Prime Cut

Makes 24 servings

Andre’s Coq au Vin

3 tablespoons butter

1 carrot, diced

1 medium onion, chopped

2 garlic cloves, crushed through a press

3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

1 cup dry red wine

? cup beef bouillon

1 tablespoon tomato paste or catsup

1 tablespoon cornstarch

4 skinless, boneless chicken breasts (approximately 1? pounds)

1 tablespoon flour

? teaspoon salt

? teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon olive oil

In a large skillet, melt the butter and slowly cook the chopped carrot, onion, garlic, and parsley until the onion is soft and translucent, approximately 10 to 20 minutes. Add the wine, bouillon, and tomato paste or catsup. Simmer, covered, over low heat for 20 minutes. Stir 2 tablespoons water into the cornstarch until smooth. Mix into the wine mixture and stir until the sauce is thick and clear. Set aside, covered, over very low heat, while you prepare the chicken.

Pound the chicken breasts between sheets of plastic wrap until they are approximately ? inch thick. Mix together the flour, salt, and pepper, and dredge the chicken breasts in this mixture.

Heat the oil in a large, heavy skillet. Over medium-high heat, saute the chicken breasts for 2 minutes per side, or until almost cooked through. Place the chicken breasts in the wine mixture, cover, and cook over medium- low heat another 6 to 10 minutes, until the chicken is just cooked through. Serve immediately.

Makes 4 servings

“I told you, stop” she rasped. “Goldy, I’ve hired another caterer.”

My knife clattered to the cutting board. Be calm. She’s a client. The client is always right.

“Weezie,” I said, attempting to assume a voice of reason and patience, “you can’t hire another caterer. You’ve already paid in full. I … I’ve got all the food here.” The client, I thought, is always—

“I know I have to pay for the food. But, well …” She cleared her throat, as if she were reading from a prepared text and had lost her place. Behind me, Julian thumped relentlessly on the chicken. “I want a refund on the labor and gratuity cost. I have the contract in front of me.” Her voice was turning shrill. “Two hundred for the labor and ninety for the gratuity. Please send it today. If I don’t receive the refund in four working days, I’ll have to contact my lawyer.” She hung up.

I gently put down the phone. Is your lawyer your fiance, honey-bunch? Julian had piled up the flattened chicken pieces and was grating black pepper onto a plate loaded with flour. He saw my face and froze. “What?”

“Weezie Harrington’s party is canceled.” I stared in dismay at the tomatoes. “Or rather, we’re canceled. The party’s still on.”

“What? Why?”

“She didn’t say why,” I murmured. I thought of Arch’s tuition that was still unpaid, of Tom’s paychecks that were not forthcoming.

“Sit down, Goldy, for crying out loud. You look like you’re going to keel over.”

I stared around the makeshift workspace. Our dining chairs were stacked, weblike, against the far wall. Sawdust lay in heaps on the floor. Tentacles of wiring stuck out from walls with half their plaster missing. Bent nails littered the corners like so many dead bugs. The phone rang again.

“I’ll get it.” Julian dived for the portable. “Golddocks’ Catering. You’re calling this early, you’d better have a great booking for us.” He paused. “Oh. No, Goldy can’t come to the phone at the moment. This is her assistant.”

“Julian, stop!” I cried. “I’m waiting for a call from Sylvia Bevans! Please, it’s important!”

He covered the phone with one hand. “It’s not Sylvia. Just drink your coffee and let me handle this, okay?”

I reached for my espresso, which was now lukewarm. Too bad it wasn’t Marla calling. I absolutely hated the IRS consuming her every minute. If hot gossip was burning through town on Weezie Harrington’s motives for canceling us, Marla would be the first to hear. “J can help you,” Julian insisted. As the person on the other end spoke, Julian struggled to keep his face composed. “Why?” he asked belligerently. “Oh, yeah, who?” After a moment, he said, “We’ll just have to see about that.” and banged the phone down.

I finished the espresso. “Weezie again? What did she want, for me to drive over with her check? If she doesn’t get her two hundred and ninety dollars back in the next hour, Andy Fuller will prosecute me and demand it in equal installments of brownies? Or better yet—”

But the pain in Julian’s dark eyes brought me up short. Whatever he had just learned from this caller, it was more serious than Weezie’s treachery. “That was Edna Hardcastle,” he said. “She’s canceling us for the wedding reception Saturday. She’s hiring another caterer. And get this, she wants a refund on her labor and service charge.”

I pictured the bags of wedding reception hors d’oeuvre crowding our freezer. I thought of the checks from Edna and Weezie that had formed the solitary cushion in our checking account. Sometimes people hit you to be cruel. Other times, they just act viciously behind your back. “Did she tell you why she’s canceling? Or who her new caterer is?”

“Craig Litchfield. His prices are much lower, she said.”

Tom, freshly showered and dressed, came into the room. “Give me an apron and a knife. I want to help. Plus, I figure something must be going on, the phone’s ringing so early. Is everything all right?”

I told him what had happened. He was perplexed. “They both fired you?”

“Not only did they both fire me—they both want refunds. Two hundred labor for Weezie, plus ninety in service charge. Five hundred labor for Edna, plus two hundred ten for gratuity, since it’s figured on the total cost of food and labor.” I glanced at Julian, who was slapping the flattened chicken in the flour, then setting the pieces aside, as if nothing had happened.

“So you get to keep the food? What have you got here,”—Tom stared at my printout—“appetizers, chicken, rice, sugar-snap-pea-and-strawberry salad, greens and vinaigrette, cake that you’ve already made. What are you going to do with the food you have? I’m available to eat it.”

But I had already reached for the phone book. It was just before seven o’clock. I looked up Merciful Migrations, punched in the buttons, got a recorded menu that gave me options and another number. I took a deep breath and called that number. A groggy Leah Smythe answered.

“Hello? This is Merciful Migrations. We can’t help if you’re trying to get rid of elk on your property.”

Now there was a greeting. “It’s Goldy Schulz, the caterer.” Leah groaned, and I took a deep breath. Was I ready to step into Andre’s job? Probably not. But I was going to give it a go, anyway. For Andre and for myself. “Listen, Leah, I have a lot of wonderfull food here, and I was wondering if you were still looking for meals for the shoot.”

“Goldy,” interjected Tom. “Forget it.”

I ignored him. On the other end of the receiver, masculine-sounding mumbling stopped Leah from responding immediately. She covered the mouthpiece, then came back. “This is just like the other guy,” she said drowsily. “He’d do free catering for me if I’d vote for him for the Soiree. I told him I didn’t have a say in it. The votes belong to Marla, Weezie, and Edna. I don’t have a vote, Goldy.”

My skin went cold. “I would never try to bribe you, Leah. Nothing I do is free, but my services