Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Read online

  But then my chef’s special salad was delivered: a small pile of lettuce dog-paddling in thick blue cheese dressing that screamed “emulsifier” and wore powerful overtones of the plastic bottle it must have been squeezed from. On top of that were chunks of pale pink mealy tomatoes. Though the mashed potatoes that accompanied the main courses were creamy and rich, my thirty-eight-dollar fish smelled fishy and Eric’s forty-two-dollar steak was stringy. We didn’t have the nerve to order dessert. I hadn’t actually gotten ill, but my stomach had roiled for half the night in spite of the half roll of antacids I’d eaten. According to a text the next morning from Eric, who generally had an iron constitution, his gut still didn’t feel quite right as he and his partner drove to Miami for some much-needed R & R.

  I had tried to wriggle out of writing it up. But there wasn’t time to substitute something else. And my boss, Wally, had specifically told me this restaurant should be included in the next issue of our magazine. But hadn’t I heard former New York Times food critic Ruth Reichl warning prospective food critics and writers that the more expensive the restaurant, the more damage a lousy review could do? And mine was definitely lousy. It started like this:

  All kitchens have an off night. Unfortunately, my three visits at Just Off Duval coincided with three bad nights. JOD, a newish restaurant on a cul-de-sac a half block off Upper Duval Street, has been the site of four failed restaurants over the past six years. Whether this is due to bad cooking juju or simply uneven and overreaching preparation, I fear that Just Off Duval will be joining their ranks….

  I shook the words out of my mind and staggered past the Yankee Freedom ship, which ferries tourists to the Dry Tortugas for snorkeling expeditions most mornings. Then I paused on the boardwalk along the harbor to catch my breath. Several large sailboats left over from the races the previous week still clanked in their slips, alongside catamarans loaded with kayaks and sport fishing powerboats. The pink streaks in the sky had expanded like silken threads of cotton candy, lending enough light that I could make out the details of the early-morning activity. Nearby, a thin man in faded jeans with long hair and a bushy beard that reached to the middle of his chest sprayed the deck of one of the Sebago party boats with a high-pressure hose. The hair around his lips was stained yellow, as if he’d smoked a lifetime’s worth of cigarettes, and faded to white at the tip of his beard. His name—Derek—was embroidered on his shirt.

  As I leaned against a wooden railing to stretch my calves, a bare-chested, red-haired man skidded around the corner, wearing a long black cloak and a small American flag draped from his belt like a loincloth. He leaped onto the boat, pulled a knife out of his waistband, and, taking a fighter’s crouch, brandished it at the man with the hose.

  Even under the pirate’s tricornered hat, I recognized him—Turtle, a chronically homeless man whose behavior fluctuated with the status of his mental illness. A couple of months ago, I would have backed away as fast as I could. But now I understood more. Since it was the end of the month, he’d probably run out of meds. And if the cops came, he’d end up in jail. Where he’d only get worse.

  The bearded man spun around, growled, and pointed the hose at Turtle, who had begun to execute tai chi–like movements, waving the knife in shaky figure eights. My adrenaline surged as I pictured a throat slit right in front of my eyes.

  “Listen, man,” the worker yelled, “get the hell out of here. You’re on private property.”

  “They can’t take what I ain’t got,” said Turtle, crouching lower and moving forward.

  This was going to get ugly unless someone intervened.

  “Turtle,” I called. “Put the knife down. Please?”

  “Avast, ye stinking pirates!” Turtle yelled, swinging around to wave the knife at me. Heart pounding, I stumbled back a few steps.

  “I’m calling the cops right now.” The white-bearded man sprayed Turtle’s legs, now wet to the knees, as he yanked a phone from the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Turtle,” I said, “I’m going for coffee and a Cuban cheese toast. Can I get you one?”

  His pale blue eyes darted from me to the white-haired man and back; the knife twitched in his fingers. Then he shrugged, shoved the weapon into his belt beside the flag, and hopped off the boat. I took a shaky breath and led him around the block to the Cuban Coffee Queen, wondering how to keep him focused in this world, not deep in his own crazy loop.

