiters are gay. It would make sense some of them might be sick ..." Sal trailed off, red-faced.
Heaven stood up, tears streaming down her face. "Yes, but as it happens, none of my waiters, who are also my friends, are sick. And having someone slander them that way, about something life and death ..." She sank back down in the chain "What a monster." She wiped her nose with her arm like a kid. "What if they sent this to someone else? What should I do, Sal? Why would anyone ..."
"Honey, there are lots of deranged people out there. Your restaurant is popular and that makes some people want to destroy, to tear it down."
"But what should I do? Should I tell the guys?" Heaven whimpered, her usual competency shattered.
Sal patted her shoulder and handed her a wad of tissues. "I tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna cut your hair real pretty for New Orleans. Then you're gonna go back to the cafe and keep your mouth shut. That's the plan. I'm gonna call Murray and show him this thing and he's the only one we're gonna tell. Not even Mona, you understand?"
"Can't I tell Hank?" she asked, like a petulant child.
"Not now," Sal said gruffly. "Just buck up and shut up, like a big girl."
Heaven saw the glitter of tears in Sal's eyes. Embarrassed at being caught under the sway of his emotions, he spun her around, away from the mirrors.
Monday nights were busy at Cafe Heaven because it was open mike night. The actors and poets and musicians of Kansas City came in and performed free because they knew it would be a full house and a tough crowd. If they could make it there, chances were their act would fly anywhere else in town.
The open mike had been over for about an hour. It was after midnight and Tony, the bartender, was counting his drawer. Most of the waiters had checked out with Murray and a couple were helping the busboys set up the tables for tomorrow's lunch. Heaven was at the bar nursing a glass of Veuve Clicquot. She'd left the kitchen cleanup to the rest of the line. Murray came and sat down, ordering a Diet Coke with lime. "You usually don't drink that bubbly stuff this late at night," he remarked to Heaven.
"It's good for all times of the day and night," Heaven said dully.
"You expecting someone?" Murray asked.
"No. I thought I'd drink the whole bottle tonight, all by myself."
"Now, Heaven, calm down. I know you're upset about the letter. I think this is just a crank who wrote that thing. Chances are by the time you get home at the end of the week, nothing will have come of it."
"That's a sick person, Murray. If that's someone's idea of a joke, he's insane and should be put away. If someone is starting a campaign to ruin my business, well ... those seem to be the two choices we have. Insane or vicious. Fun, huh?" Heaven threw back her champagne. Tony looked up and tried to make eye contact with Murray, like he was asking, "What's up with the boss?" Murray kept his head down. Heaven reached over and poured herself another glass of champagne out of an ice bucket on the bar. She must have told Tony to keep the bottle handy. She gave Murray a don't-fuck-with-me look.
"I'm afraid I have another piece of bad news concerning this hate-mail thing." Murray couldn't put it off any more. "Sal and I decided that I shouldn't call any of my contacts at the newspaper. Why get people thinking about something they may not have any reason to think about, right?"
Heaven sighed. "And?"
"But one of my contacts called me. A reporter, someone with a city hall beat. His letter said the same thing yours did. He read it to me."
"Great. Why the city hall beat? Why not the food editor?" she asked.
"Oh, maybe going for the food safety angle. That's what we guessed. Now, don't worry. My reporter talked it over with his editor and they would never print something like that, unsigned and unsubstantiated. But it does get folks thinking."
"Thinking about what? What folks?" Heaven asked heavily. She shot back another gulp of champagne.
"Well, it made the editor think about doing a story about people in food service that are HIV positive."
Heaven moaned. "So even if it doesn't affect us, some poor waiters somewhere could be outed as being HIV positive?"
"You know, does the public have the right to know who touches their food, that kind of thing. It could be good, remind people that you can't get AIDS that way," Murray said quietly, wishing he wasn't having this conversation.
"Next it will be produce pickers with TB, cooks with hepatitis. This could win someone a Pulitzer," Heaven said. "In the meantime, do you think anyone else got that letter? If they sent it to one reporter, they could have sent it lots of places."
