The Cat Who Said Cheese

11

The Great Food Explo was about to blast off, with Mildred Riker's cooking class lighting the fuse:

Wednesday evening: First in a series of cooking classes for men only, sponsored by the Moose County Something.

Thursday: Introduction of the Something's weekly food page, featuring a Food Forum for readers.

Friday noon: Official opening of Stables Row with ribbon-cutting, band music, and balloons.

Friday evening: Open-house hospitality on Main Street, with all stores remaining open until 9:00 P.M. and offering refreshments and entertainment... to be followed by fireworks and a street dance in front of Stables Row.

Saturday: Food Fair and Pasty Bake-off at the county fairgrounds, sponsored by the Pickax Chamber of Commerce.

Saturday evening: Celebrity Auction sponsored by the Boosters Club to benefit the community Christmas fund.

Sunday: Wheels for Meals bike-a-thon staged by the Pedal Club to benefit the home-bound.

Qwilleran was involved in many of the week's activities, not entirely by choice. Reluctantly he had consented to cover the opening session of the cooking class. Without much enthusiasm he would join Mildred Riker and the chef of the Old Stone Mill in judging the Pasty Bake-off. With serious misgivings he would go on the auction block as a potential dinner date for who-knows-whom. In addition, he was committed to writing the "Qwill Pen" with a food slant for the duration of Explo.

Qwilleran's life seldom proceeded according to plan, however. On Wednesday he went to Lois's for lunch. Her Wednesday luncheon special was always turkey, and he always took home a doggie bag. Lois's Luncheonette was on Pine Street not far from Stables Row. and as he approached he saw a crowd gathered on the sidewalk - not a friendly crowd. He quickened his step.

Milling about, waving arms and expounding vehemently, were men in work clothes and business suits. A few women office workers and shoppers wore anxious expressions and raised shrill voices.

Qwilleran asked loudly, "What goes on here? What's happened?" No one answered, but there was a general hubbub of indignation and complaint. Then he saw the hastily crayoned sign in the window: CLOSED FOR GOOD. The protesters were yelling:

"Where'll we get ham and eggs? There's no place for, breakfast!"

"Where'll we get lunch?"

"There's the new soup kitchen, but who wants soup every day?"

"There's the new pasty place, but I get pasties home."

"Who'll have apple pie that's any good?"

Qwilleran asked some of the quieter protesters, "Why did she close? Does anyone know?"

"Could be she's afraid of the new competition," a City Hall clerk suggested.

"If you ask me," said a salesman from the men's store, "she's tee'd off because Stables Row got all slicked up by the K Fund. If she wanted to fix up her place, her customers had to pitch in and do it."

An elderly man said, "Some people in town want her to quit so they can get the building and tear it down."

It was indeed a sad old structure. Qwilleran had often dropped a twenty into a pickle jar near the cash register to help defray the cost of shingles or paint. The labor was willingly donated on weekends by a confraternity of loyal customers. They enjoyed doing it. To work on Lois's beloved lunchroom was the Pickax equivalent of knighthood in the court of King Arthur. There was, in fact, a large round table where the in-group met for coffee and conversation. And now she was leaving the food business after thirty years of feeding Pickaxians. It was a calamity! First the hotel bombing - and now this!

Qwilleran went to the Old Stone Mill for lunch. He said to the excessively tall young man who was his waiter, "I hear you've enrolled in the Restaurant Management course, Derek."

"Yeah, Liz talked me into going to MCCC," said the scion of the Cuttlebrinks. "In two years I can get an associate degree. I'm carrying a full load. The boss here gives me flexible hours."

"I'm glad you've decided to stay in the food business."

"Yeah, Liz thinks I have a talent for it. Acting is something I can do as a hobby, she says."

"What's today's special, Derek?"

"Curried lamb stew."

"Is it good?" Qwilleran was aware that this was a senseless question; what waiter would denigrate the chef's daily special? Yet, restaurant-goers everywhere had been heard to ask it, and now Qwilleran repeated it.

"Do you recommend it?"

