Author's Introduction

All rights reserved/Walker Jackson

This excerpt is taken from "BLOOD TRUST." I habitually endow my books with several story lines. One has seven. The horror plot ends and this delightful dinner at Antoine's is depicted. You may remember from past publications that Hackney McTrite is an N'Awlins sleuth extraordinary. I would be pleased to hear comments and suggestions from readers. My email address is walker@walkerjackson.com Visit my homepage at http://www.walkerjackson.com

Dinner at Antoine's

In the Vieux Carré, the taxi, accommodating older lovers high on life and filled with the promise the evening held, pulled to the curb in front of an ancient facade, which met the Historical Society's criteria for a historic building many times over. The taxi was necessary. Our Cadillac was still in the repair shop. Sarah didn't recognize the place at once, though she'd seen it many times before in the daylight. In the Vieux Carré much sameness prevails and Rue Saint Louis was lighted sparingly. And, like many parts of French Quarter, visibility was limited. Buttermilk clouds sailing overhead obscured the scanty illumination of the crescent moon. The Old City can be a trifle spooky at night, but gaiety and romance abounds.

After paying the driver, I opened the door and waited for Sarah to slide over. Now, she read the name above the first floor entrance. A wave of excitement caused her to shiver. "Ah! Ha! The big secret has been discovered. It’s Antoine's.' Hackney must have robbed a bank. Dadgum it, I keep forgetting that we're well off now.

"You are lovely, Sarah."

"Thank you, Darling." The white satin gown fit her snugly while covering her medium frame modestly. However, for Sarah it was audacious.

"Hackney, we must bring the children to Antoine's some day."

"Yes, I quite agree. We'll plan an outing on their next birthdays."

"Oh! My! It's hard to believe that Catherine will soon be fourteen and Donald sixteen. Time seemed to take on new meaning after they came aboard nine years ago."

"They have been complete years, Sarah."

"Wonderful years, Hackney."

Hand in hand we strolled toward the entrance. "Sarah, we're about to enter the one and only Antoine's. It was established in 1840, and it’s become a culinary delight for epicures far and wide. What, with all those exquisite recipes like its Oysters Rockefeller, Crayfish Bisque, Shrimp Aspic, Trout Meunière, Veal Lafayette, Crabs Bèarnaise, Oyster Mosca, Frog's Legs Meunière, Duck Nouvelle Orleans, and Chicken Ratattouille just to name a few." I wanted to impress Sarah with my knowledge of Antoine's unaware that she'd written a historical paper about this famous restaurant. Sarah was unimpressed, but she listened politely as I continued raving. "I have heard it said many times that a visit to New Orleans that doesn't include dinner at Antoine's is like coming during Mardi Gras and not attending a parade. There's one big difference, however. Parades are a lagniappe. Nothing is free in there. Not even the air one breathes." Hackney felt his oats.

I opened the portal for her. We entered the hallowed somewhat ordinary interior of Antoine's. It is all too representative. Most of the famous eateries in N'Awlins resemble my last remark. Instantly, our sense of smell soared spurred by the incredible aromas gushing through our nostrils. After but one sniff, we'd realized the cooking was a far cry from ordinary. Antoine's certainly would be justified, as I'd often remarked, in charging an aromatic surcharge.

The maître d' greeted us stiffly, but politely, and escorted us to our table in the heart of the large annex. The gathering of gentry, draped in expensive apparel, sat around mocking their true character, while enjoying some course of a grandiose Sunday dinner. Their pious, snobbish appearance radiated the impression that most of them had come to Antoine's straight from afternoon pray service. They'd made their peace with God and had been forgiven past sins, freeing their conscience for the sin of over indulgence that was inevitable.

Sarah, assisted by the maître d', perched daintily upon a cushioned chair. Seconds later le garçon started preparing Crepes Suzettes at a near table where two middle-aged couples sat taut. Show time! We craned. The waiter poured Cognac generously into the flambé pan containing twelve crepes and ignited it immediately. The subtle explosion caused the two couples and several others nearby, to flinch as blue flames leapt from the pan. We marveled at the animation associated with the preparation of this fancy dessert. The pyrotechnics were a real crowd-pleaser, if all the rubber necking was the measurement. And I was certain the desert tasted delicious.

I reached her hand and grasped it gently. I looked into eyes filled with warmth and anticipation. "Sarah, I've taken the liberty of ordering ahead. Knowing your favorite dish is Pampano fresh from the ocean, I felt confident you'd be pleased with my selection. Antoine's serves a Pompano en Papillote that's out of this world. Actually, its out of a square bag, but it's indisputably the piece de resistance to end all." She blinked her eyes. She'd had the entrée on several other occasions. The selection pleased her.

