Prime Cut

Peter, strode across to the bench and the trio seated there. He was dressed in a snowy-white shirt and blue jeans. His very straight, very shiny brown hair swung forward as he bent to say a few words. When the judges responded, Peter’s plump lips curved into a confident smile. He flipped the glossy hair out of his eyes and handed what looked like an oversized scrapbook to Leah. She leafed through it briefly while Hanna looked over her shoulder. Ian Hood murmured to Peter, who quickly started unbuttoning.

This time, the white shirt dropped swiftly past muscled shoulders, a well-built chest, and concave, washboard abs. While the shirt puddled noiselessly on the floor, Peter undid his pants and dropped them. He hooked a thumb around the side of dark, shiny bikini briefs and struck a pose. I hastened back to the kitchen.

“Did you keep the marauders away?” Andre regarded me impatiently, then turned back to the stove.

“I tried to, but nobody … They’ve started to …”

He grunted, shook his head, and whacked his wooden spoon on a plate. Then he gave me the full benefit of his heart-shaped face with its button nose and sharp, dimpled chin. “Do you think I came out of retirement to fail? Are you going to doom me to playing checkers and visiting the cardiologist? To making small talk with my wife’s nurse?”

I sighed. “Andre, I’m sorry—”

“Close the door,” he ordered sternly. “Four people have already interrupted me this morning. Looking for cups of soup!” His silver eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Does this look like a deli?” His forehead wrinkled in disgust as he lovingly swirled a spoon through the steaming pot of his thick, herb-scented mushroom soup. “Now. My cake. It needs to be served warm, with cream.” He paused and considered the pan on the front burner. “Ah, Goldy, I’m not certain I taught you to make this syrup. You must be very quick….” Andre touched the scar on my arm where I’d accidentally burned myself years ago retrieving a batch of Cornish hens from his restaurant oven. He’d never forgiven himself for not showing me how to handle his oversized roasting pan.

“Andre, listen, you’re not supposed to make a cake in an off-site kitchen—”

“Phh-t.” His chin trembled dismissively. “This, must be fresh. And do you want to hear about the first boy? A very juicy story—”

“Well—”

“I had to listen to him. He is extremely immature, cannot even cook for himself.” He glanced at his row of utensils, then commanded: “Please put away the first stirrers and hand me my candy thermometer.” I did as directed. “His name is Bobby Whitaker, and he is the young half-brother to Leah Smythe, who feels sorry for him. But not sorry enough to teach him to make low-fat turkey loaf.” Andre dramatically poured sugar into a cast-iron pan and set it aside. “Bobby has started to peddle real estate. He must attend many fattening luncheons, he says. He finally had his first sale last night and celebrated. He was hung over, he wanted to go back to bed. But he claims his true love is modeling, not being the salesman.” Andre checked his recipe in his notebook, then pushed his thumb into wrapped butter sticks to make sure they were soft. “All this I had to hear while Bobby drank cup after cup of my coffee. He asked me if I’d been to Milan. He said he did his book there. I told him I was the pastry chef for a huge celebration outside the cathedral. At another cathedral, I made my creme brulee for a hundred clergy. Where was that, he asked. In my town of Clermont-Ferrand, I told him, where, when I was eleven, I helped smuggle a Milanese Jewish woman and her French husband, also Jewish, out of the town. They went to Switzerland and then America. Do you think Bobby cared about my stories? No. He asked me if it was hard to make pastry and custards for so many people, and had I ever catered a lunch for top producers. I said, what is that? A meal for hens?”

“I care.” I smiled. “I love your stories.” Early on, I had learned the habit of nodding seriously while appearing to listen to Andre’s tales of his culinary history, his dessert-making ability, the many well-heeled clients he’d had, or even his childhood capers during the war. I was convinced these tales were all exaggerated. But if you ignored Andre, you had a short career in Andre’s kitchen. I asked thoughtfully, “What book did Bobby have made in Milan?”

Andre sniffed. “His portfolio. All the models have them. Hanna and Leah have to look at it first to see if they like the look of the model in different clothes.” I tapped the counter and shook my head. “Goldy. Remember when I taught you to inspect meat? It is the same.”

Assessing cuts of steak was like judging people’s bodies? Was that where they got the term beefcake? I asked, “If Bobby is Leah’s half-brother, why didn’t she stick up for him out there?”

He paused over a cardboard box of eggs and grinned. “She tries, I think. Leah is the longtime lover of Ian,” Andre announced. This tidbit I already knew—from Marla, of course. “Although,” Andre continued thoughtfully, “those two don’t seem to be getting along very well.” The kitchen door opened; he scowled. “What pig wants something now?”

Models’ Mushroom Soup

5 tablespoons butter, divided

1 large carrot, chopped

1 large onion, chopped

2 celery stalks, chopped

8 ounces fresh mushrooms, thinly sliced

4 tablespoons all-purpose flour

6 cups homemade chicken stock (preferably the low-fat chicken stock made from the recipe in Killer Pancake)

2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme

1 tablespoon chopped fresh marjoram

2 tablespoons whipping cream

6 tablespoons dry white wine salt and freshly ground black pepper

In a large skillet, melt 2 tablespoons of the butter and cook the carrot, onion, and celery, covered, over medium-low heat for 15 to 25 minutes, until the vegetables soften. Set aside to cool.

In a small skillet, melt 1 tablespoon of butter and saute the mushrooms briefly until they are cooked through and begin to yield some juice. This takes less than 5 minutes. Set the mushrooms aside.

In a blender, puree the carrot, onion, and celery. In a large skillet, melt the last 2 tablespoons of butter, stir in the flour, and cook this paste, stirring constantly, over low heat until the flour bubbles. Slowly whisk in the stock. Cook and stir over medium heat until hot and thickened, about 10 minutes. Stir in the thyme, marjoram, whipping cream, mushrooms, wine, and pureed vegetables until hot and bubbly, about 5 minutes. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately.

Makes 6 servings

“Help me,” pleaded a female whisper from the doorway.

“Pah!” howled Andre, without pity. He slid the sugar-filled iron pan to an unlit burner. “Go away!”

“What do you need?” I said quietly to a russet-haired woman whose large brown eyes glowed from within a gaunt, high-cheekboned face. She was stunning as well as very thin and tall. Despite the season, she was dressed in an oak-brown cashmere sweater, a long clingy brown wool skirt, and gleaming brown leather boots. She teetered precariously on the boots’ stiletto heels.

Her cocoa-colored lower lip trembled. She drew her haunting face into an expression of intense pain. “Please—”

I said, “Are you okay?”

“Coffee,” she whispered. She grinned uncertainly, affording a glimpse of brilliant teeth. “I just need a tiny sip. If you don’t mind,” she added.

Andre hrumphed and shrugged. I reached for the glass pot, but it held only an inch of metallic-smelling brew. My next job after heating the savory cheesecakes, laying out the spring rolls, mixing the vinaigrette, and arranging the buffet, would be to brew a fresh pot of coffee. I wondered vaguely how Andre would have managed if I hadn’t agreed to help today.

“Do you have powdered nondairy? Nonfat, that is?” the young woman inquired. Under the thick makeup, I figured she was about nineteen.

“Well, Andre keeps cream in his cooler—”