"Well, I tried it in the kitchen before I came on duty," Derek said, "and I thought it bombed. You'd be better off to take the beef Stroganoff."

The cooking class at the high school was scheduled for 7:30 P.M., but Qwilleran arrived early, hoping to glean some quotable comments from the participants. Eleven men were present, some of whom he knew; all of them knew Qwilleran, or recognized his moustache. They included the new banker, a commercial fisherman, and even the tall waiter from the Old Stone Mill. They had an assortment of reasons for attending:

Mechanic from Gippel's Garage: "My wife went back to work, teaching school, and she says I've gotta do some of the housework. I like to eat, so maybe I'll learn how to cook."

J. Willard Carmichael: "Cooking has replaced jogging as the thing to do! Besides, Danielle is no bombshell in the kitchen, and it behooves me to set a good example."

Hardware salesman: "I'm a single parent with two kids, and I want to impress them."

Derek Cuttlebrink: "Liz gave me the course for a birthday present."

Commercial fisherman: "My wife sent me to find out how to cook fish without so much grease. She just got out of the hospital, and she's on a diet."

Qwilleran was tempted to say, I've got a good cookie recipe for you. Instead he said, "You must be Aubrey's brother. His honey farm was the subject of my column yesterday."

"Yeah! Yeah! We all read it. The family was glad to see him get some attention. He's kinda shy, you know. Stays by himself, mostly. But he's got a lot on the ball, in some ways."

There was an unmistakable aroma of Thanksgiving dinner in the classroom. Qwilleran decided it was Mildred's crafty psychology to put the class in a good food mood. Promptly at 7:30 she appeared, her ample figure filling out an oversized white bib-apron. A floppy white hat topped her graying hair, and the insouciance of its floppiness made her audience warm up to her immediately.

After a few words of welcome, she began: "Thanksgiving is not far off, and some of you checked turkey on your list of requests, so tonight we'll take the mystery out of roasting the big bird and make you all instant turkey experts. This will be a two-bird demonstration, because roasting takes several hours. Bird Number One has been in the oven since four o'clock and will be ready for carving and sampling at the end of the session."

Qwilleran's interest in the class increased as he visualized a take-home for the Siamese. He clicked his camera as Sharon Hanstable entered the arena with Bird Number Two on a tray - plucked, headless, raw, and sickly pale. In bib-apron and floppy hat, she was a younger, thinner version of her mother, with the same wholesome prettiness and outgoing personality. Smiling happily and bantering with the audience, she handed out notepads, pencils, and brochures containing roasting charts and stuffing recipes.

Mildred said, "This handsome gobbler, which weighs a modest twelve pounds, arrived in a frozen state from the new Cold Turkey Farm and has been defrosting for two days in the refrigerator. Please repeat after me: I will never... thaw a frozen turkey... at room temperature."

A chorus of assorted male voices obediently took the oath. "Now for Step One: Preset the oven at three hundred twenty-five degrees. Step Two: Release the legs that are tucked under a strip of skin, but do not cut the skin."

Eleven pencils and Qwilleran's ballpoint were busily taking notes.

"Step Three: Explore the breast and body cavities and remove the plastic bags containing neck and giblets. These are to be used in making gravy. Step Four: Rinse the bird and drain it thoroughly."

Qwilleran thought, This is easy; I could do it; what's the big deal?

"Meanwhile, Sharon has been mixing the stuffing. It's called 'Rice-and-Nice' in your brochure. It consists of cooked brown rice, mushrooms, water chestnuts, and other flavorful veggies. So... Ready for Step Five: Stuff the cavities lightly with the rice mixture." Mildred tucked in the legs, placed the bird breast-up on a rack in the roasting pan, brushed it with oil, inserted a thermometer, and explained the basting process. By the time Bird Two was ready to go into the oven, Bird One was ready to come out - plump-breasted, glossy, and golden brown. She demonstrated the carving and the making of giblet gravy. Then the men were invited to help themselves.

"Good show!" Qwilleran said to Mildred as he filled his paper plate for the second time.

"Stick around," she said in a whisper. "You can have f the leftovers for Koko and Yum Yum."

