Devil's Food at Dusk Read online

  Devil’s Food at Dusk

  M.J. O’Shea

  Anna Martin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Devil’s Food at Dusk Copyright © 2019 by M.J. O’Shea and Anna Martin

  Cover Art by M.J. O’Shea

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Chapter One

  Dawn always seemed to come a little later in the French Quarter, molasses-sweet and slow, still soft but with hints of the sticky heat to come. It spread, languorous, over the weathered painted walls and wrought-iron railings, crooked cobbly streets, and leaded glass windows that had seen hundreds of years of people passing by. Morning was quiet. Peaceful. Mellow.

  Remy Babineaux had lived in the city all his life, in the same house on the same street covered by the same winding, purple-flowered bougainvillea vines and creeping ivy, but still, sometimes, in the pink blush of an unhurried morning, he was struck with just how much he loved it. How much he never wanted to live anywhere else.

  He pulled his tired body out of bed in the barely-there brush of light and stretched. He hadn’t slept much the night before—five hours at most—and he felt every one of his very busy thirty years in his creaky muscles and sore back. It had been easier to get up with the morning sun when he was nineteen. To a point. Truthfully, Remy hadn’t ever been a morning person. He’d always preferred sleeping in to experiencing the unusual stillness that came in the Babineaux household hours before his brothers and sisters, mother and father, and one rather eccentric grandmother started shouting and laughing and singing—usually all at once. But he had to admit the morning was beautiful. And even if it wasn’t, he had fish to buy.

  Next time I’m making Andre go so I can sleep in.

  Remy knew that wasn’t true. He trusted his little brother with his life, but with the fish selection? Never. Nobody but him had had the coveted job of fish selection since he was a teenager. He pulled on a threadbare white Henley and a pair of khakis that he didn’t mind getting fish juice on. Then Remy tugged his wavy hair into a thick, high bun, slipped into a pair of shoes, and was out the door. Time to greet the day with rack after rack of amazing, delicious, smelly fish.

  * * *

  Thursdays were usually the best day at the fish market. It was one of those things that had no logical explanation but a long history of somehow working out that way. The market was open three days a week, and he usually liked to make it to two of them, but Thursdays were, for some unknown reason, when the magic seemed to happen. He liked to get there early for the pick of the catfish, local trout, and sweet, tender gulf shrimp. Wandering through the fragrant stalls, which should be unpleasant but somehow smelled of home and happiness, was something of a Zen experience for Remy. One of the highlights of his week.

  The market was crowded and loud, even in the bare light of early morning. Chefs and restaurant owners haggled with fishermen who’d become their friends over the years, laughed at well-worn jokes, argued the same arguments like a dance that had been practiced over time and perfected. The fish market was a tradition, and his city was steeped in traditions.

  Remy spent a few minutes soaking it all in, checking out what was new and interesting and delicious before he got down to business. It was important, he thought, to experience things, and not just go through his day completing tasks. His food was better if his feelings for the moment seeped into the dish. Made life better too, if you asked him. His little sister, Grace, gave him shit for his “stop to smell the roses” way of looking at things. She was only fourteen, in a race to grow up and become something. Someday she’d understand that the becoming part was just as important as the getting there.

  He stopped at a stand and stared down at piles of glossy, pearly gray shrimp, barely touched with hints of blush pink. He’d steam them perhaps, on a base of pasta with clams and roasted vegetables, a little garlic, some cumin, cayenne, local butter, and a ton of French thyme. Remy could nearly taste the sauce exploding in his mouth—butter broth and seasonings and sweet, firm shrimp. Yes.

  “Twenty pounds, Remy?”

  “Hmm? Oh yes. Sure thing, Renee.” His favorite shrimp dealer knew him well. He could easily go through that much on a weeknight. Four times that on a busy weekend. Remy signed off on the purchase order. The shrimp would be delivered to his cafe, Lumiere, in a few hours with the rest of his purchases, just in time for him to start cooking.

  Remy worked his way through the crawfish and catfish, the mussels and clams, smelling and sampling, weighing and ordering. It was his ritual. He never rushed it.

  When Remy was nearly ready to call it a morning and head back home, his phone buzzed with a text from Andre, his little brother and very pushy sous chef.

  Don’t forget my halibut.

  Remy made a face. The halibut at the fish market was good, but it was shipped all the way from the north Pacific on ice. He’d far rather use local catches to make his spin on traditional dishes, but sometimes Andre got his way. The halibut and chips was one of those times. Andre had tried it, fallen in love, and decided it should be a regular menu item at Lumiere, after a lot of protesting from Remy. It had become popular with the customers, much to Remy’s annoyance. He was even more annoyed by the fact that he liked it himself—especially with Andre’s signature tangy tartar sauce. Most of the time he pretended he didn’t, but Andre knew better and liked to flip him all sorts of shit for it.

  I’m getting your damn halibut. Go back to bed.

  All he got in return was a winky face and a string of fish emojis. Remy chuckled. Child.

