Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Read online

  “The Louisiana Trinity,” I said to my invisible audience, “is the basis of all great Cajun and Creole cooking.” I held up the pan and inhaled deeply. “Of course, nothing is perfect, and in my opinion, the Trinity is greatly improved with just a touch of garlic. But that could just be the Greek in me speaking. Still, it doesn’t get much better than this.” I held the pan out with a flourish and then placed it back on the burner.

  “Next, we’re going to take this base and turn it into a little piece of Cajun heaven. But before we go any further, I thought we’d bring in a little expert help. Join me in welcoming the owner and chef of Manhattan’s award-winning Basil—my friend, Clinton Halderman.”

  The camera swiveled away from me as Clinton made his entrance, and I reached below the counter to retrieve a plate of already-chopped sausage. “Welcome, Clinton,” I said, making room for him at the counter. “I was just telling these folks about the Louisiana Trinity.”

  “I have a good friend who swears nothing tastes right without it,” he said, smiling at the camera. “In this part of the world we’re not as wedded to it as they are down south, but I think we can all agree that aromatics, in whatever combination, are the basis of most great dishes.”

  “Jambalaya being one example,” I said as the camera moved in for a closeup of the pan. “Now that our vegetables are nice and soft we’re going to add some salt, pepper, and a little cayenne to raise the heat factor.” I tipped the spices into the pan. “Once that’s incorporated, we’ll add about a pound of chopped andouille sausage.”

  “And while that’s cooking,” Clinton continued, producing a plate full of shrimp, “I’ll get the shrimp ready for the pan.”

  I dropped the sausage into the saucier and stirred it as Clinton started to peel and devein the shrimp. “There actually aren’t that many Cajun or Creole restaurants in the city,” I said. “Which means the opening of a new one is something to celebrate.”

  “Except when it’s not any good,” Clinton added. “One thing I find outside the South is that the lines between Cajun and Creole start to blur.”

  “Creole,” I said, picking up the train of thought, “is used to describe the cuisine of New Orleans. A more formal kind of cooking than rural Cajun fare, which refers to a specific type of cuisine brought to Louisiana by immigrating French Canadians back in the day.”

  “Unfortunately, Mardi Gras,” Clinton said with a shake of his head, “the new eatery from chef Andre Lemont, is neither Cajun nor Creole, although it purports to be both.”

  “We recently had the opportunity to visit Mardi Gras,” I explained to the camera as the monitor displayed an external photo of the restaurant, “and sample their menu.”

  “And sadly,” Clinton continued, “it didn’t live up to expectation.

  “Frankly, I have to say I expected something better from Lemont,” I added, my tone commiserating. “His Southern-themed Magnolia is elegant and always pleases. But his newest addition to the Manhattan restaurant scene was a dismal disappointment.”

  “When one eats Cajun one expects a little sizzle,” Clinton said. “And that’s definitely not what I got. My étouffée was cold and tasted more like bathwater than the spicy mix of crayfish and vegetables it’s supposed to be.” Clinton, who had made short work of the shrimp, set them aside as I added chopped tomatoes and some tomato sauce to the mixture cooking in the pan.

  “It wasn’t a very good start,” I agreed, “and I didn’t fare much better with my gumbo. The roux was overbrowned, the shrimp mushy, and the okra tasted like something left in the refrigerator too long.” I sighed with an apologetic shrug for the camera, thinking about Diana and hoping Clinton was right and she’d sunk everything she owned into the restaurant. (Although it was a wishful thought, in actuality, since Diana’s family had more money than they knew what to do with.) “I’m sorry if our review isn’t making you long for Cajun cooking,” I continued, pulling my thoughts back to the task at hand. “But I promise you our jambalaya won’t disappoint.”

  I gave the ingredients in the pan a quick stir as the camera moved in closer. “After the sauce reaches a bubble you want to add your shrimp and cook just until it turns opaque.”

  “You can toss in a bay leaf at this stage if you like,” Clinton added as I slid the shrimp into the pan. “But remember to remove it before serving.”

