Roux the Day (2 page)

“Well, the inevitable happened, business fell away and when Ernesto struck a diner for criticizing his food, the place closed. The accounts were in a shambles and it looked as if it were the end of a dynasty.”

When he paused for another, longer sip of coffee, I tested mine. The chicory taste was not as strong as I would have liked but it was different from the average cup of coffee.

“You say, ‘looked as if,’ ” I observed. “You mean it wasn’t?”

Van Linn was pleased with the question. “Ernesto’s son, Ambrose, was in college during the period that the restaurant was declining. He had no interest in the food industry. He has now graduated and has decided he wants to reopen the restaurant after all. He even envisions restoring it to its earlier glory.”

“And all you want me to do is go to this auction and authenticate a book?”

“That, too, is correct.”

“The book we are referring to is the recipe book that the Belvedere family has been using all these years,” I persisted.

“Yes, it is.”

“Now, tell me why the book is at an auction and not at the restaurant.”

He sipped his coffee and looked at my cup in commiseration. “All of the Belvederes had added to the book that Arturo had started. The last time the book was seen, it was still in the restaurant. That was when Ernesto was first experiencing his mental problems. It was not really missed—apparently it’s not the kind of cookbook that a chef has to refer to all the time.”

“I can understand that,” I told him. “This one obviously has historical value beyond its practical value. Still, it is common practice for a chef to have a book and write down all his favorite recipes and use it to refresh his memory. If the chef takes a day off or something like that, one of the sous-chefs can refer to it and that way ensure that the dish is cooked always in the same way.”

Van Linn nodded. “In the case at hand, when the contents of the restaurant were being cleaned out, the absence of the book was realized. The staff were questioned closely and none of them knew anything about it. I was asked to question Ernesto in the nursing home he was committed to, as to its whereabouts, but by then he was too old and I could learn nothing.”

“And now,” I said, “it has surfaced at an auction.”

“It’s a charity auction, held once a year. It’s a famous and popular event in New Orleans. Books come in from all sources—but where this book came from, nobody is sure. The books come, volunteers sift through them and pick out the more valuable ones. Individual books are sold, sometimes sets, sometimes small libraries or quantities of books all on one subject.”

“A volunteer spotted this one and recognized its worth?” I asked.

“Exactly. If it has any worth.”

“You mean, if it’s not a forgery?”

“Certainly. People find lost manuscripts of Shakespeare, lost symphonies of Mozart … a few years ago, the diaries of Adolf Hitler were found and authenticated by several of the world’s leading historical authorities before they were declared forged. Howard Hughes’ will appeared and was naturally contested … The list is endless.”

“I’m not an expert on books,” I said. “I know I’ve pointed this out before but—”

“I know you’re not. That’s not why you are being hired. All you have to do is decide if the recipes in the book are genuine.”

A light had just begun to shine in my brain. Chicory is believed in some quarters to have powers of augmenting mental activity. Maybe it worked?

“If the book is genuine,” I said slowly, “it should contain the famous recipe for oysters Belvedere.”

Van Linn pursed his lips, not altogether the effect of the espresso. “That’s possible, I suppose.”

“That alone might make it valuable.”

I cogitated. “Your client is, I suppose, wanting to remain incognito?”

“For the time being,” Van Linn said urbanely.

I cogitated some more. He finished his coffee and dabbed his lips elegantly with the lightly starched, snow-white napkin. He leaned back and observed me. There was nothing of the dealmaker wanting to press home his final offer. In fact, he sounded sincere as he said, “I should remind you that I have a prestigious law business here in New Orleans and I have no intention of doing anything to prejudice that. All that I have told you is true to the best of my knowledge and I have omitted nothing other than the name of my client—that being a common practice.”

I drank the last of my chicory and gave it a few seconds to work on my neurals or whatever they are called. I put down the cup with the air of the Scarlet Pimpernel setting off to rescue one more unfortunate aristocrat from Madame La Guillotine.

“All right, I’ll do it. Subject to financial terms being agreed, of course.”