  * * *

  After a good morning perusing and haggling at the fish market, Remy usually tried to get another hour or two of sleep before he needed to meet Andre and the vendors at Lumiere for the day. He was tired when he sank back into his bed, smelling vaguely of fish, but it wasn’t easy to fall back to sleep with the heavy heat of an increasingly sweltering late-August morning battling with their feeble air-conditioning—something else on the long list of things he needed to deal with. Another time. Instead he did the best he could with strategically placed fans and open windows until he drifted off into a light sleep that would only last until the family started rising for the day.

  As a result Remy was sleepy as he wrapped up his hastily made breakfast sandwich in a paper towel, poured a thermos of coffee, and locked up on his way out for the second time that day. Off to Lumiere.

  He and his brother worked long hours to keep their cafe open and a favorite among locals, just like it had been since years before he was born. Before even his father was born. Sometimes it seemed thankless, especially on days when he was exhausted and run down from the constant grind. Remy figured he’d hate Lumiere if he didn’t love it so damn much.

  The walk from home to Lumiere wasn’t long. Nothing was that far in their little corner of New Orleans, but he only had eight blocks between the Babineaux compound and their restaurant, which was lucky because he was operating on five hours of sleep and a cup of coffee. He downed his egg, cheese, and bacon croissant on the way and waved at the neighbors. Remy knew nearly everyone on the trip between his house and the cafe. He’d been walking the route his entire life, from way back when his dad ran Lumiere, and he spent his summers underfoot driving the chefs insane. Even though the place
was his to run—and had been for a few years since his dad had retired—it still bowled him over sometimes that he was doing exactly what he wanted to do.

  Andre had gone in earlier, unlocked everything, and started warming up the ovens and greeting delivery trucks. Usually they took turns getting the kitchen prepped, except on market days when Andre handled it while Remy got some much-needed sleep. Remy figured he really should give his brother the chance to hit the markets someday and pick their fish, meats, and produce.

  Or maybe not.

  When Remy got to the restaurant, Andre was in the middle of checking their fish orders from earlier against the invoices while their produce guy hauled in the day’s boxes of fresh vegetables and salad greens. Andre signed off on the papers and sent the final delivery truck on its way.

  “Hey, bro,” Andre said. “Get a decent nap this morning?” He tied a red bandana around his head. It covered most of his hair, other than a few dark, wavy tendrils that snuck out. Andre was a favorite with the neighborhood girls and with the customers when he came out of the kitchen. He had big dark eyes, long curly eyelashes, dimples, and a glamorous grin. He was also amazing with a knife. Remy didn’t know what he’d do without him.

  Remy shrugged. “Not really. It was too hot, and I could hear grandma shuffling around in the garden.”

  Andre made a face. “She hasn’t been sleeping much lately, has she?”

  They both worried about their grandmother. She wasn’t getting any younger—she’d passed eighty a few years back. Estelle had been spending a lot of time lately in their back garden, talking to the flowers their grandfather had planted before he died. Remy had walked out a few weeks ago to find her dancing around in her flowered nightgown, hair loose and all the way down to her waist. He’d been halfway between charmed and scared.

  “No. I need to talk to Ma again.”

  “We’re not putting Grams in a home,” Andre said. His mouth got that stubborn slant to it that made him look less like Remy and more like their uptight middle brother Sal. Remy punched him on the arm.

  “I never said anything about a fucking home, Dre. She belongs with us. Who said we were putting Grams away?”

  “Sal.”

  Remy rolled his eyes. The Babineaux family had always stayed together—grandmother, parents, and kids all in one spindly, vine-covered four-story house that had been in Grandma Estelle’s family for generations. The only one who’d branched out was Sal. He’d gotten a modern condo in another part of town and, despite having more than his fair share of opinions about family matters, only deigned to come home for Sunday dinner occasionally. Good riddance, Remy thought. He knew Andre and Grace agreed with him.

  “I figured. Fucking Sal. Please don’t ever confuse me with him.”

  Andre grinned and punched him back. “What’s on the menu today?”

  “I was thinking spicy shrimp-and-clam pasta with roasted vegetables, spinach salad, sweet potato fries with aioli, and halibut po’ boys?”

  Andre made a satisfied face. “Awesome. Drunken devil?”

  Remy grinned. “They revolt when we don’t make it.”

  “I’ll get started on veg prep if you want to get on the batter. Last time we made it, the cakes didn’t get enough chance to soak before we had to open.”

  Remy laughed. “I swear you like it when the rum seeps all over the plate.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  * * *

  Lumiere was a popular café. People came from all over town for Remy’s rotating menu, but what they were most known for was their devil’s food cake. It was a ridiculously tender chocolate-on-chocolate tower made from Remy’s grandfather’s recipe. Both the cake and the frosting had sour cream and tons of locally made chocolate, and the whole thing was soaked for a good hour in nearly a quarter-inch mixture of Kahlúa, coconut rum, and Frangelico. Andre probably would’ve been happy if it was two inches.