  The camera moved back out to encompass us both. “Anyway, back to our restaurant of the week,” I said. “I was really hoping the main course would change my opinion. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. My fish was overcooked and the sauce was uninteresting and overly bland.” Maybe I was laying it on a little thick. But frankly, the idea of sticking it to Diana Merreck had taken on a life of its own.

  “I had oyster pie,” Clinton said, “and although it was better than my appetizer, it certainly wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Really, the only thing about the evening that wasn’t mediocre was the fact that we were sitting at a table next to George Clooney.”

  “He had snapper. But he left most of it on his plate,” I said, leaning toward the camera as if I were sharing a special secret.

  “Not much of a recommendation, is it?” Clinton shook his head again.

  In truth, Clooney had been two tables over and I couldn’t actually see what he was eating. Although I did hear him order the snapper. So it was more or less the truth.

  “When the shrimp has cooked through,” I said, turning back to the jambalaya, “the only thing left is to add the rice and broth. Once that’s done, just cover the whole thing and simmer for twenty minutes.” I put the lid on the skillet and reached for another pan beneath the counter. “And now with a little help from the food fairies,” I said, removing the lid with a flourish, “I present some of the best jambalaya this side of New Orleans.”

  “All it needs,” Clinton said, “is some last-minute razzle-dazzle.” He picked up a bottle of hot sauce and gave it a good shake into the pot.

  I inhaled deeply with a sigh. “Simply fabulous.”

  “Unlike Mardi Gras,” Clinton added. “To which I have to give a resounding thumbs-down.” Again the monitor showed the exterior of the restaurant.

  “Honestly, people—if you’re craving Cajun, I’d give Mardi Gras a pass.” I shrugged, then smiled for the camera. “Coming up…Clinton’s going to help me make a fabulous eggnog bread pudding. An oh-so-sweet ending to our hot, spicy start. See you in a minute.”

  “And we’re out…,” Frank said with a nod. “Good job.”

  “The jambalaya actually looks divine,” Cassie said, walking onto the set. “But weren’t you a little harsh on Mardi Gras?”

  Clinton and I exchanged looks. “It really wasn’t a good experience.”

  “Well, no matter,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Controversy makes for good shows. Besides, I’ve got more important things to talk about.”

  “Your meeting?” I asked, my heart suddenly moving in double time.

  “Yes, actually.” She gestured us over toward a corner of the studio out of earshot of the various technicians still working on set. Then, with a frown, she studied my battered face. “God, Andi, you look awful.”

  “That seems to be the prevailing opinion. But believe me, it was a lot worse before Margaret got hold of me.”

  “I was sorry to hear about Dillon,” she said. “But I’m sure you’ll find someone new in no time at all.”

  “I don’t want someone new,” I said stubbornly, realizing that in fact I did not. What I wanted was Dillon. Or at least the Dillon I’d originally fallen in love with. The one who didn’t cheat.

  “Andi’s going to be fine,” Clinton said, matter-of-factly coming to my rescue, “and if memory serves, you had something important to tell us.”

  “Right. Yes. Of course.” Cassie leaned in, lowering her voice. “I found out that Liddy McDermot is pregnant.”

  Liddy was the shining stone in the Gourmet Channel regalia. Her show, Dining with Style, was the network’s ce
nterpiece. Winning numerous awards its first year out, the show had raised the bar for similar programs. Dining with Style was a wonderful combination of simplicity, wit, and elegance. Of course, the fact that Liddy was a society maven didn’t hurt matters at all. If Liddy said it was so—America listened.

  “Other than maybe the political advantage of sending congratulations,” Clinton frowned, “I’m not sure I see what the big deal is.”

  “That’s because I haven’t told you everything yet.” Cassie crossed her arms, shooting him a narrow-eyed glare.

  “So tell ...” I prompted, my moribund thinking morphing into something more positive.

  “Liddy’s leaving the show.” She waited for her words to sink in, then continued. “Effective immediately. Her husband’s never been too keen on the idea of her working, and apparently in light of her new condition he put his proverbial foot down.”

  “And since he pays the bills, Liddy had to listen.” The idea appalled me on so many levels, there really weren’t even words. “To be honest, I think she’s always thought of the show as a lark. Anyway, needless to say, the network is beside itself.”

