Killer Pancake

Back at the food fair, I tossed the samples into the same trash can where I’d thrown Pete’s pamphlet and hustled back to my booth. The volunteer was happy to be relieved. I put the first batch of ribs back on the grill, readied the second batch, and lit the Sterno for the chafers. As promised, another of the fair volunteers brought hot water for the bain-marie, the water bath for the chafing dish. This was so that as soon as the first batch of ribs was done, I could move the meat into a heated serving area. And none too soon, as the health inspector showed up just slightly later than scheduled. He impassively surveyed the spread and plunked his trusty thermometer first into the pile of cooked ribs, then the salad being kept cold in the speed cart. He wiped, the thermometer meticulously each time, giving a little nod. He asked to see the bleach water and I showed it to him. Then he nodded approvingly, refused a cookie, and moved on to the next booth.

Within moments the first batch of visitors shaking their little food fair bracelets appeared on our line of booths. The mall walkers, who had clustered, giggling, around Pete’s coffee machine, descended on my booth as if they hadn’t eaten in a month. The ribs bubbled invitingly in the barbecue sauce, and I transferred two at a time from the chafer to small paper plates next to the cups of strawberry-sugar snap pea salad, slices of cranberry bread, and piles of frosted fudge cookies. Cries of “Oh, no, I’m supposed to buy a bathing suit today” did not remotely allay appetites. Thank goodness. Hunger makes the best sauce, my two-hundred-fifty-pound fourth-grade teacher had once said, and it seemed she was right.

For the next two hours I was so busy filling plates, cooking ribs, and chatting with shoppers about how Goldilocks’ Catering could turn their next party into an event that I barely noticed anything outside my own food space. At eleven fifty-five, however, the two co-owners of Upcountry Barbecue showed up to claim my booth, and I was forced to take stock.

“Aw, no, Roger,” exclaimed one, “she’s got barbecue too! This is gonna ruin us!”

“I don’t see any Rocky Mountain oysters,” replied Roger with a smirk. “You gal-cooks just don’t have the guts to serve real western food. Ain’t that right?”

I grinned at Roger and his partner. “I know the women who frequent this mall will love the sliced reproductive organ of buffalo. Especially if you roast ’em, put ’em on croissants, and tell the gals exactly what you’re serving. Ain’t that right, boys?”

Roger and partner exchanged a rueful glance. They’d forgotten the damn croissants.

My food was gone. A hundred fifty portions in two morning hours wasn’t bad, I figured, and I’d given out over a hundred menus and price lists. The grills and speed cart would be cleaned by the food fair staff and stay locked in place, so I had only one box of supplies to take down to the van. Once the box was stashed, I leaned against the closed van doors. Sudden inactivity made me realize just how hot and exhausted I was. I’d get my check, chat with Dusty, reconnoiter with Julian, visit Marla, then go home and crash. At least that was what I planned as I hauled myself up and walked down toward the entrance to Prince & Grogan. Before I could get there, however, I stopped and shuddered.

Maybe I have too active an imagination. Maybe I watch too many movie reruns with Arch. But seeing people—or even those boys in the film version of Lord of the Flies—wearing war paint just sends fear ripping through my bloodstream. People can hide their basest selves behind a veneer of fierce black and white stripes. Transformed, they can claim not to be responsible for what they do. I didn’t know whether I was willing to be the victim of irresponsible aggression as I now stood facing at least sixty war-painted demonstrators jostling each other and their signs in back of police sawhorses by the Prince & Grogan entrance.

“When you buy, rabbits die!” they shouted at the few customers brave enough to scuttle timidly past the saw-horses and into the store.

Worse, there wasn’t a policeman in sight. But then a woman strode confidently to the store entrance. Oh, Lord. The woman entering through the highly polished doors thirty paces in front of me was Frances Markasian.

She had told me on the phone she was coming to see me at the mall food fair. She hadn’t shown up. And yet here she was, going into Prince & Grogan.

My check could wait. I swallowed hard and decided to follow Frances. When I came to the sawhorses, the demonstrators surged forward and screeched.

“Are you dying for mascara?”

“Do you care that innocent animals are tortured for your makeup?”

One waved a sign directly in front of my face: DIE FOR BEAUTY it proclaimed, with a photograph of a pile of dead rabbits. I felt my face turning red, but I concentrated on getting through the doors on the track of the Mountain Journal’s premier investigative reporter.