Eustace chuckled, the sound rumbling in his deep, wide chest. “Not today. The book club ladies claim they’re allowed one cheat day each month, and today is that day. They eat, drink, and then they talk about books.” He turned a meat mixture onto a cutting board. “Please give this a fine chop.”
Tonya slipped on a pair of disposable gloves before selecting one of the knives in a knife block. “Do they order the same dishes every month?”
“It varies, but they have to have their wings and red beans and rice.”
She made quick work chopping the meat mixture. “This smells wonderful.”
Eustace nodded. “I prefer making my own mixture to buying ready-made boudin sausage. If you let pork shoulder, chicken liver, garlic, onion, poblano and jalapeño peppers, salt, celery, and chili powder marinate overnight before letting them simmer for a couple of hours, it’ll enhance all the flavors. After you chop the meat, add cooked white rice and freshly chopped parsley and green onion until the mixture has a pastelike consistency. After that cover the bowl with plastic wrap and chill it in the refrigerator for at least two hours or more. I’ll be right back. I have to get something from the other fridge.”
Tonya mixed the ingredients Eustace had set aside on the table. The aroma coming from the bowl was intoxicating, and she looked forward to sampling at least one boudin ball once they were fried to golden perfection.
“When frying the boudin balls, do you use regular bread crumbs or panko?” she asked after he returned from the storeroom carrying a large aluminum bowl filled with chicken wings.
“I make my own bread crumbs. I always add a little cayenne to give them an extra kick for the boudin balls. I cube stale French bread, put them in the oven to dry it out, and then grind them in the blender. You’ll find three labeled jars in the fridge: plain, cayenne, and the third with grated cheese.”
“Where do you buy your fresh herbs?”
“I order them from the vegetable market. You folks up North call them green grocers, but I refer to them ashalle de légumes.” Eustace exhaled an audible groan. “I must be having a senior moment. I forgot to ask you about Gage.”
“What about him?”
“Did he growl at you because I asked him to pick you up?”
“Not at all. In fact, he was rather pleasant.”
Eustace grunted. “That’s a first,” he drawled. “Usually my brother is like a bad-tempered bear coming out of hibernation if I ask him to help me after he’s played a gig.”
“He said he was going home to get some sleep.”
“I keep telling him he has to decide what he wants. Either he’s going to be a chef or a musician. It can’t be both.”
Tonya pretended interest in stirring the mixture, adding the reserved cooking liquid a ladleful at a time until it had a pastelike consistency, rather than agree or disagree with Eustace. She knew catering parties and running a kitchen were not only time-consuming but often overwhelming, and afterward she usually fell asleep within minutes of her head touching the pillow. She removed a length of plastic wrap from an industrial-size box and covered the bowl.
“How many wings are you making?” Tonya asked.
“About five pounds. I always cut off the tips and save them for chicken stock.” Eustace picked up a meat cleaver. “I don’t mind frying chicken, but for some reason I hate frying wings.”
“Why don’t you cook them in the oven?” Tonya suggested. “To save time I usually season them, line a baking pan with foil and coat it with cooking spray. Arrange the wings skin side up in a single layer and bake them about forty minutes or until they’re no longer pink. After that I drain off the fat, put the wings in a bowl and toss them with sauce. Then I rearrange them back in the pan and bake about five minutes or more until glazed.”
Eustace appeared deep in thought. “You may have something there. Do they come out crispy?”
She nodded. “Yes. Do you have any sriracha sauce on hand?”
“I have every hot sauce known to man in the storeroom. Why?”
“Let me make a few with a creamy sriracha sauce and you can judge for yourself if you want to offer them to your clients.”
“Okay, chef, you’re on. You do your thing while I whip up some breakfast for us. I can’t see us making all this food while our bellies are growling.”
Tonya lost track of time as she prepped the wings while Eustace grilled fresh shrimp for one of her favorite dishes: shrimp and grits. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen and reminded her why breakfast was her favorite meal of the day. Coffee, crisp bacon, fried eggs over easy, and buttery biscuits was her one-day-a-week guilty pleasure.
She discovered, despite the proportions of the kitchen, it was as well stocked as the one at the bank. Eustace had a variety of pepper sauces ranging from mild to hot enough to bring tears to one’s eyes. There were also shelves with jars of seasonings labeled in French, and she assumed these were the ingredients that were family secrets. Tonya had just placed the pan with the wings in the oven when Eustace invited her to sit and eat.
“How often do you eat like this?” she asked him as they sat opposite each other at a table in the restaurant; the whole restaurant’s seating capacity was no more than thirty.
He peered at her over the rim of his coffee mug. “Much too often. I have a forty-year high school reunion next year, and I’ve promised my wife that I’m going on a diet. I know the only time that’s going to happen is if I get the hell out the kitchen.”
“Who will take over from you?”
