Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (2 page)

As Marcus leaves, I think of all the reorganizing I’ll have to do to get a special on the menu that I hadn’t planned for.

“I’m going to need your help husking corn,” I say to Wavonne, who’s watching Marcus’s ass (and it is a fine one) while he walks out the door.

“I just got a manicure, Halia. I can’t be huskin’ no corn.”

“Would you prefer bathroom cleaning duty?”

Wavonne groans. “Let me know when Marcus gets back with it.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I will.”

 

“G
od forgive me, but I just don’t care for that man. Anyone that pours on that much sugar has got to be up to no good,” Momma says. She’s just stepped out of the kitchen and has her eyes on Marcus as he exits the restaurant.

“You won’t get any arguments from me on that point,” I say.

“Brotha is triflin’, but I’d give him a lil’ taste,” Wavonne chimes in.

“I don’t recall him asking,” Momma says. “And you keep your
‘lil’ taste,’
whatever that means, in your pants, Wavonne. The last thing we need is a mini-Marcus to contend with around here.”

Momma is wrapping up her morning baking. Aside from preparing Grandmommy’s cornbread, baking is one thing I never had much interest in. I
love
to cook—I enjoy creating meals of meats and vegetables and savory sides, but
baking
cakes and pies and sweet treats for dessert has never really been my thing. Grandmommy was not a baker, either, which left Momma to fill the void back in the day. She’s been baking since she was a girl. Every Sunday, Grandmommy would prepare Sunday dinner, and, usually the night prior, Momma would whip up dessert. She became known throughout our extended family for her sweet creations. My favorite has always been her red velvet cake—four layers of moist cocoa-infused cake with a fluffy cream cheese icing. It’s a little piece of heaven on a fork.

Desserts are important for any restaurant and can really help boost profits, but for a soul food restaurant like Sweet Tea, the desserts need to be
killer
. Rich sweet treats are part of the soul food experience. Every day at Sweet Tea, I try to re-create the Sunday dinners I experienced when I was a kid, and I can’t imagine those dinners without all the cakes, cobblers, and pies that were the grand finale of our Sunday get-togethers.

You’ll never see any nouveau confections at Sweet Tea. My customers don’t want some tiny little flourless chocolate disk-looking thing or a minuscule meringue shell with berries in it. If a dessert is going to a table at Sweet Tea, it had better have some butter in it, be big enough to share, and make customers go “Wow!” when you set it down in front of them.

When I was working on my business plan to launch Sweet Tea, I considered all my options for desserts. I wanted to keep it in-house (even though there are some good restaurant dessert wholesalers in the area), and a professionally trained pastry chef would have been very expensive. So, although I had some hesitation, when Momma volunteered to take responsibility for the desserts at Sweet Tea, I decided to give it a shot. Of course, I love Momma, but I already live with her, and our personalities tend to mix more like oil and water rather than peaches and cream. I thought having her in the restaurant with me might be too much.

Momma had recently retired when I opened Sweet Tea. She was a manager at Hecht’s, a local department store that was bought out by Macy’s shortly after Momma left. She worked at the big flagship store on G Street in D.C., so she was used to working hard and being on her feet all day, but she had never worked in a restaurant or baked on a large scale. Prior to opening, I tried to teach her the ins and outs of the restaurant business and the difference between baking one cake for family and baking a menu of desserts for a busy restaurant. She didn’t like taking direction from me and, as I mentioned, baking is not my forte anyway. Luckily, I had already hired Laura, my assistant manager, when Momma came onboard. Laura took on the role of helping Momma adjust her recipes and teaching her about the workings of a commercial kitchen.

As luck would have it, there really isn’t room in the kitchen for the baking and dessert preparation while we also prepare the main menu dishes, so Momma and I worked out a deal. She’s an early riser and happily agreed to come in during the wee hours and prepare the cakes and pies for the day. She’s usually done with the day’s desserts and on her way out of the restaurant about the time I come in to start my day—a perfect arrangement. She doesn’t have me nosing around her desserts while she’s baking, and I don’t have to hear about how I’m a childless spinster who had better focus less on Sweet Tea and more on finding a husband before what little chance of ever finding one is gone for good.

I have to admit, Momma has become a valuable asset to Sweet Tea. Eagar customers come in and ask what Celia has baked before they open their dinner menus. We don’t have a set dessert menu—it changes depending on Momma’s mood, so customers never know what to expect, other than that it will be delicious. One day Momma may make her sour cream coconut cake and banana cream pie. Other days she makes her famous red velvet cake and giant chocolate chunk cookies that we serve with ice cream and caramel sauce. And when fresh local berries are in season, people come in just for a slice of her strawberry pie.