The day after the cooking class, Qwilleran' s rave review appeared on the newspaper's new food page, along with a feature on fall barbecues, an interview with the chef of the new Boulder House Inn, and the Food Forum.

The comments and questions submitted to the Forum were signed with initials only, and they were interesting enough to have readers guessing: Who was B.L.T. in Pickax? Who was E.S.P. in Mooseville?

Does anyone know a good way to cook muskrat? My grandmother used to bake hers with molasses. It sure was good!

-E.S.P., in Mooseville.

If they reopen the dining room at the

Pickax Hotel, I hope they do something about those ghastly streetlights on Main Street.

They shine in the windows and turn the food green or purple.-B.LT., in Pickax.

I once ate a delicious coconut cream cake with apricot filling that a dear lady made for a church bazaar. She has since passed away.

Her name was Iris Cobb. Does anyone know the recipe? -A.K.A., in Brrr.

I don't have time to cook anything with more than three ingredients, and here's a casserole that my kids are crazy about. A can of spaghetti in tomato sauce, a can of lima beans, and six boiled hot dogs cut in chunks. -A.T.I:, in Sawdust City

My pet peeve-those restaurants so dark you can't read the menu without a flashlight. I won't mention any names, but you know who I mean. -I.R.S., in Pickax.

Help! Does anyone know the secret of the wonderful meatloaf that Iris Cobb used to bring to potluck suppers at the museum? My husband still raves about it. Help save our marriage! -B.S.A., in Kennebeck.

I think that I shall never see

A better cheese than one called Brie.

My brother goes for Danish blue;

My boss is nuts for Port du Salut.

Some folks in Pickax all declare

The tops in cheese is Camembert.

To each his own, but as for me, I cast my vote for creamy Brie.

-J.M.Q., in Pickax.

The Something celebrated the debut of the food page with an in-house party in the cityroom. Staffers drank champagne and ate turkey sandwiches, thriftily made from the meat of Bird Number Two. They praised Mildred for her barbecue story, Jill for her interview with the chef, and Hixie for her brilliant idea of reader participation. Everyone was surprised that the Food Forum was such a success in the first issue. The identity of J.M.Q was guessed, of course, and Qwilleran explained Jack Nibble's theory: If people can't pronounce it, they won't eat it, and Pickaxians have a problem with the French cheeses. What Qwilleran did not explain was his complicity in ghostwriting the entire Food Forum. No one noticed the frequent dead-pan glances that passed between him and Hixie.

Friday was the big day in Pickax. A yellow ribbon, a block long, was tied across the front of Stables Row. At 11:00 A.M. the public started to gather for the noon ribbon-cutting. There were loafers, retirees, young people who looked as if they should be in school, mothers with small children, and a middle-aged newsman with a large moustache, who was there to see what he could see and hear what he could hear.

What he saw was a row of seven new business enterprises, encouraged and subsidized by the K Fund, in- tended to enrich life in the community and dedicated to clean windows and tasteful displays. Reading from south to north, they were:

The Pasty Parlor, with its exclusive, all-new, great-tasting designer pasties.

The Scottish Bakery, featuring scones, shortbread, meat-filled bridies, and a death-defying triple-chocolate confection called Queen Mum's cake.

Olde Tyme Soda Fountain, offering college ices (sundaes), phosphates (sodas), and banana splits at an antique marble soda bar with twisted wire stools and a peppy soda jerk pulling the taps.

Handle on Health, selling vitamins, safe snacks, organically grown fruits and vegetables, and diet-deli sandwiches.

The Kitchen Boutique, with displays of salad-spinners, wine racks, espresso-makers, cookbooks, woks, exotic mustards, and chef's aprons.

Sip'n'Nibble, with assortments of wine and cheese hitherto unknown to many in Moose County.

The Spoonery, dedicated to fast-feeding with a spoon, either at a sit-down counter or a stand-up bar. Opening-day specials: sausage gumbo, butternut squash soup with garlic and cashews, borscht, and tomato-rice.