  “Doesn’t she have a contract?” Clinton asked.

  “Of course. But she’s also got the money to buy it out.” Again she paused, then smiled. “Which means that the suits are scrambling to find a replacement.”

  “And they want me?” I squeaked, excitement making me sound like an overagitated Betty Boop as the full implication of Cassie’s words sank in.

  “Well,” Cassie said, her tone cautionary, “they’re considering you. Along with Ricardo Benavides and Missy Greenbaum.”

  “Ricardo’s English is barely passable,” I protested.

  “But he’s hot,” Clinton said on a sigh.

  “Point taken.” I frowned. “I can accept that. But Missy? She’s so . . . so . . . down home.” Missy hailed from Georgia and her cooking reflected the fact. “The Gourmet Channel is about elegance. And what’s more elegant than Manhattan dining?”

  “Nothing,” Clinton said, nodding his agreement.

  “Your demographics do most closely match Liddy’s,” Cassie said, “but Clinton is right, Ricardo’s a draw for completely physical reasons. And Missy’s already in prime time.”

  “At seven thirty. In New York that’s opposite Wheel of Fortune.”

  “Not in the heart of the country, and that’s where most of the viewers come from. We skew eastern because people in the city like to hear about the dining scene. But the show hasn’t been tested in prime time.”

  “But you said they’re considering me.”

  “Yes. And to be honest, I think they’re even leaning our way, but they want to be fair.”

  “Wonderful time for them to start that kind of thinking,” Clinton said, sarcasm dimming his enthusiasm. “So what’s the deal?”

  “All three shows are being given the chance to come up with something worthy of prime time. No format changes or anything that dramatic. Just something kickass for a special show.”

  “I don’t suppose they gave you any guidance?”

  “Not in the meeting, no. But Bob Baker pulled me aside afterward. That’s how I know they’re leaning our way. He said all they were looking for was a ratings grabber. For our show he suggested finding a killer guest chef. Someone that Americans know about but haven’t seen.”

  “Talk about impossible tasks,” Clinton said as my stomach sank. “These days, thanks to all the cooking shows, most marketable chefs have already had their fifteen minutes of fame. Celebrity goes epicurean. How are we supposed to find someone who is part of the public consciousness and yet hasn’t already been exploited?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just telling you what Bob told me. If we want to win we need to find the perfect guest. Someone who’ll start a buzz from the moment we announce the show.”

  “So we’re screwed.” Clinton wasn’t usually so much of a pessimist, but to be honest, he wasn’t all that much off the mark. “What do Missy and Ricardo have to do?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Cassie said with a shrug. “And frankly, that’s not our problem. Finding a superchef is. Surely you all can think of someone. Between the two of you you know practically every chef in town.”

  “That’s the problem,” Clinton sighed. “The reason we know them is because everyone does. At least the ones that are worth knowing about.”

  “Except Philip DuBois,” I said, excitement cresting again. “He’s coming back to New York. Opening a new restaurant. Bernie told me. If we can get him on the show, it’ll be the coup of the year. It’ll mean not only regular Gourmet Channel viewers, but most of society and all the epicurean world. The man is an enigma.”

  “Yes, but. . . ,” Clinton started, only to have Cassie motion him quiet.

  “I think you’re on to something. The brass will love the idea. DuBois can cook with you and talk about his new endeavor. It’ll be fabulous publicity for him and should skyrocket our ratings.”

  “But,” Clinton insisted, still playing the role of killjoy, “he never gives interviews.”

  “It won’t be an interview,” Cassie gushed, still rolling on the momentum of the idea, her PR training kicking into high gear. “It’ll be more like a master class. Andi cooking with a legend. This is inspired.”

  She was right. The whole idea was amazing—heady and seductive—me on prime time with Philip DuBois. This was it. My big break.

  There was only one problem.

  Clinton was right. DuBois never did interviews. Or anything else remotely connected with the media.

  Which left only one alternative.

  I’d simply have to change his mind.