  Remy went to the front room, got the big chalk sandwich board they put outside during business hours, and wrote the day’s offerings on it with drunken devil cake in extra-large writing on the bottom. He usually made four or five cakes on the days they offered it. Every last slice was always gone hours before he closed. Andre was in charge of putting the menu online; Twitter and Facebook or some shit. When Andre first suggested the idea of social media, Remy had resisted. Hard. But he had to give his little brother credit: it had been a great way to get new customers, which they’d desperately needed when they took the place over completely from their father. It was also a great way to let the regulars know what days they should come in to catch their favorite dishes. Their client base had grown since then, and Remy had seen more new faces in the last couple of months than ever before.

  When his chalkboard was done, Remy started on the batter, whipping sugar and eggs, chocolate, sour cream, and flour until it was dark and glossy. He was in his own little baking world when Andre nudged him.

  “What’s with those letters, man? You keep saying you’re going to deal with them. They’re not bills, are they?” He gestured to a pile of envelopes on Remy’s desk in the corner of the kitchen. They’d been gathering dust for months. Soon the letters had turned into e-mails and voice mails, more and more insistent to both Remy and his father. Finally, they’d turned into a meeting that was less than twenty-four hours away. Remy grunted, displeased.

  “No, not bills. Didn’t Dad tell you?”

  Probably not, actually. Tom Babineaux tended to leave Andre out of anything that could get his hot little head fired up. Not that Remy was much better in this situation. Or any.

  “No. What is it?”

  “Some dickhead development company from California wants to buy the building just like they’ve bought up half the quarter. Turn it into Pineapple Joe’s or whatever the fuck those tourist-trap places are called. Sell fifteen-dollar hurricanes in collectible piece-of-shit plastic pineapple cups to retired couples with fanny packs.”

  “Oh hell no.” Andre made an outraged face.

  “That’s what I said. And what I’m saying at the meeting tomorrow morning.”

  “The fuck? Meeting? Dad took a meeting with them? Why?”

  Honestly, Remy hadn’t talked about it much with their dad. Just the idea made him so angry he doubted rational conversation would have anything to do with whatever came of broaching the subject.

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to be there to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. It’s not going to happen, Dre. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m going to be there too.” Andre’s face was getting redder by the second. His huge dark eyes got all squinted and crinkled on the sides like they always did when he was really happy or totally pissed off. Remy realized he probably should’ve waited until after the meeting was over to get his brother involved. A little white lie here and there never hurt anyone. Live and learn.

  “No, man. That’s not a good idea. I’m gonna need you back here. Gerard can’t open the kitchen on his own, and if both you and I are in that meeting, it’s gonna get hostile.”

  “Fuck yes it is!”

  Remy clapped Andre on the shoulder. Hothead or not, it was good to have him in Remy’s corner. “Can you get the sweet potatoes and the halibut ready when you’re done with the veg? You know we’re gonna have a run on the fries and the sandwiches at lunch.”

  “They love my halibut.” Andre looked smug.

  Remy snorted “That’s what he said.”

  He was rewarded with another punch.

  * * *

  An hour later the kitchen was filled with the mixed aromas of baked chocolate cakes, roasting garlic and onions, and warm sourdough rolls straight from the ovens. It should’ve been a hideous cacophony of contrasting smells, but somehow it wasn’t. The kitchen smelled like home.

  Remy had grown up in Lumiere, crawling underneath his parents’ legs as they danced around, baking and cooking and entertaining customers. The old brick floors were as much his bedroom as the one at the house;
the ovens had given him his first scars; the storage room had been where he’d learned his colors, pointing at the different fruits and vegetables. Sure, the ceilings could use some work and the walls had needed a new coat of white since the first Bush was president, but they’d just put in new refrigerators and countertops. Maybe the year would come that Remy could afford to do all the upkeep and not have to pick and choose which items were the most pressing. That year hadn’t come yet.

  He left Andre and their line chef, Gerard, prepping away in the kitchen and went to open the front. The inside of Lumiere was dark, even in broad daylight. But when he flicked a switch, the place was bathed in the glow that gave the café its name. The ceiling was high and painted black, but draped from the rafters were lights—hundreds of different lights. Edison bulbs hanging from wires, paper lanterns of different shapes and sizes, tiny fairy lights on strings. They looked like fireflies on a summer night or hundreds of tiny moons glowing in the cool dark. Remy smiled, as he always did. He did a check of the wide mahogany floorboards, the heavy glossy tables, and the cushy wine-red velvet banquettes. All in order.

  Remy opened the door, put the sandwich-board menu on the sidewalk, and changed the board inside the dining room to also reflect the day’s choices.

  Lumiere was open.

  * * *

  He was distracted from his final check when a tiny fluffy ball of little girl came barreling into the dining area and wound herself around his knees. Remy chuckled, ruffled her hair, then leaned over to give her a kiss on the forehead.

  “Hi, darling. How are you today?”

  Stella grinned up at him with one of her signature toothy smiles. She’d just turned four, she was a total menace, and Remy had never loved anyone else so completely. “Good. I watched cartoons. Cake please, Uncle Remy?”