Roux the Day (20 page)

“I don’t see that perennial Chinese favorite, hot-and-sour soup, on here. Haven’t you worked out a Cajun or Creole version of that?”

“No. I thought I could, and I tried hard, but there are no Louisiana equivalents of some of the ingredients.”

“Which ingredients are those?”

“Shredded squid—the Chinese squid has a very assertive flavor. Seaweed—it is more chewy here and would contribute nothing after receiving the additional processing it would need. Wood ears—are you familiar with those?”

“I had them once in Singapore. They’re not known in America or Europe.”

“They are a fungus that grows on trees. They are dried for storage and sale then soaked in boiling water.”

“They taste something like a mushroom,” I said.

“They do. Then, of course, there is an essential ingredient that hot-and-sour soup needs to make it totally authentic but I am not allowed to use it.”

“Which ingredient is that?”

“Chicken blood.”

“Pity,” I said. “No substitutes for that?”

“None that are satisfactory. Most of the other ingredients are sold here, though—ground hot red peppers, soya beans and bean paste are in all shops selling Asian food.”

“I see you have a lot of crab dishes on the menu.”

“Crabs are very common in China. They are always cooked live there, you know. A popular way to eat them is to use chopsticks to put the whole soft-shell crab into the mouth—the Chinese crabs are very small.” She smiled again. “It might be difficult to get Americans to eat them that way. You will also notice that many crab dishes are deep-fried. This is because crab is very delicate and is easily overcooked. Deep-frying means it cooks evenly all over and seals in the moisture and the flavor.”

“Many people are concerned about the fat content in deep-frying.”

Leah shook her head firmly. “That need no longer be a concern. Lots of low-fat alternatives are available in both the batter and the cooking oil.”

“‘Leah’s Chop Suey, Cajun Style,’” I quoted from the menu. “That sounds like a fascinating fusion of cuisines.”

She laughed merrily. “As I’m sure you know, chop suey is not a Chinese dish at all. A Chinese chef in a London restaurant a hundred years ago was called upon to provide a meal for a large party. It was at the end of the day and all that remained in the kitchen were scraps of vegetables, fish, beef, chicken and so on. The chef made a stir fry of them all and added plenty of soy sauce. It was such a huge success that many of them came back and asked for it again. Asked for a name, the chef said on the spur of the moment, ‘chop suey,’ which is Chinese for ‘odds and ends.’”

“A little similar to the way in which ‘buffalo wings’ became famous,” I said.

“Exactly,” Leah agreed.

“To come back to your chop suey, though, to what extent have you Cajunized it?”

“Oh, I use a brown roux and some tomatoes.”

I was studying the menu all the time we were talking.

“You’ve made the choice very difficult,” I told Leah. “So many dishes I’d like to taste.”

“You must be very familiar with spring rolls, won tons, and chicken noodle salad,” Leah said. “You want to try something different—am I right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Very well, then, if you’d like a soup to start, the Chinese Celery Cabbage and Dried Shrimp Soup is one I would highly recommend. Instead of the traditional rice wine, I use sherry. It is a soup that appeals to lovers of Chinese soups as well as those raised on New Orleans soups. Strangely enough, the small, saltwater shrimp found in New Orleans waters is not only very similar to the shrimp that the Chinese use, but it is even better.”

“Celery cabbage is, in fact, what is frequently sold in American markets as ‘Chinese cabbage,’ isn’t it?” I asked Leah.

“It is. There is another Chinese cabbage but it is good only for stewing and cooking and cannot be eaten raw.”

So I started with the soup. It was delicate but the ginger taste came through just assertively enough and the celery cabbage enriched the flavor. The Fried Shrimp with Garlic was my next choice, a fairly simple dish but highly flavored with garlic, ginger and hot red peppers—spicy yet not burning—and, Leah told me, given a New Orleans twist with the addition of plenty of paprika.

Carp was sometimes on the menu but, unfortunately, not today. “Instead, for the main course,” Leah said, “I would suggest either the Braised Duck with Plums, the Cantonese Fried Spareribs or the Pork Steaks. The Chinese influence in the pork steaks is soy sauce, rice wine, and hot red peppers.”