For the festivities, the entire block was closed to traffic, and as noon approached, it began to be crowded with downtown workers, shoppers, mothers with preschoolers in tow, and members of the Chamber of Commerce. Voices bounced between the stone facade of the old stables and the rear of the stone buildings facing Main Street. Not all was excitement and anticipation; there were cynical observations and dire predictions:

"They'll never make a go of it-not in this tank town! It's too fancy."

"I hear the prices are jacked up outasight."

"The mayor'll get his ugly mug in the paper again. Did you vote for him? I didn't."

"He's gonna be in that auction. I wouldn't let my wife bid a nickel to have dinner with that four-flusher!"

"Who needs a Pasty Parlor? What we need is a hot dog stand."

"Who's runnin' the soup kitchen? They must be nuts! Whadda they think this is - a hobo camp?"

"Why'd they string up all that ribbon? A coupla yards would be enough. They better not charge it to the taxpayers!"

If the sour comments were heard by Dwight Somers, they failed to dent his professional exuberance. He dashed around and talked on his cellular phone. "The school bus just arrived with the band. Alert the mayor to leave City Hall in five minutes." Then, seeing Qwilleran, he said, "How about this, Qwill? We're halfway through the Explo - and no more bombs, no homicides, no civil disturbance!"

"The game ain't over till it's over," Qwilleran quoted wryly. "The judges at the Pasty Bake-off could get food poisoning."

Larry Lanspeak pushed through the crowd to speak to the newsman. "The Celebrity Auction's a sellout! Carol is gonna bid on all the guys - just to inflate the bidding."

"Tell her to exercise caution," Qwilleran advised. "She might win Wetherby Goode. Are you staying open till nine tonight?"

"Sure! All the merchants are cooperating. Susan Exbridge didn't like the idea of idle browsers in her uppity-scale shop, but we talked her into it."

"Do you have any trouble with shoplifting, Larry?"

"Only in tourist season. One nice thing about a small town: Everybody is watching everybody."

The high school band was tuning up. A police siren could be heard, and the mayor's car approached. No one cheered; rather, the crowd became grimly silent. Then the band crashed into the Washington Post March with the confidence of young musicians who know most of the notes, and a police officer cleared the way for the mayor. Gregory Blythe was a middle-aged, well-dressed stockbroker, handsome in a dissipated way and insufferably conceited. Yet, he was always reelected; after all, his mother was a Goodwinter.

Dwight Somers led the applause as Blythe mounted a small podium and spoke into the microphone. "On this festive occasion I want to say a few words about the future of Pickax."

"Make it short!" someone yelled from the crowd.

"Excellent advice!" Blythe replied with a smile in the heckler's direction. Then he proceeded to speak too long, despite murmurs in the audience and the lack of attention.

Finally a child's shrill voice cried out, "Where's the balloons?"

"Let there be balloons!" the mayor decreed.

Two photographers rushed forward. Scissors were produced. The ribbon was snipped. Then, as the band struck up Stars and Stripes Forever, multicolor balloons rose from behind Stables Row, and the crowd converged on the new shops, which had promised souvenirs and food-tasting.

Qwilleran caught sight of a husky, heavily bearded young man lumbering about like a bear. "Gary!" he shouted. "What brings you to town? Souvenirs, refreshments or balloons?"

"Just checking on my competition," said the proprietor of the Black Bear Cafe. "I think I'll add pasties to my menu, but only the traditional kind. I know a woman who makes the crust with suet."

"What do you think of the Stables?"

"The building's neat. The Spoonery's a good idea. But the Pasty Parlor is off the wall. It's run by a couple from Down Below - nice kids - but they don't know a pasty from a pizza... Well, so long! Don't forget the bike-a-thon Sunday."

Qwilleran observed the crowds for a while and then: went into the shop that was attracting the fewest visitors. The Kitchen Boutique was being managed by Sharon J Hanstable.

"I loved your report on the turkey roast!" she greeted him. "Does it mean you're going to start cooking?"

"Only if hell freezes over. I attended the class under duress." He glanced around at the gadgets so foreign to his lifestyle: garlic presses, nutmeg grinders, pastry brushes. "What are those knives with odd blades?"

