Chapter 7
Tonya stood at the prep table chopping, dicing, and mincing onion, celery, red and green bell peppers, garlic, thyme, and parsley for the various dishes on the day’s menu board. The distinctive voice of Billie Holiday singing the poignant protest song “Strange Fruit” flowed from the radio speakers, and in a moment of shared emotion she met the eyes of Eustace and Gage. She may not have grown up in the South during segregation and Jim Crow, but she knew the strange fruit Billie sang about were victims of lynching.
Eustace must have registered the somber mood, because he picked up the remote device and changed the radio station to music that was more contemporary and upbeat. “That’s better,” he said under his breath as he returned to the stove.
Gage had removed several large bowls filled with chicken from the refrigerator and sprinkled them with the house Cajun seasoning. He did the same with slices of catfish, while Eustace poured a couple of tablespoons of oil in a large Dutch oven and heated it before browning the chicken pieces for chicken-andouille gumbo.
“How often do you change your menu?” Tonya asked Eustace as she set the bowls of chopped ingredients on the countertop.
“Not too often. We try to have customer favorites every day, and that includes gumbos, red beans and rice, fried catfish, and Cajun jambalaya.”
“What’s the difference between Creole and Cajun jambalaya?”
“Gage can answer that for you.”
“Cajun jambalaya is brown, never made with tomatoes, and always has smoked sausage or tasso,” Gage explained. “Creole jambalaya is reddish, a color it gets from tomatoes, and always contains shrimp.”
“Which do you like best?” she asked him.
“I like both.”
“I’m going to have to sample both before I make a decision which I like best,” Tonya said. She glanced at the menu board again. “I’ve heard of shrimp, oyster, and sausage po’boys, but I see you’re serving roast beef po’boys.”
Eustace patted his belly over his apron. “I love roast beef po’boys. There’s something about thinly sliced beef and gravy on fresh French bread with lettuce, tomatoes, mayo, and pickles that’s out of this world.” He patted his belly again. “It’s one of the reasons I got this corporation up front.”
“Speaking of bread,” Gage said, “where the hell is the bread man? He should’ve been here hours ago.”
“I don’t mind making the bread,” she volunteered. “I’m not bragging, but Icanmake incredible authentic French baguettes.”
Gage shared a look with his brother. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
Tonya gave him a long, penetrating stare when he met her eyes. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to make them.”
“Well, we do have baguette trays in the storeroom, so if you want to bake baguettes, I don’t have a problem with it. What do you say, Eustace?”
A beat passed, and then Eustace said, “Yes. But I have to pay you for baking the bread, and close your mouth and don’t say anything because I’ll fire you if you—”
“You can’t fire me,” Tonya said, cutting him off. “I’m a volunteer, not an employee,” she added, smiling. “And I won’t accept money from you, because whatever I learn in this kitchen can’t be measured in dollars and cents. Don’t you realize you’re offering me a free education when it comes to perfecting regional dishes?”
Eustace paused, as he appeared to be deep in thought. “You’re probably right about that.”
She flashed a smug grin. “I know I’m right. Starting tomorrow I’ll make baguettes for your po’boys.”
The words were barely off her tongue when the bell chimed. “I hope that’s the bread man,” Gage said under his breath. “I’ll get it.”
Tonya waited until he left the kitchen before she moved closer to Eustace. “I didn’t mean to sound overbearing, but I told you before that I’m willing to help out anyway I can, and if that means baking bread then I’ll do it. It may be six months or even nine months before I will be able to open my supper club, and when I do, I want to hit the ground running. People come to New Orleans for the food and music, and that’s something I need to perfect if I want to stay open. I can’t compete with other restaurants, because they’re just too many, but when folks leave my place I want them to think about coming back again, and that’s not going to happen if I don’t offer dishes that represent this city.”
Eustace chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t fire you even if you were an employee. I know what you can do, and I’m certain there are a lot of things I can learn from you, because your wings were a big hit with the book club women. I tried making them again, but they didn’t turn out like yours. My stepmother taught Gage to make the bread we use for the pudding, while I’m completely useless when it comes to working with dough. So, if you want to bake bread, then just do it. I’m going to give you a key and the code to the alarm, so you can come in whenever you want.”
Tonya felt a warm glow through her. It was apparent Eustace trusted her not only with his family’s secret recipes but also respected her suggestions. “Thank you.”
“No thankyou, Tonya. It’s too bad we can’t go into business together because then I’d let your run Chez Toussaints with my daughters, while I devote all of my energies to expanding my catering business.”
“That can’t happen, because I’ve committed to running the café and supper club for the inn.”
Eustace winked at her. “You can’t blame a dude for trying. Hannah knows I’ll do any and everything I can to help her business succeed because she’s family.”
Tonya nodded. Hannah told her that once she married St. John McNair, she was also considered a Baptiste and a Toussaint. And because of her partnership with Hannah, Tonya was now privy to secret recipes handed down through generations of Toussaints.