“I wouldn’t even want
you
taking up with him, Halia.”

“What do you mean, Momma? Even
me?
”

“Even a woman of your years needs to be at least a little bit discerning.”

“Don’t be hatin’ on Halia, Aunt Celia. She can get a man if she wanna.”

“Thank you, Wavonne.”

“There’re plenty of desperate brothas out there. She just needs to offer them some free meals or somethin’.”

“I retract my thank-you,” I say to Wavonne with a laugh. “Glad to know you both think so highly of me.”

“Of course we think highly of you, dear,” Momma says. “But this restaurant is not going to keep you warm at night or take care of you when you get old. And it’s certainly not going to give me any grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren? Oh, Momma, that ship has sailed.”

“Are you going through the change already?”

“No one calls it ‘the change’ anymore, Momma. And no, I’m not menopausal. I’m barely over forty.”

Momma looks genuinely relieved. “Oh good. Then there’s still hope. Remember Irene Beyer’s daughter, Bernadette? You went to high school with her. Irene said she’s getting married next month. And, God forgive me, but that girl is downright ugly . . . looks like a lizard. Some of the other girls at church call her Sheneneh, from that show we used to watch years ago. What was it called?”

“Irene’s daughter does look like her. If Sheneneh can find a man, I’m holding out hope for you, Halia.”

“That’s your barometer for my hopes of relationship? Sheneneh!? Who, I think you’ll remember, was played by a
man
.”

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive, Halia. An old woman has to grab hope where she can get it.”

“You’re not that old, Momma.”

“Tell that to my bum hip and my sore back. I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to be the dessert goddess around here.”

To hear Momma talk you’d think she was a stooped-over old woman, when she’s still pretty spry at seventy-three. She’s up at 5 a.m. every morning and into Sweet Tea shortly after six. She usually bakes until ten or so then keeps busy the rest of the day. She often goes to afternoon service at her church, plays cards with some friends, or does some volunteer work. But she threatens to quit on a daily basis due to her advanced age and whatever ailment she decides is the most pressing at the time—mostly so we all tell her how lost Sweet Tea would be without her and her creations.

I give Wavonne a look that says “it’s your turn this time” and she begins to pour it on.

“Aunt Celia, you can’t hang it up. There ain’t nobody who can bake like you. What we gonna tell customers who come in here wantin’ some of your cakes and pies? They might turn around and walk out if they hear you done put yourself out to pasture.”

Momma is about to respond when we all take notice of Marcus coming back through the front door.

“What up, Marcus?” Wavonne asks.

“Hello, Mrs. Watkins,” Marcus says to Momma. “You look particularly lovely this morning.”

“Thank you, Marcus.”

“May I ask what delicious desserts you’ve prepared today?”

“Red velvet cake, pineapple upside-down cake, and my spiced sweet potato pie. And we still have lemon berry bars and peanut butter pie from yesterday.”

“No banana pudding?”

“Nope. Not today.”

“Here it come,” Wavonne says out of the corner of her mouth.

“Any chance you can whip up a batch for my guests tonight?”

“Did you not hear what she said, Marcus?” I ask. “We’ve got a host of lovely desserts.”

“It’s just that I raved about Mrs. Watkins’s banana pudding to my guests.”

“Marcus, assuming you can get the corn, you already have us preparing one unplanned special.”

“I know. I just want tonight to go off without hitch. What do you say?” he asks, a bright smile that says he always gets what he wants never leaving his face.

“Don’t ask me. Ask the dessert goddess.”

Marcus turns his pearly whites toward Momma with a hopeful look.

“Wavonne, grab me my apron, would you? I guess I need to make some pudding for this gentleman.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Watkins. I’m sure my guests will love it.”

Momma doesn’t respond as she takes her apron from Wavonne, loops it over her head, and begins to tie it around her waist.

“Thanks again, ladies,” Marcus says as he turns to leave.

“God forgive me,” I ever so slightly hear Momma say as she turns toward the kitchen door. “But I just don’t care for that man.”

