Excerpt: Amuse Bouche

Amuse Bouche
A NaNovel by C.A. Hundley

Chapter One

Cassidy Ballantine wasn’t sweating the fact that she was thirty-nine and not married; she was sweating onions for a zucchini risotto. And she wasn’t bitter that she had spent the last nine years semi-engaged to a man who, in the end, while she supported his pursuits in passing the bar, passed one bar too many himself, came home drunk and often carrying the scent of other women. Now, Cassidy was no fool, but since he kept coming back to her every night who was she to stir the pot, to use one of her gastronomic euphemisms for life. In the end, he did pass the bar, thus throwing his lot in with the snakes and sharks of the legal system, and passed on her, stating simply they had grown apart.
What Cassidy was was in denial and shock. Her friends from the HEB Central Market where she worked as a pastry chef enveloped her with love, chocolate and wine as good friends are wont to do in Cassidy’s predicament when she broke the news to them that the wedding was definitely off.
“And we were going to get such a good deal on the cake…” Cassidy had wailed, heart-broken but still very pragmatic and sensible in her half-Jewish heart. Yolanda Freeman, a stout and proud black woman with a hell of a weave and striking hazel eyes, immediately laid it out for her floundering friend.
“Gurrl, you lucky this sorry excuse for a man did his cheating now. I tell you, divorce is so much worse. I oughta know. I been through it twice now. I keep tellin’ myself, Yoli baby, when you gonna learn your lesson? Men just ain’t no damn good and all they’re good for is having the right scratcher when you get the itch.”
Cassidy was inclined to agree with her friend, at least for those first few months, but she soon began to miss the companionship and comfort of having someone there to get a foot rub from or make some homemade mac n cheese for. She decided to quit her job at Central Market and throw herself into her life long dream of becoming a caterer. She had a morbid fantasy of having a company called “Funeral Baked Meats” which would cater exclusively to funerals and wakes and shivahs. But she knew that was limiting her clientele, so she opted for the more classy and business-friendly name of “Amuse Bouche” which was French for mouth teaser; in other words amuse bouches were a step below hors d’oevres.
So Cassidy Janine Ballantine stood at her stove, not freaking out about the fact that it had been months since her last date, nor that she was preparing a dish for a loan application that she was pinning all her hopes and dreams on and needed desperately that beautiful green light shined upon. She consulted her own personal recipe book, a beautiful handbound objet d’art her mother had made for Cassidy’s twenty fifth birthday with the inscription, “Cassie, you never burned a brisket in your life. Don’t stop reaching for perfection.” The book was bound with paper that her mother had also made herself. Cassidy smirked a little with mixed pride and a little deflation in her own self-worth at her mother’s handiness.
Cassidy’s mother, Sarah Bloomberg-Ballantine hailed from the Bronx and had met Cassidy’s father, an Irish Catholic who was in the Air Force and stationed at Lackland Air Force base in San Antonio, Texas. Sarah sold Mary-Kay cosmetics back in the day, and had joined a group of her co-workers when they went to one of the Officer’s Club parties. Sarah was lean and wore a mean eyeliner and mini-skirt. Captain Kimball Ballantine, one of the blue eyed, black-haired stock, took one look at her and knew she was the one, never mind the fact that she was Jewish, a fact that came up on their third date and they had already hit all the bases. They were in love, and they stepped on the glass, danced the hora, and honeymooned in Ireland. Fortune played a joke on the happy couple—Sarah was blessed with Cassidy nearly right after the honeymoon, but her husband was deployed to the Filipines for a thirteen month tour of duty. Sarah seized this opportunity to firmly instruct her infant daughter as best she could in the Jewish faith. Truth be told, Sarah was a lapsed, non-practicing Jew, couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to temple, but she wanted to do better by her daughter and practically had Cassidy’s bat mitzvah all planned out before Cassidy had even turned one.
Well, it had been a nice party after all, Cassidy mused as she ran her finger over the thick, linen like paper and added, according to instructions written in her tidy scrawl, two cups of carnaroli rice, which in ratio to her five cups of vegetable stock, would (or should) cook up in forty five minutes. She stirred the rice, onion, and butter mixture with her trusted wooden fork for about two minutes. Next, the recipe called for a quarter cup of dry white wine. Cassidy was drinking a glass of, and there fore using, a nice two thousand six Pinot Grigio. After the liquid evaporated, she added the chopped baby zucchini. She lowered the heat until the rice was simmering and poured in the stock, a half cup at a time until almost all of it was absorbed into the mixture. She continued to stir the rice until it reached an al dente texture and creamy consistency. She then added parmesan cheese and five tablespoons of butter and covered the skillet. She turned off the heat, but left the pan on the burner so it would continue to cook radiantly.
