Dead to the Last Drop Read Online Free PDF Page B

some sense into our senseless chef . . .
    *   *   *
    “C LARE! Where have you been keeping yourself? It’s been too long!”
    The warm greeting didn’t come from the chef. It was Luther who’d welcomed me with a broad smile and a voice that rumbled low under the high clatter of stainless steel.
    “We both know Chef Hopkins doesn’t like me butting in,” I reminded him.
    “Well, I don’t feel that way. And the chef isn’t in the kitchen right now, so come on in!”
    I hesitated. My business was with the chef, not his assistant. On the other hand, I hadn’t eaten in hours, and the sizzling skillet was sending out tempting aromas.
    Without thinking, I moved forward like a thirsty nomad toward an oasis, licking my lips with anticipation . . .

E ight
    W ITH a rainbow of splashes decorating his white jacket, Luther’s russet brow glistened from the heat, and his cropped silver hair displayed the same hue as the lid he used to clap over his giant skillet.
    “Do I smell wine?” I asked.
    “Hard cider.”
    With a wink he lifted the pan’s lid and revealed culinary magic: chopped bacon, Vidalia onions, and bright red peppers, all blended with pounds of fresh green string beans caramelized in a succulent, sweet-tart glaze.
    “You want a taste?”
    “Does a cat want nip?”
    Luther directed me to a corner table, where he proudly presented me with a sample bowl.
    The first delicious bite made my mouth salivate beautifully. The sweet-tart flavor came from a combination of hard cider and sweet apple juice, a brilliant pairing with the smokiness of the bacon, richness of the caramelized onions and slight crunchiness of the al dente beans.
    Next, Luther set down a plate of Buttermilk Fried Chicken Wings.
    “Is that a combo, or what?” he crowed. “I must have made fourteen tons of coleslaw working at those federal cafeterias. Now, don’t get me wrong—nobody can say that Luther Christian Bell doesn’t enjoy a good slaw. But it might be time for a change, and I think these string beans pair perfectly with my grandmother’s buttermilk fried chicken. I did wings to keep the price down, and it gives the folks more pieces on their plates.”
    I nodded. “Little bites on the plate work much better for a nightclub.”
    Luther’s instincts were spot-on, but then he’d been working in the food preparation business for thirty years; first in the Marine Corps, then in New Orleans, and finally at various United States government cafeterias in the DC area, including a stint at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and the famous U.S. Senate Dining Room.
    His natural home was the kitchen, and I never knew anyone who enjoyed cooking more. According to Luther, that love was born on the knee of his great-great-grandmother, a former slave from South Carolina.
    “These are scrumptious,” I managed between chews. “The chicken is crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside. And these string beans? That fresh brightness with all those vibrant flavors is the perfect complement to your fried chicken.”
    Luther’s smile outshined the gleam of the spotless kitchen.
    “So when are you adding these Hard Cider Green Beans to the menu?”
    “Next week. Tonight is a test run for the staff dinner.”
    “Why not try them out for tonight’s chalkboard specials?”
    “That’s not up to me, Clare . . .”
    Of course, I knew that. When Chef Hopkins was working, he created the specials. But they never sold as well as Luther’s.
    “So what are Chef Hopkins’s daily specials?”
    Luther suppressed a chuckle. (I suspected he got a kick out of my endless rounds with Hopkins over the menu, and he likely knew the specials were going to ring the opening bell of our next toe-to-toe match.)
    “As I recall, the first special is Pomegranate Pork Chops.”
    “With or without those annoying crunchy seeds?”
    Once again, Luther suppressed a laugh.
    “What else?”
    “Squab with Black Pepper–Strawberry Compote.”
    I turned