I
DON’T GET MANY
easy jobs like this, I was thinking as I walked along looking for a streetcar the next morning. It didn’t have to be called Desire, that was too much to hope for and anyway, Tennessee Williams has had enough publicity. For a moment, I regretted that due to the unexpected nature of this assignment, I had not had the opportunity to reread John Kennedy Toole’s
A Confederacy of Dunces.
It was, as I remembered, an evocative picture of New Orleans and its people.

Lunch the day before with Eric Van Linn had stretched out even further than the stingers. Born and raised in New Orleans, he was a bottomless source of information on the city and its denizens and he enjoyed telling tales both tall and terrifying. Still, all of them had the ring of “could be true”—and who could ask more than that?

This morning I was out early, enjoying the stark, deserted streets with a breeze off the Gulf of Mexico scattering crumpled sheets of newspaper and sending plastic cups rolling away merrily. I walked along Royal Street, the buildings washed in pastel colors in a sunlight that was eerie and opaque. The quiet was broken only by the squawl of a cat and the clattering of a shutter being pushed open, doubtless accompanied by a yawn. The smell of rain was in the air but Mother Nature had not yet made up her mind.

I walked more or less at random till I found a coffee shop that catered to the
precrowd
crowd. This time I had a regular brew that was noticeably superior to ninety percent of the coffee served in the country. I ate with it a beignet that a languid young woman told me was what everybody here ate. It was too sweet for a breakfast bun but the purveyors of such delights evidently think we need a massive input of sugar to start the day.

At the next table, a young man who kept dozing off and slipping from his seat had knocked back two brandies already and woke up long enough to order a third. A man in uniform, some kind of city employee, was the only other customer.

“Turn right at the signal—two blocks take you to the St. Charles streetcar stop,” the waiter said in response to my question. Van Linn’s offer of remuneration included “reasonable” expenses and I had no doubt that taxi fare would be considered such, but streetcars are a fascinating reminder of a bygone era and unfortunately not commonly found today. So I rode it out to Duvivier Street and a walk of four blocks brought me to the Armorers’ Hall.

It boasted a checkered career, according to the plaque outside. Originally a warehouse used to store ammunition during the War of 1812, it had been burned down—not by a well-aimed British shell, but by a careless smoker. It had been rebuilt as the three-story Bank of New Orleans and had an impressive gray granite front in what was called the Greek Revival style. The bank had been prominent in financing the digging of the New Basin Canal that connected with Lake Pontchartrain. When the bank moved its operations, the building fell into disuse for some years, then the Louisiana Central Trust Company bought it and added two more stories.

The building’s exciting professional life continued as a part of the Board of Trade activity, one of many structures taken over by that board during World War One. More rebuilding followed and the federal government occupied it until they remodeled it in World War Two, but only just in time for the war to be over. It was then appropriated by the city, named the Armorers’ Hall and used for veterans’ functions. More remodeling and it became a convention center and exhibition hall.

Four Corinthian columns in front gave it a look of prominence and I walked between them through tall glass doors and into a large lobby where women sat at desks checking names and dispensing large red-and-white tags.

 
THE BIGGEST BOOK AUCTION IN THE SOUTH
, proclaimed a large banner, and posters listed contributing organizations and charities benefiting from the auction. I walked into the main hall. It was big as a cathedral, huge with steel beams high across the ceiling. Chairs were neatly arranged and quite a few people were here already. A few were seated but most were clustered in chatty groups, clearly previously acquainted. Around the walls were racks and shelves. All were stacked with books where prospective buyers could examine them.

Stacks of catalogs were on tables and a woman handed me one. I found the section covering books on food, and after some difficulty, reached an item called
Kitchen Cookbook
with the author given as “A. Belvedere.” Not a very enticing entry for a book that required my highly professional services.