  “I love this weather, don’t you?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder. He danced along several feet behind me, fending off imagined dangers by feinting left and then right with his cape. What would it feel like to be inside his head? Awful, I guessed.

  As we approached the little white shack painted like an oversized Key West postcard that housed the Cuban Coffee Queen, he hunkered down and pulled out the knife again. A couple with a baby stroller were ordering breakfast at the walk-up window. The woman stiffened and whispered something to her husband. He moved around to stand in between his family and us.

  “Turtle,” I said softly, “better put that away or you’ll scare the other folks. Would you rather have a Cuban bagel or a cheese toast?” I reached out to touch his arm but stopped when I saw his startled face.

  “Cheese toast, matey!” he growled, sidling away from me and sliding the knife back into his belt again.

  “Why don’t you wait here?” I suggested, pointing to a painted wooden bench about ten feet from the coffee stand.

  He sat, tugging his cape around his body and closing his eyes. He rocked back and forth and his fingers tapped out a rhythm on his knees to a tune I couldn’t hear. I stepped up to the food stand’s window next to a large stuffed rooster.

  “Two large café con leches and a cheese toast please,” I told the woman with dark hair and eyes who appeared at the window. I glanced over at Turtle. “Better make one decaf.” She took my money and I stuffed two bucks into the tip jar while the milk steamed and shots of espresso drained into paper cups. Smelled like my kind of heaven. She buttered a slab of Cuban bread, slapped on a layer of cheese, and popped the sandwich into the grill press.

  As soon as my order was ready, a police car pulled up and stopped next to the coffee stand. Officer Torrence—a cop who knew my business a little better than I’d prefer for a man I wasn’t dating—peered out of the cruiser on the passenger side. His gaze darted from the sodden homeless man to the breakfast in my hands. He rolled down the window and smoothed his mustache. “Everything okay here?”

  “Just dandy,” I said, forcing a smile. Turtle had tensed, looking ready to spring. My hands trembling, I walked over to deliver his coffee and sandwich. He took off, Torrence watching him as he booked it around the souvenir shop and back to the harbor.

  “Where’s your scooter?” Officer Torrence asked.

  “I jogged here this morning.”

  “You want a ride?” he asked, gesturing to the backseat of the cruiser. “You look a little pale.”

  “No thanks,” I said with a weak grin and waved them on. I was terrible at keeping secrets—the worst. He’d want to know everything about Turtle and I’d find myself spilling the details of the altercation at the harbor and how he’d scared the little family at the Cuban Coffee Queen and likely Turtle would still end up in jail.

  Besides, everyone on Tarpon Pier would notice me emerging from a black and white—I’d never hear the end of it. As I took my coffee and walked out to Caroline Street, a text message buzzed onto my phone.

  FYI, Hayley, the owner of Just Off Duval called me at home. Freaking Out. Get to the office ASAP and we’ll make a plan.

  I almost dropped the phone. My worst nightmare: facing the owner or chef whose restaurant I’d panned. It hadn’t taken long to happen.

  I flagged down a pink taxicab to carry me home.

  2

  When he sees twenty-somethings obsessing about foam or rushing around the kitchen in a competitive cooking challenge, it’s kind of like watching pornography. I think: I’d love to do that, but I’m afra
id I’ll throw out my back.

  —Rick Rodgers interviewed by Kathleen Flinn

  I arrived at Key Zest at eight, damp from the fastest shower on record. The Key Zest office sits above Preferred Properties real estate on Southard, more attic really, than office. Danielle, our magazine’s receptionist, looked at the clock and then at my overheated face—still red like a tomato the last time I checked in the mirror. She touched a finger to her glossy pink lips.

  “I wouldn’t go in there,” she whispered, pointing at Wally’s office. “Not unless he calls for you.”

  Through the blinds on Wally’s windowed wall, I could see the silhouettes of two figures, one at the desk, one in the chair beside the desk. “Just Off Duval?” I asked in a hushed voice.

