Cinco de Mayhem Read Online Free PDF Page A

wasn’t a rat in sight, unless you counted Napoleon.
    Cass and I stepped up second in line and inspected the blackboard menu. Flowery cursive script listed six crepes and, in the biggest font, NO SUBSTITUTIONS! I mentally rehearsed my order as Cass asked for lemon with a sugar brûlée.
    Too late, I realized that Cass had stepped aside.
    â€œYou! Make your order. You’re holding up the line!” Napoleon snapped at me. His dark hair swirled like horns up the sides of his towering hat. His lips turned downward, outlined in deep clench lines.
    â€œOrder or get out of the way!” he demanded.
    â€œBuckwheat crepe,” I stammered. “With egg and ham. Oh, I mean, the fried egg and with cheese.”
    My request was met with disdain. “Of course with cheese and the fried egg. No substitutions! And I assume you mean the galette. There is no buckwheat crepe.”
    He spat out the correction as if any fool would know that buckwheat turns a crepe into a galette. I actually had known, but I’d forgotten under pressure. I’d also forgotten to get out my wallet.
    â€œTen fifty-five,” he ordered, making no moves to assemble my crepe until I’d paid.
    I forked over a twenty and reluctantly left two dollars in his tip jar. My bank account would be happy when I went back to boycotting this jerk. Still, I was enthralled as he spread the crepe batter into perfect circles of uniform thickness. After flipping my crepe—correction, galette—he added thinly sliced ham and grated cheese to the center. An egg, frying at the side of the griddle, topped off the masterpiece, and Napoleon tucked the four sides of the crepe inward so that only the sunny yolk poked through. Gorgeous. Cass’s sweet crepe was just as pretty. The pale yellow batter bubbled into delicate lace that Napoleon sprinkled with sugar, a squeeze of lemon, and a dash of lemon liqueur .
    I stepped back as the bully chef reached for a blue propane torch. He spotted my retreat and smirked. “Scared of a little fire, ladies?”
    Cass snorted. I suppressed a snicker, imagining what she must be thinking. My torch is bigger than yours, little man . Napoleon didn’t notice our snorts and snickers. He ran a hissing blue flame over the lemon sugar, creating a bubbling caramel. With a few flicks of his wrist and a dusting of powderedsugar, Cass’s crepe was folded into a neat triangle. He slid the paper trays across the counter and dismissed us with a wave of his hand. No “thank you” or “please come again.”
    â€œNext!” he yelled.
    Cass and I found a free bench near the center of the Plaza. She shook her head. “I’ve heard of this happening, people lining up to be abused for soup or corned beef, but I never thought I’d see it here. Santa Fe’s a relaxed, accepting place. You don’t come here to be yelled at by some jerk with a fake accent.” She took a bite of crepe and moaned. “I do wish his food wasn’t so delicious. Maybe we could make crepes at my studio. Do you think my acetylene torch is too powerful?”
    â€œA tad,” I said, thinking more of what she’d said about Napoleon’s accent. “Fake?” I asked. “I thought he was French.”
    â€œHa!” Cass replied. “He studied cooking in France for a couple years and I think he does have some distant relatives there. Mainly, he’s New Mexican, from a suburb of Albuquerque. He should take pride in both sides of his heritage.” She paused to enjoy another bite, then said, “A while back he catered a gallery opening for one of my friends and refused to make anything resembling New Mexican food. No green chile crepe. Nothing with cornmeal. Too common, he claimed. Insecure little bully . . .”
    I considered this information. Was Napoleon’s denial of local ties a point of weakness? Maybe, but then Flori probably already knew more about his family