 

I
don’t know where Marcus found so much fresh corn, but he did, and now he’s thrown off my whole afternoon, and spun my kitchen into a frenzy. My sweet corn casserole is very labor-intensive to make; accordingly, I only occasionally serve it as a special instead of a regular item on the menu. The ingredients are simple: fresh corn, Muenster cheese, crushed red pepper, eggs, and salt. It’s what you have to do with the ingredients that make it such a chore. One casserole dish requires the corn off ten cobs, so we’ll be shucking two hundred ears of corn. Do you know how long it takes to shuck corn . . . especially when it’s done to
my
standards—I won’t allow so much as a sliver of corn silk left on the cob before we cut the nibblets off . . . which brings us to step two: hand-cutting the corn off two hundred ears, which then needs to be minced in the food processer. And, of course, my grandmother’s recipe calls for Muenster cheese, one of the few cheeses I can’t seem to find pre-shredded, so we lightly freeze twenty bricks of Muenster to give it some firmness before grating it through the food processor. Once we’ve drained a little moisture off of the minced corn, we mix it with the cheese and the other ingredients and pour the batter into oiled casserole dishes. If all of that wasn’t enough, each casserole ties up my ovens for about two hours. We bake them on high until they brown a little bit on top and then cover them with foil and finish them off at a lower heat setting.

I’m cursing Marcus in my head as I work with Wavonne and Tacy, one of my prep cooks, to get the casseroles made. Tacy doesn’t have much of an education, and he mostly worked at unskilled blue-collar jobs before I hired him three years ago, but he’s reliable, has a good attitude, and follows instructions well. Unlike Tacy, Wavonne is not reliable, does not have a good attitude, and doesn’t follow instructions well . . . mostly because she can’t be bothered to listen to instructions when they are given to her, but the rest of my staff is busy catering to the lunch rush and getting ready for the dinner crowd. It’s Saturday afternoon, and if history repeats itself as it does every weekend, we’ll operate on at least an hour wait from 7 to 9 p.m. and remain steady until we close at eleven, so we need to do as much prep work during the day as we can.

“Wavonne, I’m seeing silks on these cobs,” I say as I pull some of the corn from a large bowl between her and Tacy and put it back in front of her. “No silks!”

“Okay, okay. I know Marcus has you all stressed, but no need to go all Naomi Campbell on me,” Wavonne says. “What do you say, one day next week we go to Red Lobster for some crab legs? That’ll help you relax.” According to Wavonne, there is no problem that a few crab legs from Red Lobster can’t fix. Before I have a chance to respond she starts rolling again. “I’m not exactly thrilled with that damn Marcus myself. I just paid Kiki thirty dollars for this manicure, which I must say, Halia, was not intended to be used shuckin’ no silly corn.”

Kiki is the Korean lady who
used
to do both Wavonne’s and my nails. She was replaced about two months ago by another Korean woman named Jai, but apparently Wavonne never noticed. “No.
I
paid Kiki . . . I mean, Jai thirty dollars for that manicure,” I say, lifting her hand in mine. “And it seems to be holding up fine.”

“Damn Marcus!” she says again, grudgingly removing the last of the silks from the corn I returned to her.

“What do you have against Mr. Rand?” Tacy asks. “He’s a nice man. Always has a kind word.”

“He’s slick all right—could sell matches in hell. Don’t you be fooled by Marcus Rand, Tacy. He looks out for one person and that’s himself.” Wavonne huffs, even though she was fawning over him like a crushing schoolgirl when he was in here earlier today. “Look what he did to my nails,” she adds, showing her cherry-red painted tips to Tacy.

“They look right nice to me, Miss Hix.”

Tacy calls every woman in the restaurant Miss This or Miss That. I’ve told him over and over again to call me Halia. Calling me Miss Watkins makes me feel old and reminds me that I have no husband, but he likes to be respectful and, somewhere along the way, I think he learned that being polite made people more comfortable around him. And, at six feet, five inches tall and weighing in somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred and seventy-five pounds, he’s a big man . . . a big black man, and that can intimidate people. I like having a big guy like him in my restaurant. It makes me feel safe, and I’ve sent Tacy out of the kitchen a time or two when the occasional obscenely drunk patron starts causing trouble and refuses to leave when asked politely. He’s never had to raise his voice or manhandle anyone. A courteous word or two coming from a man his size is enough to shut up anyone and get them on their way.

“Would you stop worrying about your nails, Wavonne? I’ll get you a new manicure on Monday if you just help me get these casseroles made.”