  She nodded and made a quick face. “Livid,” she whispered again.

  “Shoot.” I crept past Wally’s half-opened door and slipped down the hall to my nook, which is more like a hallway aneurysm than an office. Leaving my door cracked open so I could eavesdrop, I turned on my computer and pretended to work. Not easy with the raised voices that began to carom down the short hall.

  Wally’s voice came first, low and controlled. “I’m sorry you didn’t like the review. A new restaurant takes its chances. But you’ve got enough experience to know that already. We have to act like serious journalists or we won’t be taken seriously. And that means we call them as we taste them. We’re not designing advertising—we publish reviews.”

  Then came another male voice, loud and furious. “If she’d let them know that she was there, the chef could have done something about—”

  “Either the kitchen can cook or it can’t,” Wally cut in. “A critic’s presence at one of the tables in the front of the house shouldn’t make any difference at all.”

  “If you don’t care about advertising revenue, that’s a fine business practice,” the second man said.

  “If you wish to take out an ad, we will include whatever copy you choose. But the wording in our review is not up to you. The piece stands.”

  Wow. He was going way out on a limb for me.

  I heard the noise of a chair scraping on the tile floor and then the second man said: “I could appreciate you standing behind an experienced reviewer. But bleeding to death over a newcomer who doesn’t know pâté from potatoes? Pure foolishness.” He stomped the short length of the hallway and slammed out of the office.

  I waited a few minutes to be sure he wouldn’t come back with more last words, then edged down the hall and stuck my head into Wally’s office.

  “That went well,” he said, adding a lopsided grin. “Come on in.” He waved me in, then ran fingers through his short blond hair until it stood straight up. He had on the same yellow shirt with palm trees on it that Danielle and I were wearing—one of his sort-of-endearing eccentricities was insistence on a company uniform.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” I said, brushing past the enormous faux palm tree that guarded the door to his office. “I was over at the harbor when you messaged me. I should have been here to help you out.”

  Danielle rolled her chair down the hall from the reception desk and stopped in the doorway. “No amount of reinforcement from extra troops was going to change that man’s mind. He’s a bully, pure and simple,” she added.

  “I should have gone easier on the descriptions,” I said. “The olive oil wasn’t really that close to rancid, just a little off. And we didn’t actually get sick. And it wasn’t fair for me to predict the restaurant would fail.”

  “Diners don’t want reviews that are whitewashed,” Wally said, sliding his tortoiseshell glasses down his nose and peering over the top of them. “They are spending good money on this place and they deserve the truth. You have to get over this urge to be nice, and go ahead and say what needs to be said.”

  “But you’re always telling me to smile when people come in,” said Danielle.

  “You’re a receptionist, she’s a critic,” said Wally firmly. “Different job descriptions.” He crooked a smile, ran his fingers through his hair again, and pushed his glasses up to the top of his head. “Can I talk to you alone for a minute, Hayley?”

  “Of course. Let me get something to write on.” As Danielle rolled back to her station, I trotted down the hall to my tiny workspace and grabbed a tablet and a pen from the desk, hoping he didn’t have more bad news. Was my trial employment period up? Had I flunked a test I didn’t know I was taking? I returned to Wally’s office and took the seat catty-corner to his, still warm from the irate restaurateur who’d sat there only minutes earlier.

  He smiled and patted his desk blotter. “Don’t look so worried. You’re doing fine. This is about a new assignment. A real plum. You know the Food and Wine Festival is upon us, right?”

  “Of course. I have tickets for the Mallory Square Stroll tomorrow night, remember? And Duval Uncorked on Saturday.” One of the first events for the festival involved sampling morsels from restaurants from three districts around town. Diners would rotate among five businesses, tasting their food and drinking wine. It had seemed like a good way to try a few places I’d never visited, fast.

  “And maybe you’ve heard about the Key West Topped Chef contest this weekend?”

  I nodded again, searching my brain for the details of an article I’d skimmed in the Citizen. “I might have seen an announcement but I don’t know the details.”