We discussed the relative merits of the three dishes for a while and I finally decided on the spareribs. Leah had retained the Chinese five-spice powder which is so readily available in the U.S., the garlic and the soy sauce, but added curry powder.

“This makes it like an Indonesian recipe,” she said. “They garnish the dish with carrot and parsley and we do the same.” The ribs were dipped in a mixture of the spices, then coated in egg yolk and cornstarch and fried to golden brown. They were exquisite.

“The idea of serving dessert at the end of a meal used to seem strange to Chinese people,” Leah told me when the table had been cleared. “Still today, dessert is not popular in China. At important banquets, it is sometimes served between courses. Here, of course, customers expect dessert so we offer preserved fruit, lichee nuts and tangerine-and-ginger mousse. Our specialty, though, is orange tapioca.”

“How do you prepare that?”

“We use the tapioca pearls, and fresh oranges with the membrane removed.”

“I’ll have that.”

It was delicately flavored, as I’d expected, and with it Leah brought a tray of almond cookies and sat down with me. I congratulated her on an excellent meal.

“Very ingeniously blended cuisines,” I told her.

“Thank you,” she said with a charming smile. “But now we have talk about more serious matters.”

“Very well,” I said, “but first I want to say that I was strongly tempted not to tell the police that I saw you leaving Earl’s rooms. I didn’t believe that you were involved in killing him and I still don’t, but, as I mentioned earlier, the carriage driver I was with saw you, too, and he would have told the police if I didn’t.”

“That’s all right. I understand. I wanted to explain something to you also. Earl has always had an eye open for anything shady, any way to make money easily. That’s why I had to get him out of the restaurant. He spent little time here, was no help at all, and used it as nothing more than a source of cash.

“He was never there when I needed him, and I got used to running the place single-handed once I found a good chef to take over in the kitchen.”

“Do you think he was mixed up with Richie Mortensen in the scheme to steal the Belvedere book?”

She hesitated. “He may have been. Through me, he knew several of the Witches and—I don’t know if you agree with this, but I think one of them wants the book.”

“For herself, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Who do you think it is?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes were wide. “I really don’t.”

“Have any of them ever done anything to make you suspect that they could commit a crime—even a crime leading to murder?”

“No. I don’t know anything about any of them that would suggest that.”

Well, that was turning out to be a very popular idea. I thought of telling her that but saw no particular reason to do so.

“I appreciate your being so frank with me,” I told her. “I hope this case is going to be brought to an end very soon.”

“Before there are any more murders,” she said in a low voice.

I left, in full agreement with that sentiment.

T
HE ACME EMPLOYMENT AGENCY
didn’t get many marks for originality of nomenclature. There seems to be one in every town in the country. The name certainly gets it into the first page of the telephone book although the American Automobile Association and Alcoholics Anonymous are still battling for those next places.

Miss Ellen Lennox was young, bright and ambitious. She wore glasses she probably didn’t need and she handled her computer like a female Marine with a rocket launcher. She listened attentively while I told her why I was there.

“Our marketing department sees perhaps five, possibly as many as ten restaurants in New Orleans. You will be receiving our official list of requirements shortly but I am here to get a preliminary idea of the labor situation. I know this is a restaurant town so a large labor pool hopefully exists. However, what I want to examine is the depth of knowledge of New Orleans-style cooking.”

“That should not be a problem,” Miss Lennox said crisply as her fingers danced over the keyboard. From my angle of view of her screen, all I could see were pretty colors. No matter how much I squirmed, I could not get a better angle, so I would have to adopt more subterfuge.

“And made even easier by the fact that I went through this exercise last week,” chirped Miss Lennox, fingers still flying.

“Oh, who was that for?”

She smiled just slightly, not enough to disturb her concentration. “They were concerned about remaining anonymous for the time being, just as you are.” She paused. “Now, how many people are you looking for, initially?” she asked.

“Let’s say one chef in each restaurant, experienced, reliable.”

She nodded confidently.

“Can you give me a few words’ description of some of the candidates you may be suggesting?” I asked, and as she flashed me a look that I knew might pack a question, I went on swiftly: “Save you and me both a lot of time. Once you get to know exactly what we want, I’m sure your system will be able to pull up names by the dozen.”