"Cheese knives," Sharon said. "The wide blade is for crumbly cheese; the pointed one for hard varieties; the narrow squarish one is for soft and semisoft."

"I'll take a set. Since Sip'n'Nibble opened, I'm becoming a cheese connoisseur. So are the cats!... What are those round things?" He pointed to some circles of floppy rubber imprinted with the name of the shop.

"Take one to Polly," she said. "They're for unscrewing hard-to-openjars and bottles. They really work!"

Both of them looked suddenly toward the entrance. The band had stopped playing, and there was a roar of voices, including some angry shouting.

"Sounds like a riot!" Qwilleran said, dashing for the door just in time to hear glass shattering. A siren sounded. People were flocking to the south end of the block; others were running away. Witnesses were yelling to the police and pointing fingers. And the young couple who had opened the Pasty Parlor were looking in dismay at their smashed window.

As Qwilleran looked on, Lori Bamba came up behind him. "What happened, Qwill?"

"An anti-pasty demonstration," he said. "Militant right-wingers protesting against subversive ingredients in the filling."

He left Pine Street with an uneasy feeling that things were changing in Pickax-too fast. The locals were not ready for "designer pasties." The economic development division of the K Fund was partly to blame. Their theories sounded good, but they failed to understand a community 400 miles north of everywhere. Their ideas needed to be screened by a local commission. There was no one with whom he could discuss his apprehension. His friends in the business community were afire with optimism, and he hesitated to be a wet blanket. His closest confidante was recuperating from major surgery, and it would be unwise to trouble her. He did, however, take Polly the jar opener, and he praised the soup at the Spoonery.

She said, "We're going to watch the fireworks from our upstairs porch tonight. Would you like to join us, Qwill? Lynette has invited her bridge club, and there'll be refreshments."

"Thank you," he said, "but when one has seen fireworks over New York harbor, it's hard to get excited about a shower of sparks over the Pickax municipal parking lot."

When he returned to the bam, he found a mess in the lounge area. Someone had destroyed the Lanspeaks' potted mums that had been standing on the hearth. Someone had uprooted the vintage burgundy blooms and scattered them allover the white Moroccan rug.

Koko was sitting on the fireplace cube, waiting for Qwilleran's reaction.

"You, sir, are a bad cat!" was the stem rebuke.

Koko flicked a long pink tongue over his black nose. Then Qwilleran relented. "I didn't think much of them myself. They look like dried blood... Sorry, old boy." He stayed home for the rest of the day. When his antique sea chest arrived from Exbridge & Cobb, he had it placed outside the back door to receive packages. Finding a weathered wood shingle in the toolshed, he made a crude sign for it: DELIVERIES HERE. For dinner he hacked enough meat for two cats and one man from the carcass of Bird Number One. Later he read to the Siamese. Koko chose Poor Richard's Almanac, which provided such pithy tidbits as A cat in gloves catches no mice.

As the evening wore on, however, Qwilleran frequently tamped his moustache and consulted his watch. Koko was nervous, too. He prowled incessantly after the reading. Did he sense the forthcoming fireworks as he did the approach of a storm? The merchants on Main Street would serve their cookies and punch until nine o'clock; then the crowd would move to the Stables block for the sky show.

Promptly at nine the fireworks began, and Yum Yum hid under the sofa, but Koko was agitated. He growled; he raced around erratically. Qwilleran could hear, faintly, the crackling, thudding, and whining of the rockets; no doubt the cats could feel more than they could hear. A tone juncture Koko howled as if in protest.

The radio was tuned in to WPKX, broadcasting live from their van parked on the Stables block. Later, they would jockey the discs for the street dance. When the dance music started, Qwilleran stayed tuned, waiting for the ten o'clock newscast. He was in the kitchen scooping up a dish of ice cream when an announcer broke in with a bulletin:

"The Food Explo festivities in Pickax tonight were marred by the killing of a downtown merchant in the course of an armed robbery. Police have not released the victim's name, pending notification of family. The shooting took place while Explo crowds were watching the fireworks. Further information will be broadcast when available."