Fairbanks, Nancy Page 3

  As the soup bowls were being cleared away and new wine poured, I excused myself to go in search of my friend, but before I could get out of the room, Nils said, "If you're still looking for Julie, maybe you should try locating her hot-blooded Italian stereochemist."

  That comment stopped the conversation cold until Lester tried to break the uncomfortable silence by saying, "Wonderful soup, whatever they put in it. Are there sec­onds?"

  "Certainly, sir," said the waiter, who had been in the act of removing Lester's bowl and was obviously relieved that the restaurant's mistake was not causing table-wide anger and thus promising a substantial diminution of his tip.

  "Lester, you don't need seconds," snapped his wife.

  "Well, what's next, Caro?" Jason asked with an eagerness that was unlike him on any subject other than scientific re­search.

  "Avocado-stuffed shrimp remoulade," I replied and es­caped, wondering if Julienne could have discovered when she left for the ladies' room that gumbo was not to be served, upon which discovery she left the restaurant entirely. But it wasn't my fault the wrong soup had been served, so if she left, it was because of her husband or because something dreadful had happened to her.

  I checked the ladies' room again and found two women sitting on poufy, low-backed, wire-legged chairs. The ladies were renewing their makeup in front of gilded Cupid mirrors. One other woman stood at the marble sinks, but the stall doors were open, and Julienne was not there. Through a window covered with stirring rose silk drapes, I could hear the rain and studied the window as if my child­hood friend might have pulled over a chair and crawled out into an alley. But that was a ridiculous idea. For one thing, anyone who tried to stand on one of those silly little seats would have been tipped onto the floor with resulting bruises.

  And if Julienne had wanted to leave, she could have walked out the front door. In fact, and although our hotel was only a four-block walk through the Quarter, she would have called a cab rather than exposing her lovely dress to the rain.

  Unless she called the mysterious Italian stereochemist, a little voice whispered in my head. Then the Carolyn who had grown up with Julienne and shared adolescent secrets rejected that disloyal notion, and I went out to question the restaurant staff.

  But first I noticed that the hall leading to the rest rooms had a door at the end. What if someone had kidnapped her in the hall and dragged her out through that door? I hurried down to try it and found the door locked. But the abductors might have had a key. Oh nonsense, Carolyn, I told myself. Don't be so melodramatic! She's probably in the bar having a drink, making a new friend, and paying Nils back for being such a pill. I checked the bar, which was very crowded but harbored no one with curly black hair and a stunning red dress.

  Next I tried the maitre d'. Was it my imagination, or did he look at me peculiarly? Surely that obnoxious Southern belle in lavender hadn't reported me to him as the lesbian shoe fetishist in the ladies' room. In reply to my query, he said that he had seen Julienne come in with a tall, blond man, but he had not seen her leave, alone or accompanied.

  "I'm afraid something terrible has happened to her," I cried, allowing melodrama to overcome me once more.

  "Nothing terrible happens to the customers at Etienne's," he assured me in a heavy, if unconvincing, French accent. "Only the most delightful of culinary experiences. Is madam not happy with the meal thus far?"

  "Aside from the fact that you served the wrong soup," I replied, "the dinner has been tasty."

  Evidently he had expected more enthusiasm, for he eyed me with all the approval he might reserve for a fly discov­ered in the creme brulee, a dessert I would have preferred to the bread pudding I'd been coerced into ordering. If Julienne didn't show up for the bread pudding, I'd never forgive her. Unless she had no choice in the matter. "The door at the end of the rest room hall—where does it go?" I asked urgently, once more picturing my friend being shanghaied by swarthy men in evening clothes.

  "Outside, madam," he replied, "but she could not have escaped your dinner party in that manner, for the door is locked, and I have the only key."

  I went on to the tuxedoed person who presided at a too-precious antique desk, dispensing haughty condescension to those who had come in off the street without a reservation, perhaps not even suitably dressed. I wondered how my friends had been treated when they arrived—Miranda in her business suit (of course, at $350 an hour, she could conde­scend with the best of them) and Carlene in her California hippie outfit. But then Carlene wouldn't have noticed any but the most blatant snub, say, if the gatekeeper at the desk had refused to let her in.

