Items related to Slice and Dice: A Culinary Mystery
MURDER A LA CARTE
If all goes according to plan, Connie Buckridge's culinary empire will soon boast a state-of-the-art cooking academy and restaurant in her home town of Minneapolis-St. Paul. Unfortunately, just when the kitchen queen and her bickering entourage hit town on a publicity tour, so does a bestselling investigative writer who is hot on her scandalous trail.
Primed by an anonymous e-mail informer, Marie Damontraville is preparing to cook Connie's goose with a major expose of her strategies for success. The one missing ingredient in this unsavory stew is murder, and when food critic Sophie Greenway finds a cooking colleague stabbed with his own kitchen knife, a fire that has been smoldering for forty years suddenly bursts into flame. . . .
SPECIAL AUTHOR INTERVIEW INSIDE
If all goes according to plan, Connie Buckridge's culinary empire will soon boast a state-of-the-art cooking academy and restaurant in her home town of Minneapolis-St. Paul. Unfortunately, just when the kitchen queen and her bickering entourage hit town on a publicity tour, so does a bestselling investigative writer who is hot on her scandalous trail.
Primed by an anonymous e-mail informer, Marie Damontraville is preparing to cook Connie's goose with a major expose of her strategies for success. The one missing ingredient in this unsavory stew is murder, and when food critic Sophie Greenway finds a cooking colleague stabbed with his own kitchen knife, a fire that has been smoldering for forty years suddenly bursts into flame. . . .
SPECIAL AUTHOR INTERVIEW INSIDE
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Ellen Hart's other novels include This Little Piggy Went to Murder, For Every Evil, and The Oldest Sin, as well as the Jane Lawless mysteries: Hallowed Murder, Vital Lies, Stage Fright, A Killing Cure, A Small Sacrifice, and Faint Praise. A two-time winner of the Minnesota Book Award for Best Mystery/Detective Fiction, Ms. Hart is like her fictional heroine Sophie Greenway in two respects: both have had food related careers (the author was a chef for twelve years) and both have college degrees in fundamentalist Christian theology. She lives in Minneapolis.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Sophie had hoped that after a couple of martinis and a plate of the
Belmont's famous tiger shrimp on a bed of spicy couscous, Bram would be in
a good enough mood for her to drop the bomb. She'd been preparing her speech all
afternoon--ever since she'd talked to her son, Rudy. Rudy was currently
biking and backpacking his way across Europe with his partner, John
Jacoby. On the phone, they'd made an important decision, one she needed to
tell Bram about right away. However, not only were the tiger shrimp no
longer on the menu, but the usually prompt and friendly service at the
restaurant was tonight a study in indifference. Any good mood the drinks
might have engendered had been destroyed by the annoying boy-waiters
buzzing about the dark, intimate dining room.
Neither Sophie nor Bram had eaten at the Belmont since last fall. Almost
all the old wait staff was gone, replaced by a more youthful crew, lads
who seemed to think having fun was the essence of their job description.
They clumped together at the wait stations, chuckling at little in-jokes,
and occasionally, when the mood struck, wandered off toward one of the
gilt-edged mirrors to check their look. They were exceedingly adept at
pouring water, but that was about the extent of their skills. Initially,
Sophie and Bram were so amazed by the staff's bustling inactivity that
they hardly noticed that their waiter had hardly noticed them.
Twenty minutes after their arrival, having received nothing more than two
glasses of water and a couple of menus, Bram reached his limit. At first
he tried some polite arm-waving, but when that was ignored, he stood,
placed two fingers between his teeth, and gave a piercing whistle. Not
only did that catch their waiter's attention, but every other eye in the
place as well. Most of the other diners nodded their approval. Some even
clapped.
According to local restaurant scuttlebutt, the Belmont, an institution in
downtown Minneapolis, was currently having problems. This was clear not
only from the lax service but also from the wilted rose on the table, as
well as the pile of dry toast and a slice of bland pétÈ the waiter brought
them when he finally sauntered over to take their order.
"What the hell's happened here?" muttered Bram as the young man strolled
off toward the kitchen.
Sophie just shook her head.
