Killer Pancake

With the police team crawling all over the Braithwaites’ place, I wondered if Babs still would even want to hold her annual party. I put in a phone call to her. A policeman I knew answered, and after some delay, Babs came on the line.

“Yes?” She was obviously unhappy to be interrupted.

“I apologize for calling,” I began, then stopped. What was I supposed to say? But I was just wondering if the cops would be done before the party? And by the way, I didn’t think those pictures did you justice? “Er, I was just wondering what the schedule was for tonight. When you needed us to set up, you know.”

Her voice became stiff with impatience. “Your contract says set up for food service, then food service, followed by packing up from nine or so until you’re done. The guests will start arriving at seven. How long do you need to set up for twelve people?”

“No more than an hour—”

“I won’t be able to supervise you. I’m having my hair and makeup done from five to six forty-five.”

“Not to worry, we do a great job supervising ourselves.”

She paused. “Will that boy be with you?” she asked curiously.

“My son? Or the nineteen-year-old fellow who helps me?”

“The teenager. The one who did all that damage to my car.”

I felt as if I were suddenly under the interrogation light, like the NFL coach who gets grilled on how many injured players will be in the starting lineup. I assumed an indifferent tone. “Julian will be with me.”

“How’s he holding up?”

I was very interested to know why she cared. But I merely replied, “He’s doing okay. Oh, Babs, by the way. My friend Marla says she didn’t recommend my business to you. I mean, since you said that she did, I was just wondering who in fact did the recommending. Just out of curiosity. You know? I want to thank whoever it was.”

Her voice rose irritably. “For heaven’s sake, I can’t remember who referred you to me!” She paused, then continued in an even higher tone: “Why, you’re not having second thoughts about coming tonight, are you? Don’t tell me you’re not ready. I don’t know who I’d get on such short notice!”

“Not to worry, Babs. We’ll be there. Around six.” Before she could start interrogating me again, I politely signed off and wished Arch could experience what it really meant to deal with someone hysterical.

I checked my watch: three o’clock. It was time to cook.

Like many wealthy clients, Babs Braithwaite wanted to host an extravagant catered dinner but did not want to pay much for it. “Can’t you make it look and taste sumptuous without using all those expensive ingredients?” she had demanded. “Can’t you cook without larding all the dishes with butter and cream? You know, the way caterers do?” As if she knew so much. Lowfat ingredients were usually more expensive and labor-intensive than traditional foods. In any event, after a lengthy discussion we had decided on a turkey curry served with raisin rice. Then Babs had loftily dismissed me with the announcement that since it was the Fourth, she would wear a red, white, and blue sari to go with the food. Everyone else was supposed to be decked out in red, white, and blue, she’d maintained in a resigned tone. I didn’t protest. I had long ago quit trying to figure out wealthy clients’ idiosyncrasies. At least she hadn’t told me to wear a sari. Or demanded only red, white, and blue food.

I sautéed the turkey, drained it, then moved on to chop fragrant piles of onion and apple. When these were sizzling in a wide frying pan, I started the sauce. As the pungent scent of curry filled the kitchen, I began to feel the tension in my shoulders loosen. My hands stopped shaking as I drizzled in skim milk fortified once again with powdered nonfat milk. This silky concoction did indeed provide the rich, thick consistency of whipping cream without fat. I smiled and tasted the curry sauce. It was divine. Working with food is always healing. The ingredients, the smells, the flavors—the delight in experimenting and putting a meal together—all these bring joy, no matter what the circumstances. I had another spoonful of the hot, creamy curry sauce. Doggone, but it was good. I was going to have to try it out on Arch and Julian.

When I was halfway through grating the vegetables for the slaw, there was a loud banging on the front door. Again I looked at my watch: three-fifteen. It couldn’t be either Tom or Arch. Alicia, my supplier, had made her visit and I had all the ingredients I needed. I turned off the blender and trudged to the door to peer through the peephole.

“No smoking,” I warned Frances Markasian when I opened the door. “And no ballistic knives.”

“Okay, okay!” She held up her large black purse as if for inspection. I waved it away. “Don’t be so paranoid, Goldy, I just want—”

But I was already walking away from her. “I’m working, so you’ll have to talk to me out in the kitchen.”