  He, too, remembered Julienne's entrance but assured me that she had not departed past his station, nor had she or­dered a cab. "No one has yet ordered a cab, madam," he as­serted. "Who would eat at such an unfashionable hour as to be finished with dinner already?"

  What could I say to such an incontrovertible piece of logic? I stopped a few waiters and busboys passing between the kitchens and the main dining areas, but no one had seen Julienne, and I had to return to my avocado-stuffed shrimp remoulade. Incidentally, it was superb, the avocados soft and buttery, the shrimp firm, plump, and shrimpy, and the remoulade—ah, it was perfect.

  But before I sat down under the disgruntled eyes of the waiter, who wanted to clear that course and serve the cray­fish Etienne, I leaned down and murmured to Nils, "I'm re­ally terribly worried. Perhaps you should call the hotel to see if she's safely back."

  "Nonsense," Nils retorted testily. "She's fine. Just willful."

  Broder didn't help my state of mind when I finally sat down to my second course. Having finished his own avo­cado, he regaled me with stories about the white-slave trade in New Orleans, the corruption of the police, and various murder and drug-dealing statistics. I was so panic stricken by the time I had swallowed my last delicious shrimp that I nodded to the waiter to serve the main course and rushed out to call the hotel myself.

  Julienne didn't answer.

  Carol Lee's Avocado Stuffed Shrimp Remoulade

  Combine in a small bowl 1/4cup tarragon vinegar, 2 tbs. horseradish mustard, 1 tbs. catsup, 1.1/2 tsp. paprika, 1/2 tsp. salt, 1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper.

  Slowly add 1/4cup salad oil, beating constantly.

  Stir in 1/4 cup ea. minced celery and minced green onions with tops.

  Pour sauce over 2 Ibs. cleaned, cooked, shelled shrimp and marinate in refrigerator 4 to 5 hours.

  Halve and peel 4 medium avocados.

  Lift shrimp from sauce and arrange 4 or 5 in each avocado half.

  Serve and pass leftover remoulade sauce.

  4

  Crawfish Etienne

  Crawfish. Not the most pleasant sounding word for something so tasty, but then natives of Louisiana object to the more inviting crayfish. In fact, a popular local name for the crustacean in question is mudbug, while I myself prefer minilobster. New Orleans mythology tells us that the crawfish is a lobster that walked all the way from its native Maine and arrived in Louisiana seriously diminished in size, a cautionary lesson to dieters: eat crawfish, which are low in calories, and walk a lot. However, if your cholesterol is high, eat oysters. They have fewer calories and one-third the artery doggers.

  Whatever you call its main ingredient, crawfish Eti­enne is not a dish you can make at home. I did try, but the recipe is the secret of Etienne, the talented New Or­leans chef, and I didn't come close to imitating his culi­nary triumph, even though I shelled all those miserable minilobsters. Actually, they're delicious, but essentially only one bite per creature. Consequently, you have to feel sorry for the poor, no doubt underpaid, serf in the kitchen at Etienne's who cooks and then cracks open hundreds of shells in order to produce all the delicious crustacean bits. The bits are then bathed in a glorious cream and wine sauce enhanced by mystery herbs. Even the direst circumstances are mitigated by the con­sumption of crawfish Etienne.

  Carolyn Blue, Eating Out in the Big Easy

  “Isn't crayfish a peasant food
?" asked Miranda, who had moved over to talk to me, filling the seat that Julienne would have occupied had she not disappeared. "I always thought they were something that swamp dwellers, the sort who marry their cousins, fish out of the muck and eat."

  "Viva la swamp!" I said, having had quite a few glasses of wine in an effort to drown my worries about my missing friend. I picked up my pen and scribbled more notes, duti­fully keeping in mind that I had been paid to write a book about food in New Orleans.

  I noticed that Miranda was eating her way steadily through the peasant food on her plate. Maybe I should have sicced Etienne on her. It was hard to believe she'd once been a rather radical protestor with waist-length hair and beads— until she'd been arrested and was so horrified by the inade­quate hygiene facilities at the jail that she never joined another protest. Somehow or other, her father, a prominent Cincinnati lawyer, managed to get her out of jail without her presence becoming part of the public record. Having learned her lesson (she was always a good student), Miranda imme­diately changed to prelaw, went on to law school, and look at her now. She's a Republican!