A number of other books in the category caught my eye and temporarily diverted me. Sandwiched between volumes by Martha Stewart and Burt Wolf was a book with that famous name on the spine, of the grandmama of all cookbook writers—Isabella Beeton. Alas, it was a 1940 reprint but the content remained. Morton Shand was represented by his classic
Book of Food,
I was glad to see. Shand is peevish and controversial, insular and argumentative and amazingly narrow-minded, yet all of these characteristics are swamped by his encyclopedic knowledge.
Those Rich and Great Ones
by Henri was on the shelf, too, not in very good condition but at least that showed how many people had handled it and, I was sure, enjoyed it. Dozens of good stories there and all told with unflagging verve and wit.

A copy of Marion Harland’s
Common Sense in the Household
caught my eye. It is not exactly rare but it is a worthy addition to any culinary library and is exceedingly practical, full of genuine “common sense.” Then there was Paul Reboux’s
Plats du Jour
describing gastronomic adventures in Burgundy in the 1930s.

Edward Bunyard’s
A Book About the Table
is not rare, either, nor is it expensive but it is another of those books that should be on every cook’s shelf. Andre Simon’s cleverly titled
Tables of Content
did not have a dust jacket but it had the self-satisfied air of a book that doesn’t need one.

Dozens of other books on food and eating did not reach the same peaks of culinary knowledge but stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the same shelves anyway. Great names pressed against newcomers, East squeezed against West and old fought for space against new.

I pored through them all, looking for A. Belvedere. He was not among those present. I realized I must have missed him—perhaps the cover was worn and the name unclear. I was about to start the search again when I received a bump on the hip.

“Sorry,” muttered the young woman who had bumped me. She didn’t sound sorry and she moved to push in front of me. Always the gentleman—and determined to be such here in a city of such cavalier traditions—I allowed her to do so. She was intent on a search of her own and I allowed her to pursue it. She was attractive, an inch or two above average height, blonde hair cut short and expensively, a tan dress with an autumn-brown knitted sweater and sensible brown shoes suggesting an active life.

She ignored my condescending smile and frowned at the titles. I resumed my search, once again without success. The young woman was equally unsuccessful, it seemed, for our paths kept crossing. At the third one, she gave a peevish sigh of frustration and walked with a determined step toward one of the women acting as stewards … well, steward
persons
, I suppose. I could hear most of the conversation, which was one-sided—it was a complaint that a book in the catalog was not on the shelves.

I was about to make a third try for my book when I heard her say, “It’s by A. Belvedere and …”

The book nearest my hand was Marcel Boulestin’s
The Finer Cooking.
I have a copy to which I refer often but on this occasion it was a convenient mask. I wasn’t looking at the words but concentrating on listening to the conversation.

“It should be there,” said the woman, a lively white-haired lady with a strong Southern accent—she said “they-ar.” She came over and perused the shelves, using a long forefinger as a probe. She came to the end, frowned and repeated the process. She looked at the catalog, frowned again and made a third attempt.

“Well, I don’t know …” she said. “Just a minute.” She hurried off and I focused on Boulestin’s words so as to not to attract the blonde girl’s attention. There did not seem to be too much fear of that—she was tapping an impatient foot, looking haughty and unconcerned about anyone else in the room.

By now, the room was fairly full. Many of the attendees knew others and old acquaintances were being renewed—perhaps an occasion that occurred every book fair. I stayed with Marcel Boulestin until the white-haired lady returned. She went back to the shelves and the blonde girl joined her. “Well?” she demanded.

“It should be here.” The white-haired lady was getting flustered now. She was obviously used to everything being in its place and an advocate of good order. A book not being where it should be disordered her universe.

“But it obviously isn’t. So if it isn’t here, where is it?” The blonde girl was getting annoyed at the book’s absence. I was equally concerned but the blonde was being forceful and displaying all those American feminine qualities that we have come to admire in women from Belle Starr to Eleanor Roosevelt to Ethel Merman to Germaine Greer. For the moment, I thought it better to let her spearhead the “where is this book?” movement.

“Let me go talk to Mrs. Gracewell.” The lady was eager to snatch at the opportunity to shift the problem to a higher level of administration.