“Very well.” Miss Lennox could see a lot of commission payments looming and was ready to be cooperative. “Let’s see, now— here’s one … Four years with Mulate’s, three years with Olde Nawlins Cookery, and three years with Holiday Inns.” She beamed triumphantly.

I looked dubious. “Before that?”

“Worked in Natchez and Corpus Christi.”

“No other New Orleans experience?”

“No, but—”

“Our theme is going to demand chefs who have heavy local experience.”

Her fingers flew like wild birds. “Here’s another one—”

I interrupted her. “It might save time if you would just give me the names of the restaurants these candidates worked at, their more recent experience—”

“Very well.” She was used to clients and their funny ways, and was willing to do whatever. “Dickie Brennan’s Palace, Planet Hollywood, Landry’s Seafood House, the Redfish Grill. He came from Baltimore so that’s all his local experience. Then we have … Oh, this one is a woman.”

“That’s fine. Many of our best chefs are women.” I trusted that word of this would never get back to the Witches, who would batter me with wet noodles at such a patronizing statement. It worked with Miss Lennox, though, who beamed again and rattled off a formidable list of names. None of them was the one I wanted, though. But a couple of minutes later, it came.

“Then we have Eli Richter who was six years at the Court of the Two Sisters and eleven years at Restaurant Belvedere … but I believe he’s on cruise ships now.”

I let it go; then, a few minutes later, Miss Lennox was reeling off more names of chef candidates and restaurants when—“he worked at Mike Anderson’s, the Hyde Park Grill, Tony Moran’s and the Restaurant Belvedere”—she broke off. “Oh, but Chester isn’t available any longer. He retired.”

“Chester?” I asked. “Chester Jones, by any chance? He was one of our top chefs back in—”

“No, I’m afraid not. This is Chester Garland.”

“Oh, what a shame. I’d like to see old Chester again. Well, I hope this Chester is enjoying his retirement. He’s local, I suppose?”

“Very much so.” She glanced at the screen. “Living out on the river in Algiers.”

I spent a little while longer with Miss Lennox. She was eager to fill all our personnel needs but I didn’t want to keep her from really remunerative work. I thanked her profusely and left.

A nearby drugstore had a phone with a directory that was not too torn. It was easy to find Chester Garland in Algiers, easier than it would have been to find a Jones.

No Time Like the Present continued to be one of the more popular platitudes. Chester lived in a small clapboard house near the banks of the Mississippi River. Fishermen were leaving and arriving, some with strings of fish, some with baskets and boxes. All looked cheerful, whether they had successful catches or not. Most of the fishermen were black and it turned out that Chester Garland was, too. His face was creased and his skin papery but his eyes were bright. He moved painfully as he let me into a room decorated with personal photographs everywhere, on tables, on shelves, on racks on top of the TV. Posed with movie stars, football stars, politicians, basketball players who towered over him, Chester always in his white chef’s outfit with a tall chef’s hat and a big smile.

He had an expensive TV and the place was well-maintained so I deduced that he had retired under good financial circumstances. He evidently lived in a small house in a modest neighborhood by choice. I deduced that he didn’t get many visitors because he was certainly glad to see me. He insisted on brewing coffee and was delighted to learn that I loved it with chicory.

“Seems to be a good fishing spot. Do you do much fishing yourself, Chester?”

“Coupla times a week. Get me enough catfish for two or three meals.”

“Let me guess—you mix red and black pepper, mustard, basil and Tabasco, you melt butter and sauté chopped onions and garlic in it, then add the fish and the seasonings. You serve it over rice. Am I right?”

Chester laughed, slapped his thigh. “You’re close, man, you’re awful close.” He had a happy manner, probably got along well with others and must have enjoyed working as a chef in busy kitchens.

“Thing I like to do is add a cupful of oyster soup at the end. I like a nice sauce and that holds the spices and gives a bit extra flavor all its own.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said.

“Now, what can I do for you—seeing as you know how to cook catfish?”

“I worked as a chef for several years, various parts of the world.”