  "At least you're finally working," she said. "How could you stand staying home all those years?"

  "I enjoyed it," I replied defensively. "I really don't see why we stay-at-home wives and mothers should have to apologize."

  "You enjoyed staying home?" Miranda rolled her eyes. "I'd have felt selfish. I mean, one income? And a college professor's at that?"

  "Nothing wrong with my income," Jason called from the other end of the table. "The kids and I are the lucky ones, having Carolyn at home." He gave me a very sexy smile, which I returned. Jason really is a love.

  "Hear! Hear!" muttered Nils. "Every man should be so lucky."

  Well. I call it financially feckless," continued Mi­randa. "Because I make a lot of money, Lester can afford to indulge himself in all sorts of esoteric research and ad­ministrative skullduggery, and we're still very comfort­able financially."

  I was beginning to feel a bit beleaguered, although I couldn't see that my staying home had thrown us into poverty. Still, if the children hadn't been so smart and re­ceived scholarships...

  "Oh, knock it off, Miranda," said Carlene. "I think women should get to stay home if they want to. I mean, kids are fun! I wouldn't have minded mothering a couple more, but I just didn't have time for more pregnancies."

  Lester looked horrified. "You'd have wanted six chil­dren? Or eight?"

  "Why not?" replied Carlene. "As long as they do their own ironing, the more the merrier."

  "They are a responsibility, however," said Broder. "In this world, one thinks twice about having children. And we certainly couldn't have afforded those we have if Carlene hadn't been working. Theology professors are not well re­munerated."

  Carlene giggled. "Now Broder, when did you ever think twice? Unless it was after conception."

  Broder turned red. I had to put my hand over my mouth to hide a smile. I wouldn't embarrass him for the world, but the idea of a hot-blooded Broder begetting children with abandon was amusing.

  "I suppose your move to El Paso had something to do with your sudden need to become a working woman," said Miranda, evidently miffed because others, even the very successful Carlene, had supported my right to stay home. "Why in the world would you take a job in El Paso, Jason?" She looked at my husband with a mixture of horror and pity. "Some trouble with your previous position? Goodness, you'd been there for years."

  "Toxicity," said Jason, looking energized at very thought of a favorite subject. "I was offered a chaired professorship in the chemistry of environmental toxicology. With a man­date to found an institute."

  "But in El Paso?"

  "Where better?" Jason replied. "The toxins in the air, soil, and water are a researcher's dream."

  "Still, old man," Lester chimed in smugly, "it is a step down from your old position."

  "My research group at this point numbers over thirty," said Jason mildly.

  Lester frowned; Miranda added, "But it must be a cul­tural wasteland. How can you stand it, Carolyn?"

  "We have a very presentable symphony, a good opera company, and even a local ballet," I replied defensively. Initially, I had been quite reluctant to leave all my friends and associations when Jason announced this marvelous op­portunity that had been offered to him, out of the blue as it were. And the children had been furious. Especially our daughter, who had just been accepted to college. She threatened to stay in her dormitory during all vacations if she had to come home to El Paso. Not that I intended to admit any of these problems to Miranda. "And I do have a maid," I added slyly.

  "A maid?" the women breathed.

  "In fact, our house has a maid's room and bath."

  "A live-in maid?" Miranda's mouth dropped open.

  "Actually, she lives in her own house," I murmured, "but she has a car. I don't have to pick her up or even pay trans­portation, and her wages are very reasonable." I didn't mention that Ippolita speaks Spanish and I don't, that we communicate through a Spanish phrase book, and that the book doesn't include the phrase, "The vacuum cleaner is on fire; maybe you should turn it off." Ippolita only under­stands the instructions I find in the book when it suits her to understand. In fact, she does pretty much as she likes, al­though she does get the house cleaned. Needless to say, the vacuum cleaner repairman considers me his best customer.

  "Well, I still think—" Miranda began.