Harry Hongisto, the owner of the Belmont since the early Fifties, was an
old poker-playing buddy of her father's. They were both Finlanders from
the Iron Range, both born and raised in Hibbing. During the past winter,
Sophie had been sad to see a restaurant review in the Times Register trash
the food at the Belmont. She couldn't believe the place had sunk that low,
especially since she knew the bias of the reviewer, a man with whom she
rarely agreed. And yet, perhaps in this one instance, the review had
foundation. For the first time, Sophie felt as if she was sitting in the
faded glory of what had once been a premier restaurant in the Twin Cities.
That wasn't to say that Harry hadn't done his best in the last few months
to stem the tide of decline. First, he'd hired David Polchow as the new
head chef. Arriving with the highest of recommendations, David was a
graduate of the New Orleans Cooking Institute and had studied under some
of the best chefs in Europe. He'd worked at Sur la Mere in Boston before
coming to Minnesota. His attempts to improve the food service at the
Belmont, however, didn't seem to be working. Sophie couldn't understand
how a chef of his caliber could have produced such an insipid pétÈ, though
perhaps it was an off night. Or, more likely, the rest of the kitchen
staff wasn't working at his level. He could do his best to
educate and make demands, but he couldn't do all the work himself.
Harry had also begun to modernize the interior, though interior decorating
seemed to be the least of the restaurant's problems. It was true, of
course, that the wine-colored leather booths, once the height of elegance,
had begun to look a bit tired. So had the pool-table-green walls and the
heavy-handed gold accents. In an earnest attempt at modernity, Harry had
replaced the carpeting, a bold playing-card design of clubs, hearts,
diamonds, and spades, with a dreary putty color, all wrong for the more
aggressive Las Vegas-style ambience. And plants, totally unnecessary
greenery, seemed to be starving for light in every corner of the room. The
Belmont had history and tradition going for it. It had a flavor, a style.
All it needed was some retouching--not a whole new look. Ferns and minimal
furnishings belonged in a more self-conscious Uptown bistro. A less
self-conscious, more overt Fifties take on opulence was the name of the
game here. Why not appreciate it for what it was?
"A piece of rancid pétÈ for your thoughts," said Bram, gazing at Sophie
over the rim of his martini glass.
Her smile was wistful. "Oh, I was just thinking about what this place used
to be like."
"You came here with your parents a lot when you were a kid, right?"
"In those pre-cholesterol-conscious days of yore." She sighed.
"Well, at least there's one upside to the evening. We're not here so that
you can review the place. That headache is finally behind us."
Sophie did her best to hide her startled look. "You never told me you
hated my reviewing."
"I didn't hate it, but on those rare occasions when you convinced me I had
to come with you, you insisted I wear one of those silly disguises, too.
It made me feel like a freak--not, I might add, the best way to enjoy an
evening out with one's wife."
"Come on," she said, smiling and chucking him on the arm. "Restaurants
today are theatre. You simply have to think of yourself as one of the
cast."
He grunted. "I never understood how you could enjoy eating a meal dressed
like a biker's moll."
"I had other costumes."
"Right. The professor with the beard and pipe. Very sexy."
Belmont's famous tiger shrimp on a bed of spicy couscous, Bram would be in
a good enough mood for her to drop the bomb. She'd been preparing her speech all
afternoon--ever since she'd talked to her son, Rudy. Rudy was currently
biking and backpacking his way across Europe with his partner, John
Jacoby. On the phone, they'd made an important decision, one she needed to
tell Bram about right away. However, not only were the tiger shrimp no
longer on the menu, but the usually prompt and friendly service at the
restaurant was tonight a study in indifference. Any good mood the drinks
might have engendered had been destroyed by the annoying boy-waiters
buzzing about the dark, intimate dining room.
Neither Sophie nor Bram had eaten at the Belmont since last fall. Almost
all the old wait staff was gone, replaced by a more youthful crew, lads
who seemed to think having fun was the essence of their job description.
They clumped together at the wait stations, chuckling at little in-jokes,
and occasionally, when the mood struck, wandered off toward one of the
gilt-edged mirrors to check their look. They were exceedingly adept at
pouring water, but that was about the extent of their skills. Initially,
Sophie and Bram were so amazed by the staff's bustling inactivity that
they hardly noticed that their waiter had hardly noticed them.