She drained her glass of wine and poured another, carrying it to the couch, where she decided she had earned a little time on the PS2 with Lego Star Wars. That was another good reason the bastard was gone; he was constantly chiding her-oh, good naturedly of course, but it was chiding nonetheless-about her addiction to video games.
“Aw, Cass, come on and grow up already. When are you gonna put away your little toys and games?” Looking back, he sure sounded like a wet blanket Cassidy reflected, making her little Padme character use her grappler to climb up a wall and advance in the game. Cassidy was a team player; she loved games, considered herself a blackbelt in Charades and Pictionary. Her parents were avid card players and whenever Cassidy had her little friends come over for sleepovers, they would join in whatever games the girls wanted to play. It was never weird or awkward, as it could be with the parents jumping in. It was just that the Bloomberg-Ballantines were such overwhelming personalities, what with Cassidy’s father having the quintessential Irish charm and gift of gab, and her mother this side of control-freak. Sarah saw that Cassidy had everything she could give her daughter, since she was not having another child, and secretly harbored a little Catholic-like guilt over that. But the Ballantine threesome was a tight knit family, which was why when Cassidy was sixteen and her father was killed in a drunk driving accident (he was the one who was hit) Sarah and Cassidy were devastated. They went through the Catholic ceremony in a fog. The normally vivacious and high strung Sarah looking pale and drawn and oddly determined. Cassidy simply remembered a steady stream of tears and an empty hole in her heart that got dug out deeper as they threw dirt on her father’s casket. The grave diggers may as well have been hollowing out her heart for all Cassidy knew.
“Bang. Bang. Pyoo. Got you, you little evil droids,” Cassidy said aloud as she toggled and pushed buttons and fixated on the screen, unaware that she was crying a single tear from her right eye.
She saved her game and got back up from the couch, a nice over-stuffed three seater that her mother and she had picked up in Hildebrandt street’s antique and second-hand district. Sarah had orchestrated the re-upholstery herself in an oriental damask pattern with overstuffed velour cushions in dusky rose and black trim. Cassidy remembered the day vividly because she had the ignominous task of hammering in all the upholstery tack on the back of the thing. Cassidy had had the sinking feeling that Sarah hadn’t wanted her to mess up the front, but after she saw the result she wasn’t complaining any. Her mother was a constant dichotomy of familial support to the point of overbearance to a chilling femme-fatale who could inspire Cassidy to heights of guilt. But the two women were all that the other had in the world, so they clung to each other like magnets, drawn together by love, life, and grief.
Sarah had been there in full force to get her daughter moved out of the bastard’s apartment and into her own little one bedroom back up in Alamo Heights where she could be closer to Sarah and her former job. When all Cassidy wanted to do was stay in bed to shut out the hurt and shame of her failed relationship, it was Sarah who suggested she get another job, for a change of scenery, and to make it something that would help her on the road to becoming a caterer. So, partly to get her mother off her back and partly because she really wanted to, Cassidy supported herself at Entrée’s down McCullough, an actual successful caterer’s while she researched and got the necessary paperwork filled out.
To think that had all been in the last year, Cassidy reflected as she checked the reduction of Shiraz, shallots, sage and rosemary that was to accompany the rib steaks that would be paired off with the risotto. She had already dredged the rib steaks lightly in flour and they were awaiting a good browning in her cast iron skillet. The reduction was perfect, so she moved it off the burner, and heated up the skillet, drizzling in extra virgin olive oil. Once the skillet was hot enough, she began to heat the steaks, turning them once, after about three minutes to one side. Then she deglazed the pan with the reduction (after having removed the shallots and sprigs of the aromatic rosemary and sage.) Cassidy preferred her meat on the rare side, so she cooked the steaks for five more minutes, removed them from the pan to a warm plate on the back burner. She continued to reduce the juices in the pan to a thick, glazey sauce. When it reached a shimmering smooth consistency, she turned off the heat and spooned it over the meat.
She served herself a plate, put it on the dining table then turned on her Sirius radio, which immediately started playing a plaintive ballad called “Take It From Me,” by the Weepies. “Who can I compare you to…when the sun shines through?…maybe the silver moon, the smile rising./come on take it , come on take it, take it from me,” Cassidy sang under her breath as she lit her centerpiece candle and dug in, trying to discern the flavors and judge them as her loan officer would tomorrow, when she cooked this all again for him. Mr. Ian Woon was a short, pleasant Asian man who made everything seem so simple for Cassidy. She hoped he liked beef. This particular recipe was her signature dish, but she wondered if maybe she should have gone with a dish that catered to his ethnicity, like her toro tuna with ginger and mango marinade, accompanied by a prawn and bamboo shoot spring roll, complete with steamed brown rice. But no, Cassidy thought, savoring the buttery, rich risotto and delicately tender steak. This was the right way to go.