Murray patted Heaven's hand. "Just go on your trip and leave this at home. There's nothing you can do about it anyway. I called my friend at the FBI--"
Heaven broke in sarcastically. "Oh boy, I thought we weren't going to tell anyone."
"I didn't. I asked him some general questions about paper documents. Said I was doing a piece about hate mail, which I may do. My friend said it's hard to trace if the perp wishes to remain anonymous and had used gloves and generic paper, but that sometimes the person wants to let their victim know who they are."
Heaven moaned again. "Something to look forward to. The maniac reveals him or herself. Oh goody."
Suddenly a familiar voice came from the vicinity of the front door. "What does a doctor have to do to get a nightcap around this place?" It was Hank, Heaven's boyfriend, who worked in the emergency room of the medical center a few blocks away from the restaurant.
Heaven turned toward Murray with fire in her eyes.
He quickly put up his hands in defense. "I did not call because you decided to drink an entire bottle of Veuve by yourself and then drive home. I called because Sal and I were worried about you. This letter is creepy stuff, Heaven. I didn't want you driving all the way downtown by yourself tonight. Just in case this nut has something else in mind. So I called Hank and I told him about the letter. Sal said you'd wanted to tell him anyway."
Hank had moved to stand between the two, listening to Murray try to explain his way out of a tongue-lashing. Now he kissed Heaven on the cheek. "Got a beer for a poor ER dog?"
Heaven smiled in spite of herself and threw her arm around Hank's shoulder, pulling him onto the bar stool on her other side. "People are so screwed up, you know that, honey? Tony, get this man what he wants, please."
"Just a Boulevard, Tony. The wheat ale if you've got it," Hank said, requesting a popular local brew. He smiled at Heaven and tapped her champagne glass with his beer bottle as soon as it arrived. "Don't tell me about screwed-up humans tonight. I've had a good close of them today, including my last patients, two sisters who stabbed each other. They're both still alive and mad the other one survived, I'm happy to report."
"And it's only Monday," Murray observed. "I thought you saved the good stuff for the weekends in ER."
"Take me home, baby," Heaven said to Hank as she got up and finished the last bit of champagne, tipping the bottle up to her mouth grandly, then tossing it over her shoulder for effect. It landed with a thud on the carpet behind her, not breaking, and rolled toward the bar. "I'll leave the van here in case the kitchen needs it for something. I can hardly wait to get to New Orleans where everyone knows folks act crazy."
Murray got up and shook Hank's hand, then gave Heaven a little hug. "Don't worry about us. We'll be just fine here." He sure hoped he was right.
Profiteroles Filled with Brie and Artichokes
For the Profiteroles:
3/4 stick butter, cut into pieces
1 cup water
1 T. sugar
dash salt
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
4 large eggs
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Bring butter, water, sugar, and a dash of salt to a boil in a heavy 3-qt. saucepan, stirring until butter is melted. Over medium heat, add the flour all at once. Beat with a wooden spoon and cook until the mixture pulls from the sides of the pan and forms a ball, about 1-2 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and beat in eggs one at a time with an electric mixer or by hand. Transfer the mixture into a pastry bag with a medium-large tip. Pipe the mixture onto a baking sheet in 1-2 inch diameter mounds. Bake for 10 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 300 degrees and continue to bake until the puffs are crisp and golden. Cool and halve horizontally with a serrated knife.
For the filling:
a kilo of Brie (2.2 lbs.)
1 can artichoke hearts, drained, and chopped fine
2 T. cream
white pepper
paprika
cayenne
Create a bain marie with a stock pot half full of boiling water and a stainless steel mixing bowl that fits over the top of the pot. Cut the Brie into chunks and remove the rind. Melt the Brie in the mixing bowl along with the cream. When the cheese is melted, add the seasonings and the artichoke hearts. Keep over the heat until the mixture is thoroughly mixed. Cool and fill the profiteroles with this mixture.
