The Chicken Sisters(59)
Without giving Amanda a chance to defend herself, Nancy stalked off in the direction of the kitchen. Mary Laura had turned to a customer, and Amanda leaned on the bar for a minute, the crowd pressing behind her. Mae deserved it. Painting over Amanda’s sign wasn’t even about Food Wars; it was just plain mean. And Barbara—the image of her mother and Andy cheering Mae on while she erased Amanda’s favorite chicken was a humiliating scene playing on constant repeat in her brain. Maybe it had never been a good sign in the first place. Maybe Sabrina, who didn’t know it was her sign, had suggested that it go. Barbara was always telling her drawing was a waste of time, that she should do something more productive with herself. She had probably been wanting to cover it up for a long time. Probably meant to do it sooner.
The last thing Amanda wanted was to be roped into the arrival of the next two chefs, a husband-and-wife team who almost never seemed to agree on anything, but it was obvious from the moment Sabrina arrived with them that she wanted their visit to mirror Rideaux’s in every respect. Amanda would greet them, Amanda would seat them, Amanda would, damn it, sit right down and chat, but she had had it with chatting. “Would you like to see a menu, or should we just bring the chicken?”
“Bring the chicken, please,” said James Melville without looking at her. He was turning to take in the entire restaurant, even rising from his chair to look toward the kitchen.
“And also the menu,” said his wife and partner, Cary Catlin. Gwennie brought a menu, and Cary Catlin took a pair of glasses from where they were nested in her abundant brown hair and opened the folder, running a finger down each column. At the bottom of the first page she looked up at Gwennie. “I just wanted to see the menu, not order from it,” she said, gesturing her away. “Bring the chicken, of course.”
“The meatloaf is also very good,” offered Amanda.
“If I ate anything but what we’re supposed to eat at these stops I’d be as big as a house. Just the chicken is fine.”
Gwennie rushed off, and Cary Catlin leaned over and snapped her fingers at her husband. “Pay attention.” She turned to Amanda. “Okay, let’s have a look at this menu. Mozzarella sticks. Frozen?”
Amanda was taken aback. Of course the mozz was frozen; people expected it to look like the little sticks you get everywhere. But why were they asking? “Yes,” she said cautiously.
“Stuffed mushrooms? Crab cakes? Frozen?”
Amanda nodded. The chef was running a finger down the other side of the menu, possibly preparing more questions. Jeez, could she get some help here? Amanda looked around and saw Nancy heading their way, but bearing menus, and with two regular customers following her. Maybe Nancy would stop. The Russells knew where they were going. She tried to give her mother-in-law a desperate look.
“Amanda,” Cary Catlin said, “I understand the famous Frannie’s biscuits are frozen?”
No. They were on shaky ground with this one, and she knew from the smug look on her inquisitor’s face that Catlin knew it. Making the biscuits by hand required three additional cook shifts weekly, and the switch to frozen biscuits meant a substantial savings, but they’d been quiet about it, because the biscuits were, like the chicken, at the heart of Frannie’s. They were practically house made—the company they ordered from used nothing artificial, and even when they had made their own at Frannie’s, they’d frozen them before baking, everyone did, even Mimi’s, probably—but there was no getting around it; the biscuits did come frozen. Could she say anything other than yes?
“Yes, but—” She tilted her chin up and tried to sound very matter-of-fact. “Yes. Fried chicken is our absolute specialty, so it’s made fresh here, from locally sourced chicken.” Just don’t mention the biscuits again. Chicken. “We bone it ourselves for the tenders. And we use Frannie’s original recipe for the seasoning—it’s over a hundred years old, her recipe. We’ve never changed it. It’s always exactly the way she made it, and then her son, and then his son.”
She could feel her voice rising as she went on about the chicken, and she smiled at Nancy, who had paused in answer to her look, and the chefs’. That was a good answer.
Nancy didn’t look happy; in fact, she looked horrified, but what else could Amanda have said? “We just keep frying up the same perfect chicken.”
Nancy turned away, probably not wanting to risk anyone bringing the conversation back around to the biscuits, but Tony Russell, following Nancy as she led the way to his usual table, stopped, leaning on his cane, and listened to Amanda.
“Never changed it? I’d have sworn you switched the chicken up some, few years back. It hasn’t tasted the same for a while now, to me.”
Gus was still giving the Russells’ table a last wipe, and they were all caught there, trapped in a conversation most of them didn’t want to be having, cameras on. Tony’s wife, behind him, rolled her eyes. “You let Amanda be, Tony. You’ve been saying that about everything for years. Nothing ever tastes the same to you.”
“No, this is different. I’ve been eating here since I was a kid, and it’s just never been the same. Not since Frank went. Must have changed the recipe.”
Nancy, in front of them both, didn’t turn around, but spoke over her shoulder. “There is no recipe, Tony. But it’s the same old chicken. There was even a jar of seasoning Frank mixed himself, for a while.”