  Chapter 5

  Saying I was going to convince Philip DuBois to come on my show and actually doing it were two completely separate things. And after the initial excitement of my pronouncement, I have to say I’d lost a little enthusiasm.

  From my meeting with Cassie, I’d gone on to tape some teasers and do some prep work for the next show. Finally, finished, I’d fled the studio, hoping for a little R & R. Instead, I’d run into Bob Baker. He’d applauded my initiative and congratulated me on getting DuBois for the show.

  Apparently, Cassie and her marketing mojo had taken my pie-in-the-sky idea and somehow morphed it into a confirmed reality, leaving Bob ebulliently counting the ratings and congratulating me on mission impossible.

  Which meant, of course, that now nothing less than success would do.

  To say I was panicked was a complete understatement. And so I’d retreated to the solace of Central Park. Well, actually, I’d gone to Althea’s. She’d have just hunted me down if I hadn’t. But I’d jumped at her suggestion of a walk in the park to clear my head, since the suggestion meant avoiding her constant hovering and endless questions. And truly, a leisurely stroll along tree-lined paths seemed just what the doctor ordered.

  Of course, Manhattan is all about multitasking, so I’d brought Bentley along. Which meant, of course, that my stroll had turned into more of a brisk walk. The dog has never met a person, place, or thing he doesn’t love, and I mean with his entire little canine heart. So far he’d stalked a pigeon, chased a squirrel, damn near climbed a tree, and peed on pretty much every tree and lamppost in this part of the park. To say that Bentley was enthusiastic would be a definite understatement.

  Finally, though, his energy spent, we’d settled on a bench on the far side of Conservatory Water, content for the moment just to watch the world go by. It was a beautiful day, tulips poking their heads out of the ground and little radio-controlled sailboats gliding over the water, sails fluttering in the breeze.

  A woman with a voice like a foghorn and an umbrella held in the air summoned a group of tourists to huddle around the statue of Alice at the north end of the pond. Thanks to a guy with a clarinet directly across from her under the shadow of an elm, she was having a little trouble being heard. It was sort of like dueling instruments. The guide would raise her voice, and the musician
(and I use that word loosely) would increase the volume of his wail, the resulting cacophony scattering tourists and nontourists alike.

  My dog lifted his head as the guide’s voice reached chalk-on-blackboard levels, and clarinet guy, admitting defeat, gave me a grin and a shrug and headed off in the direction of the tunnel near Bethesda Fountain. The acoustics there are killer—better than Carnegie Hall, with a much less stringent dress code. Bentley gave a doggy sigh, and let his head drop back into my lap. The tour group lingered for a few more minutes and then the guide was off, umbrella bobbing through a sea of polyester and Nike-clad sixty-somethings as they made their way toward the Ramble.

  I closed my eyes and let the sun-dappled warmth of the day envelop me, allowing, just for a moment, the idea that maybe everything would manage to turn out right. Diana Merreck’s investment in Mardi Gras would go down the tubes, Dillon would come back to me, proverbial tail between his legs, and Philip DuBois would jump at the opportunity to be on my show. In short, life would be perfect again.

  Of course, I should have known better. Just entertaining the notion of everything turning out all right was enough to wave a red flag at fate, tempting it to step in and show me who was boss.

  With an excited bark, Bentley suddenly leapt off the bench, startling me into dropping the leash. And before I had the chance to correct the matter, he was free and running hell-bent for leather down the pathway after an equally wing-footed squirrel.

  I screamed his name, gaining a leer from a fellow sitting two benches down, and a stern look of disapproval from a nanny with her sleeping charge. Ignoring them both, I called again, but the distance was increasing, and Bentley showed no interest whatsoever in slowing down. He didn’t even pause to look behind him.

  Sprinting—in flip-flops—I took off after him, alternating between cursing my dog and running through possible explanations I was going to have to create in order to break the news to Dillon that I had not only assumed ownership of his dog, but had managed to lose him as well. Completely oblivious to my turmoil, the canine in question disappeared around a bend without a backward glance, and for the first time I felt a tinge of panic. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to the little guy, at least not until I got hold of him and wrung his fuzzy little neck.