Chapter Two
The room was filling up fast now and the babble of feminine voices grew louder. Heaven had finally figured out what made this different from the dozens of other committee meetings she'd attended over the years. It was the perfume. Heaven would have laid odds that every woman in the house, with the exception of herself and the ordained sister present to represent the nuns, had applied a different brand of perfume with abandon. Heaven felt slightly nauseated from the assault on her nose. She hardly ever wore the stuff herself because it interfered with her ability to judge the aromas of food and wine. She would have to have a no-perfume zone if she ever opened a restaurant in the South, she thought.
"Who is this gorgeous creature with the red hair?" a voice cooed.
Heaven turned to see who was flattering her and at the same time spotted her old friend from Kansas City hurrying in the door.
Mary Whitten had informed Heaven on the phone that she was still practicing law with an international trade firm. She wore a tailored brown dress and the look of a harried attorney who was running late. Other than the harried look, Mary appeared very much the way she had when she and Heaven went to law school together twenty years ago. She was tall, thin, with short dark hair and a classic American profile, including a cute, small nose and good cheekbones. Her dark hair had one shock of white streaking through it that hadn't been there twenty years ago but Heaven thought it made Mary's appearance more striking.
As Heaven waited for her friend to make her way across the room, she returned her attention to a gray-haired grande dame type in an expensive navy blue suit, the stranger who had addressed her. "I'll answer to `gorgeous creature' any time," she said to the older woman, and smiled. "I'm Heaven Lee. I own a restaurant in Kansas City."
"Oh, dear Lord. A Northerner," the grande dame said with chuckle. "I used to hire some of your musicians. That Count Basie was a hoot."
"I wish I'd met him," Heaven said, catching herself before she mentioned how long the Count had been pushing up the tulips. She herself couldn't stand it when people marveled at the fact she actually saw the Grateful Dead play concerts live. "Did or do you own a restaurant or jazz club here in New Orleans?" Heaven asked politely.
"Oh, mercy me, no," the dowager replied. "I used to own a whorehouse, and a damned good one it was, too. We could afford to have the likes of Count Basie play for the amusement of our clients, darlin'."
Heaven was not going to let this old gal get the best of her. "If you could afford that kind of entertainment in the parlor, I can only imagine the treats waiting in the bedrooms."
A big laugh came out of the little old woman. "Nancy Blair, Heaven. Nice to have you on board."
Mary Whitten hurried over to the women, giving air kisses to both Nancy and Heaven. "I'm so sorry I couldn't get you at the airport. Did you find this place all right?" she said breathlessly.
"The taxi driver gave me a history of the sisters when I told him where I wanted to go. His version was much more colorful than that book you sent me," Heaven said. "You didn't tell me the nuns were all going to go back to France in a huff when the United States bought this territory."
"But Thomas Jefferson sent them a handwritten letter and begged them to stay. Said he couldn't do it without them." Mary gave a little wave to Nancy, who was already embroiled in another conversation, and then pulled Heaven to two empty chairs at the conference table. She sat down and fanned herself with one hand as though she were exhausted.
Heaven sat down beside her and leaned in. "I want to hear little Miss Nancy's story later, like how does a madam get to be on the committee for the nuns' party?"
"Like everything else in this town, Heaven, it's a long saga but a good one. Maybe we'll get around to Nancy tonight. I'm glad you're staying with us. I haven't seen you in years. Where's your luggage?"
"In the gatehouse. I thought we could get it when we leave and I wouldn't have to lug it in here. I didn't realize this wasn't the actual convent anymore. I was trying to respect the nuns and not act like it was a hotel."
"This is actually the site of convent number one and number two. Then they moved downriver, in 1824, I think. Even then, the Quarter must have gotten too racy for the sisters." The two women laughed just as Susan Spicer called the meeting to order.
For the next hour, everything went along just fine. Tea and coffee appeared along with profiteroles filled with some kind of Brie-and-artichoke deliciousness. The two chefs from New Orleans, Susan Spicer and Anne Kearney, plus Heaven from Kansas City and Rozanne Gold from New York, who was on a cookbook tour and in town, figured out who should cook what course, deciding for the chefs not present, like Lidia Bastianich and Edna Lewis and Joyce Goldstein.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Red Beans and Vice by Lou Jane Temple. Copyright © 2001 by Lou Jane Temple. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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