While I generally don’t take the whole day, I often take much of Monday off as it’s the slowest day of the week. I probably could take the whole day, but I’m just too much of a control freak to leave the restaurant in someone else’s hands for very long. I leave Laura, my assistant manager, here alone for several hours at a time when I sneak out during the day to run errands or go to an appointment. Here and there, I’ll even leave her alone for the dinner crowd if I really need a night off, but the rare occasion that I’m really sick (
really, really
sick) is the only time I go an entire day without stepping foot in Sweet Tea, which explains why I don’t have a man . . . or at least partly explains why I don’t have a man. Not only do I have very little time for a social life, it’s also quite a challenge to find a man who can appreciate a woman who runs her own successful business. I try to keep in mind that if Oprah can find Stedman, there must be someone out there for me. But here I am on the less desirable side of forty, and I’m not sure I ever see a relationship happening. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with the goods I’m out there peddling. I just haven’t made finding a man a priority.

I’m holding up well for my age with a slightly round face and big brown eyes. I’m fortunate to have what, thanks to Chris Rock’s documentary, even white people now know is called “good hair.” I don’t have to relax it to straighten it but keep it styled fairly short for convenience. And considering I’m surrounded by delicious food all day, every day, I figure I’m doing pretty well to still be getting into my size fourteen clothes. Besides, I like my curves—they’re good for business. Who wants to eat in a restaurant owned by some waifish stick figure? That’s like a beautician with bad hair or a fat personal trainer.

“Why do we have to make so many of these things anyway? Can’t we just make enough casseroles for Marcus and his crew?”

“And what would you have me tell our customers when they see them coming out of the kitchen? ‘Sorry, this is for some
special
guests. None for you.’ ”

“Sounds fine to me.”

“Oh yeah. That will make them feel
really
valued.”

I constantly remind myself and my staff to never take our customers for granted. Mahalia’s Sweet Tea operates on a wait during peak lunch and dinner hours almost every day, and has been on
Washingtonian Magazine
’s and the
Washington Post
’s top restaurant lists since we opened. I’ve even had people from as far away as Hawaii say they’ve heard of my restaurant, but I still work to treat every customer as if they could make or break me. I tell all of my employees how important it is to be polite and welcoming to everyone who walks through the door or even calls for information. I emphasize that we treat customers who come during peak hours the same as the ones who slip in five minutes before we close. We try hard to please our customers, so we keep complaints to a minimum (and often, when we do get them, they are not valid . . . just someone trying to get something for nothing). When we do have the occasional unhappy customer, I try to give my staff the training and leeway to fix the situation on their own. During their first six weeks of employment, they are required to take trainings on the Web about dealing with difficult people, defusing heated situations, and delivering top-notch customer service. Most of my employees come from working-class backgrounds and, sometimes, downright poor families. Before working here, they’ve never even been in a high-end restaurant. Hell, Wavonne still wants to know why I don’t have any buffalo wings or cheese fries on the menu. I tell her that I didn’t work my ass off to get my restaurant off the ground only to serve the same mundane fodder they offer at T.G.I. Friday’s and Ruby Tuesday.

Wavonne continues to mumble to herself about Marcus, and I keep an eye on her while we prepare the casseroles. I almost want to tell her to watch what she says about Marcus. That I’m in debt to him for a hefty sum and neither one of us would be in this kitchen or this restaurant if it wasn’t for him, but I keep my lips pursed. I don’t need to remind anyone of Marcus’s ownership in the restaurant. He agreed to be a silent partner, and I don’t want anyone thinking that Marcus is the boss around here, not that he’d have time to be here any longer than it takes to entertain clients for dinner a few times a month.

Marcus has a lot going on and is always on the go. I’m not sure exactly what it is that keeps him so busy. Of course I overhear things when he’s talking to clients at the restaurant, but I never get enough detail to piece everything together, and maybe that’s for the best. As the saying goes, sometimes ignorance is bliss. But whatever Marcus is up to, it seems to be heating up lately. He’s been bringing more people into the restaurant, and not just women who look all googly-eyed at him. He’s been in here with couples and even entire families . . . two-point-five kids and all. Most of his meetings seem to go well, and everyone leaves happy, but last week he was entertaining a young couple, and, by the time we brought out Momma’s pecan pie for dessert, no one at the table looked very chipper. Later, from the back of the restaurant, I heard raised voices. By the time I showed up to clear some plates, the couple had very cross looks on their faces and Marcus looked . . . well, Marcus looked
guilty
. I’m not sure of what, but I know guilt when I see it, and I saw guilt on Marcus’s face.