Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits. A.L. Herbert
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“Aren’t we in Maryland?” Sherry asks.
“DC,” Cynthia says. “We’re in DC.”
“And DC’s in Maryland, right?”
“No. DC’s a federal district.... It’s not part of any...” Cynthia lets her voice trail off while Sherry looks at her with a blank glare. “You know what? Maybe it is in Maryland.” Cynthia says this in a tone I’m quite familiar with. It’s the same tone I use when I start to explain something to Wavonne and, mid-explanation, realize it’s just easier to let her go on thinking that the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution are the same thing... or stop my explanation short when she wonders out loud why, if The Sound of Music was filmed in... Austria, there were no kangaroos in it. “Go along with me on this one,” Cynthia mutters under her breath to me. “It’s just easier that way,” she adds before turning her head to speak with one of the camera guys.
“How are you?” I ask Sherry as Cynthia meanders off with her colleague. “All these cameras are a bit daunting. I guess maybe you have gotten used to them by now, though?”
“Yeah. You sort of forget about them after a while. I’m sure they will follow us around as we tour today.”
“Have you been here before?” I ask.
“No. I’m excited to see all the exhibits from Africa,” she says, with what seems to be genuine enthusiasm. “I’ve always found those ladies with the saucers in their lips so fascinating. But man, that looks painful! Do you think we’ll see any King Tut artifacts or stuff about Amazon tribes?”
“Um, no. I don’t think so,” I respond. “This is the African American museum. Perhaps you’re thinking of the Museum of African Art? But I don’t think they have a King Tut exhibit . . . not sure about the lip plates.” I want to also inform her that Amazon tribes are in South America rather than Africa, but somehow that seems like too much to lay on her all at once.
“Oh.” There’s disappointment in her voice.
“I’m sure you’ll still enjoy it. I’ve heard there are some really amazing exhibits.”
“How about the Pygmies? Will we see anything about them?”
“Girl,” Wavonne says. “Pygmies are not in Africa. They’re in Austria.”
I take a breath and suddenly have a vision of Julie Andrews singing “Do-Re-Mi” in the Austrian Alps to a group of Pygmies while kangaroos hop around in the distance. I’m debating about whether it’s worth my energy to educate Frick and Frack about the difference between Austria and Australia and Pygmies versus Aborigines, when Cynthia reappears. “Let me introduce you to Trey,” she says.
“It was good to meet you,” I say to Sherry as Cynthia nudges Wavonne and me away from her.
“Sherry is not... how shall I put it... terribly quick witted,” Cynthia whispers to me. “But she knows her way around a kitchen. And our audience has historically been largely female—we thought a pretty face and some nice curves might up our male viewership and increase ratings.”
If words like “pretty face” and “nice curves” came from a male producer, I’d think it might be grounds for sexual harassment charges, but I’m not sure what to make of Cynthia saying those things. Not that I have much time to think about anything. I’ve barely escaped Sherry, and now Cynthia is corralling me over to have some forced quality time with the next contestant. Oh well, I suppose, after Sherry, I have nowhere to go but up, right?
Chapter 7
“Trey,” Cynthia says to a nicely built young man in a pair of snug jeans and a close-fitting polo shirt. He’s quite good-looking in a clean cut, preppy sort of way.
“Hey.” He looks up from his phone. “Do you think the camera guys can get some footage of me looking at my phone? When I hold it with my arm bent, my bicep really pops. Look.” He shows off an impressive muscle ringed by a tight shirtsleeve.
“I’ll see what I can do, Trey,” Cynthia replies. “In the meantime, let me introduce you to one of our guest judges for the day, Halia Watkins. She own’s Mahalia’s Sweet Tea, a highly successful local soul food restaurant. And this is her assistant, Wavonne.”
“Nice to meet you.” We all trade handshakes. Then Trey pokes at his phone and raises it level with his face. Using it as a mirror, he adjusts the loose curls of black hair hanging over his forehead. “Sorry,” he offers, lowering his phone. “Just doing a quick hair check before we go on camera. High def TV can be very unkind.” As he slips his phone in his back pocket I notice that he has makeup on his velvety brown skin... some concealer or foundation or something. “So, you own a restaurant?”
“Yes. Halia serves the best fried chicken and waffles in town,” Wavonne says.
“Nice,” Trey says in a subdued manner. “So more basic type stuff then?”
“Basic type stuff?” I ask. “I’ve had my food called many things over the years, but ‘basic type stuff’ is a first.” I say this in a good-natured way, but I can’t say I’m thrilled by some thirty-year-old kid, who probably has delusions of being the next Jamie Oliver or Bobby Flay, saying such things about recipes that took me years to perfect.
“I’m sorry. That was a poor choice of words,” Trey says as if it suddenly occurred to him that I’m a judge at this jamboree and maybe he should not get on my bad side. “I just meant... you know . . . staples... classic American dishes. I’ve been focused on more complex cuisine since I finished at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris last year.” He says “Le Cordon Bleu” in a ridiculously overdone French accent... luh core-dawn bluh... and, of course, he pronounces Paris pah-rhee. I suspect he thinks it makes him sound cultured and worldly but, mostly, it makes him sound like a jackass.
“Complex cuisine?”
“Yes. I think the next generation of chefs... my generation needs to really get creative and shake things up. Eventually I plan to open my own place.... I’m thinking a fusion of Thai and Middle Eastern—I make a killer hummus with lemongrass and ginger. Or possibly Italian and Indian—I have a recipe for bruschetta made with tandoori chicken that is out of this world.”
I’m tempted to respond that if I had a dime for every trendy fusion restaurant, or tapas establishment... or celebrity-owned hot spot that has come and gone during the fifteen years that I’ve been serving “basic type stuff” at Sweet Tea, I’d be an obscenely rich woman. But instead I just say, “Those sound interesting... and tasty.” I’m not lying when I say this. His fusion ideas do sound pretty good, but I’ve found that this type of newfangled food is something people only want every once in a while. They are glad to try curry fried chicken and wasabi mashed potatoes, and they may enjoy them, but, when push comes to shove, they want simple fried chicken and macaroni and cheese that remind them of what their grandmothers used to make. And that’s why, or at least one of the reasons why, Sweet Tea is still going strong after all these years while so many other restaurants have gone the way of the dinosaur.
“Thank you. You have to have fresh ideas to get ahead in this business. The restaurant industry is so competitive these days. That’s why I applied to get on this program. If . . . when I win, I’ll be a household name, do a year or two at Russell’s new restaurant, and then open my own place. You almost need to be a celebrity to get a restaurant going these days. It can’t just be about the food anymore... you need flash and charisma.”
“I dunno. Halia’s been running Sweet Tea forever, and she’s about as drab and borin’ as they come,” Wavonne teases. “She’s outlasted Gladys Knight’s Chicken and Waffles in Largo, and the Planet Hollywood on Pennsylvania Avenue... and what’s the place that Oprah’s chef opened by the train station?”
“Art and Soul,” I say. “Art Smith opened it several years ago, but I have not outlasted that one. Last I heard, it was still going strong.”
“Funny