Twenty minutes after their arrival, having received nothing more than two
glasses of water and a couple of menus, Bram reached his limit. At first
he tried some polite arm-waving, but when that was ignored, he stood,
placed two fingers between his teeth, and gave a piercing whistle. Not
only did that catch their waiter's attention, but every other eye in the
place as well. Most of the other diners nodded their approval. Some even
clapped.
According to local restaurant scuttlebutt, the Belmont, an institution in
downtown Minneapolis, was currently having problems. This was clear not
only from the lax service but also from the wilted rose on the table, as
well as the pile of dry toast and a slice of bland pétÈ the waiter brought
them when he finally sauntered over to take their order.
"What the hell's happened here?" muttered Bram as the young man strolled
off toward the kitchen.
Sophie just shook her head.
Harry Hongisto, the owner of the Belmont since the early Fifties, was an
old poker-playing buddy of her father's. They were both Finlanders from
the Iron Range, both born and raised in Hibbing. During the past winter,
Sophie had been sad to see a restaurant review in the Times Register trash
the food at the Belmont. She couldn't believe the place had sunk that low,
especially since she knew the bias of the reviewer, a man with whom she
rarely agreed. And yet, perhaps in this one instance, the review had
foundation. For the first time, Sophie felt as if she was sitting in the
faded glory of what had once been a premier restaurant in the Twin Cities.
That wasn't to say that Harry hadn't done his best in the last few months
to stem the tide of decline. First, he'd hired David Polchow as the new
head chef. Arriving with the highest of recommendations, David was a
graduate of the New Orleans Cooking Institute and had studied under some
of the best chefs in Europe. He'd worked at Sur la Mere in Boston before
coming to Minnesota. His attempts to improve the food service at the
Belmont, however, didn't seem to be working. Sophie couldn't understand
how a chef of his caliber could have produced such an insipid pétÈ, though
perhaps it was an off night. Or, more likely, the rest of the kitchen
staff wasn't working at his level. He could do his best to
educate and make demands, but he couldn't do all the work himself.
Harry had also begun to modernize the interior, though interior decorating
seemed to be the least of the restaurant's problems. It was true, of
course, that the wine-colored leather booths, once the height of elegance,
had begun to look a bit tired. So had the pool-table-green walls and the
heavy-handed gold accents. In an earnest attempt at modernity, Harry had
replaced the carpeting, a bold playing-card design of clubs, hearts,
diamonds, and spades, with a dreary putty color, all wrong for the more
aggressive Las Vegas-style ambience. And plants, totally unnecessary
greenery, seemed to be starving for light in every corner of the room. The
Belmont had history and tradition going for it. It had a flavor, a style.
All it needed was some retouching--not a whole new look. Ferns and minimal
furnishings belonged in a more self-conscious Uptown bistro. A less
self-conscious, more overt Fifties take on opulence was the name of the
game here. Why not appreciate it for what it was?
"A piece of rancid pétÈ for your thoughts," said Bram, gazing at Sophie
over the rim of his martini glass.
Her smile was wistful. "Oh, I was just thinking about what this place used
to be like."
"You came here with your parents a lot when you were a kid, right?"
"In those pre-cholesterol-conscious days of yore." She sighed.
"Well, at least there's one upside to the evening. We're not here so that
you can review the place. That headache is finally behind us."
Sophie did her best to hide her startled look. "You never told me you
hated my reviewing."
"I didn't hate it, but on those rare occasions when you convinced me I had
to come with you, you insisted I wear one of those silly disguises, too.
It made me feel like a freak--not, I might add, the best way to enjoy an
evening out with one's wife."
"Come on," she said, smiling and chucking him on the arm. "Restaurants
today are theatre. You simply have to think of yourself as one of the
cast."
He grunted. "I never understood how you could enjoy eating a meal dressed
like a biker's moll."
"I had other costumes."
"Right. The professor with the beard and pipe. Very sexy."
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherFawcett
- Publication date2000
- ISBN 10 0345421531
- ISBN 13 9780345421531
- BindingPaperback
- Edition number1
- Number of pages368
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