French Quarter Kisses. Zuri Day
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a serious journalist who knew the price that could be paid for turning a business opportunity into potential pleasure. Embarrassment. Heartbreak. Delano had taught her that.
That the two men knew each other was yet another reason to keep things strictly professional between her and the chef. No telling what her ex had told Pierre about them. Knowing Delano, he wouldn’t have kept quiet about their past relationship or been hesitant to throw her under the bus with why it ended.
Roz thought these things and ignored the flutter in her stomach when an image of how Pierre had looked that night swam before her eyes. Ignored how she’d thought of him all day and anticipated this meeting. Told herself she’d gotten there early because she wanted to be there when Pierre arrived, lest he take one look at the humble abode that served as a public eatery and keep on driving.
On one matter, however, she allowed herself to face the truth. When it came to Louisiana cooking, nobody could outdo Manette Lafeyette, whom everyone called Ma. Roz’s bestie, Stefanie, had dragged her there the day Roz decided to leave the city’s biggest newspaper for the job at NO Beat. While she’d been excited about the possibilities attached to the start-up, feeling she’d been forced from the job she’d snagged right after college had left her down in the dumps. That day Roz had learned that anything going wrong in life could be cured with Ma’s gumbo. And her crawfish? Lord have mercy. Roz couldn’t wait to see Pierre’s face when he entered Ma’s and was assailed by the aromas that wrapped themselves around you as soon as you walked through the door. Smells that effortlessly pulled you farther into the room. Just thinking of the bucket of crawfish and buttered bread loaf served free with every meal made her mouth water.
Roz got out of her car and checked her watch, anxious now to assuage her grumbling stomach. It had been months since she’d eaten at Ma’s. She’d purposely skipped lunch today to enjoy the meal. She checked her watch again, frowned as she looked up...and into Pierre’s eyes.
“Am I late?” He’d lowered his window to ask the question before pulling to the curb and parking. He turned off the engine and hopped out of his car.
Those eyes. That smile again. Damn, he was gorgeous. Don’t be affected, she warned her body. Don’t let it matter, she told her head.
“Right on time, actually. Hope you’re hungry.”
“If the food inside looks as good as you do...”
“Don’t be average,” Roz said, as she rolled her eyes and began walking up the sidewalk toward the house. “Save that for your groupies,” she added over her shoulder.
“Groupies? I don’t have groupies. And that wasn’t a line. You look very nice.”
“Then perhaps that’s what you should have said.”
A smile softened the caustic words as Roz waited until Pierre caught up with her before she opened the small home’s screen door and the thick wooden one behind it. She wanted to see the look on his face that she’d seen on so many other Ma first-timers.
“Ready?”
His glance was skeptical. “I guess.”
Her smile widened. She opened the inner door. A cacophony of odors rose up like instruments in an orchestra. Oregano harmonizing with garlic and onion. Thyme keeping time with dry mustard and dill seed. Cayenne, smoked paprika and bay leaves adding oomph to the melody. Pierre took two steps. Stopped, closed his eyes and inhaled. Roz laughed.
He opened eyes filled with wonder. “Whose place is this?”
“Mine, and y’all need to get on in here and close the door. I’m not trying to cool off the whole neighborhood.”
A petite woman with long white hair and an ageless face that could have been sixty or ninety-six walked toward them. Mouth frowning, eyes beaming.
She reached up to give Roz a hug, all the while looking at the man standing beside her. “Took long enough for you to get back here. Where have you been?”
“Way too long, I know. I’ve been really busy lately, but I’m so glad I’m here. Just thinking about your food makes my mouth water.”
“Hmm.” Ma looked at Pierre. “Who is this handsome young man you’ve brought to my house?” Her eyes slid back over to Roz. “Is he why you’ve been busy?”
“What? Oh, no, Ma. This isn’t... We’re not...”
“Pierre LeBlanc, ma’am.” Pierre leaned down to hug Ma, then raised her soft and slightly wrinkled hand to his lips and kissed it. “It smells like I just walked into crayfish heaven, and a whole lot more.”
Ma stepped back to look up at him. “What would you know about it? You look way too fancy to know about mudbugs.”
“I know a little something about them. Grew up in New Orleans.”
“He’s a chef, Ma,” Roz explained. “Just opened a restaurant in the Quarters, called Easy Creole Cuisine.”
“So you think you can cook, huh?” Ma asked.
“I do alright.”
“If I ever get to taste something you fix, I’ll be the judge of that.”
Roz raised her hand to cover a chuckle. Pierre’s eyes gleamed as he smiled. “Alright, then.”
He took a couple steps and looked around him. “Never would have guessed all of what was going on in this little house.” He tipped his head. “Behind that door we just entered.”
“That’s the way I like it,” Ma said, giving him a little shove as she pointed to one of four tables, all unoccupied, in what had originally been a living room. “Don’t want the city coming in here bothering me, telling me what to use and how to use it.”
“How do you get your customers?”
“How’d you come here?”
“Word of mouth.” He nodded, looking paradoxically comfortable as he sat in a plastic chair that might have been around at least half as long as Ma. “Well, if the food tastes half as good as it smells...”
“It tastes even better.” Roz took a chair to his right, facing the door. She placed her purse on one of two empty chairs at their table and pulled out a small recorder. “Do you mind?”
“What’s that for?”
“With the smells assaulting your senses I can understand you forgetting what brought us here. Our interview.”
“Oh, right. That.” He shrugged. “I guess I don’t mind. Depends on what you ask me.”
“Fair enough. If you want to share something off the record just let me know.”
“Does that really work?”
“What?”
“Sharing something off the record.” He used air quotes to underscore his distrust.
“Depends on the reporter. There is a code of ethics that most professional journalists follow. I’m a member of the Society of Professional Journalists, the organization that established the code in 1909.”
“Then how do magazines get away with printing any and everything about celebrities and people they don’t even know?”
“Clearly, everyone who writes and prints a story does not follow that code. But don’t worry. Given you’re already the city’s golden boy, I’d imagine this chat will be pretty painless.”
“Y’all go wash your hands!” The command yelled from the kitchen caused a raised brow.
“You don’t want to disobey her,” Roz whispered, scooting back her chair to comply. When the two returned, Ma had set two lemon waters on a table now covered with newspaper. She came up behind them swinging a small bucket in one hand, holding a small loaf of buttered French bread in the other.
“Bone