As Cassidy was finishing up, it occurred to her that she hadn’t planned a dessert. After all, she was a pastry chef; wouldn’t that be the first order of business to prove? Ian Woon’s first suggestion to her was that she build up a broad menu that clients could choose from and that would spark their imaginations to help her create their ideal orders.
“It’s all about customer satisfaction. You are truly in the business where you must cater to their whim,” Ian Woon had quipped lightly over his spectacles and loosening his tie a bit at her at their last meeting. Cassidy grinned feebly. She wasn’t exactly a shy shrinking violet, but neither did she like schmoozing. If ever she had needed to inherit something besides her tall lanky form from her mother, it would have been that trait. But no, all she was blessed with was big Irish blue eyes and dark brunette hair. She did have quite a way with words that she attributed as a gift from her father, but as far as selling herself, she knew she had to step up her game. Which was why there was a new Jil Sander ivory floral silk slip dress with accompanying black cotton wool four buttoned tailored jacket and sensible black pumps. Dress for the job you want she thought ruefully. Maybe I should bring along an apron and toque.
Cassidy got up to take her plate and wineglass back to her tiny galley kitchen and sighed at the mess that awaited her tired hands. “My hands are like a surgeon’s hands—why should they have to do the dishes?” She said aloud to the mess of pans on the stove, insanely wishing that she could wave a magical wand a la Mickey Mouse in Fantasia and then they would start washing themselves. That was one thing the bastard was good for. He would always clean up after Cassidy’s cooking, praising her for that, at the very least. Cassidy began to get a little misty at that, just as Death Cab For Cutie’s, “I Will Follow You Into the Darkness,” came up on the station. She quickly shut it off before the waterworks gushed full on. I will not give anymore saline to this guy; I have cried enough over him, Cassidy told herself as she drew herself up and prepared to make a crème brulee she hoped would seal the deal with Ian Woon, the bank, and the rest of her life. If she were to reach forty, which was not that far off, before she was married and in a house but have a great catering business, what of it? Cassidy wasn’t so sure she could even love again, that was the extent to which she was hurt. She found out back when she was sixteen and was going through grief counseling that she began to suffer from abandonment issues, but then Sarah decided that was enough for the both of them and pulled her out of the sessions. Cassidy didn’t mind talking to the sympathetic therapist Christina (“Call me Tina, hon) Colantoni who was like a empathetic mirror for Cassidy’s hurts. But she and Sarah ended up clashing in the family sessions. Cassidy much preferred the one on one time and firmly believed she might be a stronger person today if she had been able to learn some coping skills from Tina.
Cassidy got out eggs, sugar, heavy cream, vanilla bean, and her secret ingredient, bourbon. She set the oven to preheat at three hundred twenty five degrees farenheit and set two quarts of water to boil in the kettle. She then split open the vanilla bean pod, removed the contents and mixed it in with the heavy cream along with the pods in a saucepan over medium heat, bringing it to a boil. She let it go for fifteen minutes, then removed it from the heat onto a cool burner and took the pods out.
She got a medium bowl and a smaller bowl down and separated six eggs yolks into the larger bowl, and added a half a cup of sugar to the egg yolks. She opened a drawer, retrieved a whisk and began to beat the yolks to a lighter color. She then added the cream incrementally until it was all incorporated. At the end she dumped in a teaspoon of bourbon. She divided the mixture into six ramekins, placing them in a bain marie, or in simpler terms a shallow dish with hot water in the bottom that came up half way to the sides of the ramekins. Baking them was tricky; Cassidy wanted them to be firm, but just slightly jiggly in the center so they could finish firming up outside the oven. She let them go for forty minutes, during which she shot up a lot of battle droids, acquired the parts to many a mini-kit, and made it through the pod races with a limited amount of crashing.
When she came to check back on her desserts, she found to her delight they had come out perfectly, with not a crack on the surface of any of them. She let them rest for a good half hour before picking them out of the hot pan; then she placed them on a baker’s rack and let them sit for another hour before refrigerating them. It would be a spectacle finish to the interview, Cassidy thought gleefully, imagining the look of awe that crossed most people’s face when she brought out the tiny blow torch that would give the crème brulee it’s burnt sugar crust namesake.