  Wally settled his glasses back on his nose and tucked a pencil behind the side bar. “It’s a reality TV cooking show slash contest and the winning chef scores an opportunity to do a pilot for a new network show. The producer called this morning asking Key Zest to provide a judge.”

  “A judge?” I cleared my throat, feeling the tickle of an unpleasant assignment coming. “Isn’t it a little late to be naming judges?”

  He peered over the top of his glasses, frowning. I wasn’t demonstrating the old rah-rah team spirit that he wanted in his one and three-quarters employees—me and Danielle. “I’d like it to be you.”

  I sat back, the frayed nubs of the wicker chair poking my shoulder blades. “I wouldn’t have a clue how to choose a television personality. I know how to judge food, not people. And I’m a horrible actress—all you have to do is preview a few of my mom’s home movies to know that.”

  He grinned. “Rain check on that. Do you watch any TV cooking shows?”

  “Of course. It’s a blood sport in my family.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Rachael Ray, of course. She’s not much of a chef, but she’s utterly charming—and she makes her viewers feel like they can cook. She makes it all seem possible. That’s an art! On the other hand, Mom loves Emeril. Some of the other chefs think he acts too much like a clown, but we think he’s a fabulous entertainer. And I never miss…” My words trailed off as I realized I’d talked my way into the new gig.

  “It will be fun!” Wally said, seizing the opening I’d given him. “The first session begins in half an hour at the Studios of Key West. Just imagine you’re at home on the couch with your mom.”

  My first instinct was to whine and wheedle. I squelched that and tried to muster a smile. From the look on Wally’s face, I could tell the question was settled.

  “If you have any questions, get in touch with Deena Smith. She’s helping to organize the weekend.” He slid a slip of paper across the desk with her phone number on it.

  As if it wasn’t already etched in my mind for life. Deena was my ex-boyfriend Chad’s secretary and I’d called that number more times than was decent after our ugly breakup. In spite of those bad memories, I felt an immediate relief—Deena and I had managed to remain friends in spite of Chad. She was a levelheaded, evenhanded person—how bad could it be if she was involved?

  3

  The best tools, like the best chefs, are a little offset.

  —Michael Ruhlman

  I drove my scooter up Fleming Street, buzzed the long block across on White to Southard, and parked outside the cavernous yellow-sided for
mer armory trimmed with turrets that now housed the Studios of Key West. I trudged up the front steps and went inside. The two-story vestibule was jammed with people—some in checkered chefs’ pants and white coats, some wearing earphones and carrying clipboards, some in random Key West dress—shorts, flip-flops, and T-shirts emblazoned with unprintable slogans.

  Inside the main room—which stretched the full length and width of the armory and two stories high—I found Deena. She looked stunning as always, her thick black hair curling past her shoulders and an extra sparkle in her dark brown eyes. Her red tank top matched her high heels and her nail polish, any one of which would have looked ridiculous on me. Standing next to Deena always made me wish I were a little taller and that I’d dressed a little better—or a lot, if I was honest. Like changed out of the yellow Key Zest shirt that clashed with both my freckles and my auburn curls.

  Deena offered me a quick hug and ran a finger down a line of typed names on her top page. Mine was penciled in at the bottom. She checked it off with a red pen.

  “Welcome to the zoo.”

  “Thanks. I think.” I rolled my eyes. “How the heck did you get roped into this?”

  “I took the week off from Chad’s office,” she said. “I used to work in reality television before I moved down here. I love this stuff. It’s too unpredictable to do as a steady diet, but I couldn’t resist applying for a temporary job right here in town. It’s so much more exciting than the lawyer business.” She underlined my name on her clipboard and grinned. “When I called your office yesterday looking for another victim, I never imagined you’d get tapped.”

  I couldn’t keep from rolling my eyes again. “I was the only option. And Wally’s a little desperate for Key Zest to make a splash.”

  “Oh, hey, congrats on the review this morning, too.” Then her eyes got wide. “You do know that Sam Rizzoli is one of the judges?”