We'd hardly settled in our chairs comfortably when le garçon arrived with a fine old bottle of chilled wine and two wineglasses. He set the glasses on the pure white, linen, tablecloth along with a place setting reading, "Happy Anniversary Sarah and Hackney McTrite."

Sarah's eyes became misty the moment she read it. She reached across the table and caressed my hand, while le garçon went through the ritual of popping the cork. After a festive pop, he poured small amounts into the two glasses and offered us a taste.

"Excellent," she proffered, and I nodded my satisfaction. Le garçon filled both glasses and hurried away. I raised my glass gesturing the offer of a toast. "Here’s looking forward to our fiftieth wedding anniversary, Love."

"I'll drink to that," she celebrated, lifting the glass of wine to the sweet smile on her face. She imbibed an unsparing swallow, swished it around her palates, and freed it to warm everything below. "Ah! Hackney, the wine is divine," she said, smacking her lips softly.

"I certainly expect it to be just that. It's a vintage Bordeaux," I said parsimoniously, while blinking my eyes.

Wine passed our lips with regularity. Gradually, it pervaded our reflective minds. The ensuing cozy feelings shrouded us from the gaiety surrounding us, and, for a precious time, our little world was composed of two people in search of a tomorrow that offered more of the same. Memorable thoughts of years gone by sought the stimulus of the wine and quickly our glasses were dry. I reached the wine bottle and poured freely. Returning the bottle to its icy cradle, I raised my glass again signaling the proffering of another toast.

"Here's to two grand ladies, you my love, and New Orleans. The world may forget the two of you, but I shall carry your memories until the moment, in your arms, when I succumb to pleasant dreams forever." My toast was over shadowing and Sarah, for once, felt inadequate, but touched by my eloquence. I might have been a trifle pretentious. A whimsical smile flushed her face when she tilted the wineglass to drink. Hmmm! I think Hackney's been reading Shakespeare. Where art thou O' Romeo? Or he's hallucinating. He must have stopped by Patty's Bar and had a few bourbons before coming home.

"Here comes the waiter with our salad," gasped Sarah excitedly. She loved food. At this moment, I was a third fiddler behind her love for our two adopted children and her passion for food. Le garçon arrived with a serving tray on top of his left hand containing two delicious-looking dinner salads resembling a small garden, a bowl of Rouqefort dressing, and a warmed loaf of French bread sliced thick. He placed the salad bowls before us, the Roquefort dressing, and then bread and butter.

"Merci," we said suavely in unison.

"Oui, Mademoiselle, Monsieur." The waiter marched away a trifle stiff.

"Sarah, do you think the waiter has too much starch in his uniform?" I asked, offering an impish grin.

Sarah's eyes moved to Le garçon. "On the contrary, I think he's wearing tight underwear." Hers was the keenest relish for wit.

We laughed mannerly, but a young couple nearby, having overheard, guffawed, prompting me to suggest: "Maybe the two of us ought to form a comedy team. I'll do the straight lines, Sarah."

Her mouth was full of the luscious, crisp salad, and creamy, tangy Rouqefort dressing, one bite of French bread, and she merely blinked her eyes demurely.

The Pompano en Papillote served in a twelve-inch-square baking parchment followed with little fanfare, except le garçon refilled our wineglasses and poured fresh ice water. The piece de resistance was served with steamed rice, and the vegetable Dejour was, to my utter delight, Braised Okra, diced onions and okra fried in bacon drippings, but thoroughly dried before serving.

It was a magnificent recipe, which would take at least one page to describe completely in terms of ingredients and method of creation. Besides a generous amount of filét of Pampano, the dish contained peeled and veined shrimp, lumps of crabmeat, and shucked oysters. Lifting it to your mouth, on a silver fork, was the only work necessary to devour its divine flavors. I think I'd described it perfectly. "Out of this world."

Sarah jokingly thought of it as a seafood potpourri drowned in a highly seasoned sauce and baked in a poke, but it was light-years apart from the proverbial pig-in-a-poke. Le garçon opened the parchment at the table and the escaping aroma defied description. Suffice it to say it smelled magnificent and a selfish impulse ensued that would forbid the aroma being shared with any of the affluent patrons in our midst.

We leisurely savored the feast that had been served with savoir-faire. The manners of the house were genteel and regal. The dregs of the wine coincided quite by chance with the end of the entrée. We ended dinner with a helping of Carrot Cake and Café Brûlot served in demitassé cups. I had arranged payment for the meal in advance. After the Brûlot, the only course remaining was to thank and tip le garçon and move to the front, where a cab would be waiting precisely at eleven. That was three minutes away. Sarah wanted to say goodnight and pray with the children before tucking them into their beds. It had become a ritual. At the front door, I embraced her, squeezed her tightly, and kissed her affectionately. "Happy forty-fifth anniversary, Sarah."

"Thank you, Darling, the same to you. The dinner was fit for a queen."

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