  Broder cleared his throat and interrupted diplomatically, "The owner at our bed and breakfast recommended a gospel brunch that occurs tomorrow in the warehouse district. She says it's very colorful—a black choir and leader, ethnic food. It's rather expensive, unfortunately, but—"

  "—but we can afford it," said Carlene. "We heard that the audience is dancing in the aisles by the time it's over. So why don't we all meet there at quarter to eleven? We don't have to register at the convention center until late af­ternoon. Then there's the reception at the aquarium after­ward."

  "Complete with cheap wine, American beer, and dubious canapes," said Miranda. "Unless you attend a conference abroad, you never get a decent thing to eat at a meeting of chemists, present company excluded."

  "Well, whatever they serve, it will take care of dinner," said Carlene, ever practical for all her offbeat wardrobe. Maybe she only wore things like that when she was away from home, or always wore them because they were inex­pensive.

  "Sounds fascinating," said Jason.

  I was signaling the waiter to clear and produce the dreaded bread pudding.

  "Nils, be sure to tell Julienne about the gospel brunch," Carlene added. "She'll love it."

  "And remind her to bring her camera," said Miranda. "She promised to send pictures to all of us, and now we have none of our reunion."

  "Maybe we should try to call her again," Broder sug­gested, digging enthusiastically into his bread pudding. "She must be back at the hotel by now."

  I hope so, I thought nervously.

  "As I suggested, you might have better luck calling her favorite colleague, Linus Torelli," said Nils.

  "Linus?" Lester looked interested. "Was he named after Linus Pauling?"

  "He's young enough to have been," Nils snarled.

  "Oh, knock it off, Magnussen," said Carlene angrily. "If you'd work a little harder yourself, maybe you wouldn't have to be jealous of your wife."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Nils demanded.

  "Why, that when we were all in school together, you were the fair-haired boy," Carlene replied crisply. "Now it's Juli­enne who's the star."

  Nils stood up, knocking his chair over, dropped his nap­kin on top of his bread pudding, and stalked out.

  I sighed, foreseeing an acrimonious divorce in the future of my dear friend Julienne. It's so sad to see a marriage end, especially a marriage that was once marked by great love; but obviously, in this case, a fragile male ego had overrid­den a warm female heart. I didn't for a minute believe that Julienne had been unfaithful
to her husband. Nils was sim­ply substituting sexual jealousy for professional jealousy be­cause the latter made him look small-minded and exposed his own inadequacies while the former placed the onus on Julienne.

  One has to wonder how many modern marriages break up on the rocks of professional competition. Had I become a famous medieval scholar instead of a mom, would Jason have come to resent me? Probably not, I decided. In the first place, Jason isn't like that. In the second, he consid­ers the study of the Middle Ages more in the nature of an indulgence, while the study of chemistry is serious busi­ness.

  Feeling better, at least about my own marriage, I took a bite of the bread pudding. Oh my. This was not like any bread pudding Mother used to make. In fact, it was a sort of bananas Foster, which I love, plus bread pudding, plus whipped cream. Bathed in a delicious banana-rum sauce, even bread pudding can send a shiver of culinary delight up the spine. I ate every bite, as, I noticed, did all the others, ex­cept the bad-tempered and absent Nils. Lester confiscated and ate Nils's serving when Miranda wasn't looking. Would I the rum sauce knock him off the wagon? Maybe not. He didn't drain Nils's goblet of dessert wine.

  "Wonderful dinner, Carolyn," said Lester, looking as if he'd like to mop up the sauce left on Nils's plate. He was the first to break the uncomfortable silence that followed the angry departure of a second Magnussen.

  "Anyone care for a brandy?" Jason asked.

  I placed my fork properly on my empty dessert plate and slipped away to call Julienne's hotel room again. Her tele­phone rang uselessly and ominously in my ear. I could only hope that she was in the room but refusing to answer, antic­ipating the caller to be her husband.

  When I returned, the five remaining diners* were preparing to disperse after the expected compliments to me on the menu and an exchange of directions to the gospel brunch. Then Jason exercised his preference for walking in the rain—actually, he would have preferred to jog, but I demurred—and we shared his giant, black um­brella during the four-block walk to the Hotel de la Poste. I don't think we've used that umbrella since we moved to arid El Paso, but Jason, always foresighted, thought to find and pack it.