Cassidy was definitely feeling the effects of having cooked for hours straight and was jarred a bit when her cell phone rang and vibrated on the coffee table in the living room. She knew that ring; she had selected “Hava Nagila” to specifically represent her mother. She debated not answering it, but knew it was futile. If she didn’t answer, Cassidy ran the risk of Sarah just coming over to make sure she hadn’t fallen in the bathtub or burnt herself to a crisp in a cooking accident (Cassidy had only one cooking related injury so far: a grease burn when she had been trying to perfect her polenta with bacon and fried sage. She had been stirring milk and rendered bacon fat, and had cut up a tube of pre-formed tube polenta. As she was trying to carefully place them into the pan, the cubes tumbled down the cutting board, splashing searing hot milk and bacon fat onto Cassidy’s left arm. Ever the professional, Cassidy had made it over to the sink and ran cold water over her burn, but she refused to let the mishap ruin her dish, and if she didn’t get back to the stove in the next few seconds, the polenta would clump and milk would scald. So she bore a star shaped weal that was angrily red at her for a good eight months before it began to heal).
“Hi, Ma,” Cassidy said, answering the phone with a cheeriness she didn’t feel.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah said immediately picking up on her daughter’s angst, stern maternal concern coming through loud and clear on the wireless miracle of modern technology.
“Nothing. I’m just tired. I was making my practice menu for Mr. Woon tomorrow, you know, the final interview? And I decided to add a dessert.”
“I hope you did your crème brulee. That’s a winner, doll.”
Cassidy gaped for a second. She sometimes wondered how her mother seemed to live in her head. It was really freaky sometimes.
“I did make crème brulee. Are you having me followed or something, Ma?” Cassidy half-joked.
“Feh! Cassilah, you’re getting paranoid in your old age! I just know your strengths, and you’ll get it for sure. Oh, honey, I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you, and I wanted to wish you luck for tomorrow. Now what are you wearing?”
“Ma, I got something nice. Business casual meets way too expensive tailored blazer. And they said in that Dress for Success workshop I went to that you should wear a skirt or dress, so I am. Don’t want to screw up over anything as easy as clothes.”
Sarah paused on the other end. Cassidy could almost hear her passing judgements on her outfit. But she just said,
“I’m sure you’ll look beautiful. Just not too beautiful. Don’t distract from your food. Pull your hair back from your face and wear it up in a French twist, or maybe a nice loose chignon at the nape of your neck. Oh, you have such a lovely neck, Cassilah!”
“Thanks, Ma. I think I get that from you. Anyway, I really am beat, and I just wanna drop into bed and do dishes tomorrow. I’ll call you after the interview to let you know either way…”
“And then we’ll go out and celebrate because you’ll get it honey, I just know you will. I have faith in you, and I’ll be praying for you. Night now, bubby.”
“I love you, Ma. I need all the prayers I can get.”
Cassidy clicked off her phone. She made sure her door was locked, that the stove and oven were turned off, and headed off to bed.
Cassidy shed clothes that still held the cooking odors of the day and slipped into a shelf bra top that pressed in her 36B’s like silver dollar pancakes. She pulled up pajama bottoms that were printed with Hello Kitty heads onto her forty inch legs. The bastard had also poked fun at her choice of bed clothing, calling it childish. Cassidy countered it was that it was comfortable and that she would always have a special place in her heart for the adorable iconic Japanese cat, because she had been collecting Hello Kitty memorabilia ever since her father had given her a stuffed Hello Kitty plush animal. She had toned down on her display of her most prized items, such as lunch pails, clock radios and the toaster while she had been living with the bastard, but once she was safely ensconced in the privacy of her own place, she was at last secure enough to properly put them in their places of honor. She didn’t consider herself an overzealous fanatic who trawled eBay in order to acquire everything Hello Kitty, but then again she did own about seventeen pairs of cotton printed Hello Kitty bikini briefs. Well, there was no one special who was likely to see her underwear, and she also had her share of sexy thongs and g-strings, should they ever need to come into play. And as Cassidy stood there in front of her sink, brushing her teeth and musing on the contents of her lingerie drawer, it occurred to her that somewhere on the scale between fun, happy underwear, she owned a great deal of “period” underwear— awful,granny panties cut things in shades of black, brown, maroon-any dark color that would absorb the infuriating stains that she experienced. She was a heavy bleeder and had to use both pads and tampons, and her periods lasted often for the whole week. Cassidy once had the impossible experience of a three day period and she wondered why they couldn’t all be like that. At least she had never been late—no scratch that. There was that once heart stopping time she’d been six days late, and there was a slight possibity she could be pregnant because the last time, about two weeks prior, she and the bastard had not used a condom. Since Cassidy wasn’t on the pill at the time (she was taking a break from the hormones and all their undesired side effects), she held her breath and kept putting off telling the bastard what she suspected. She was so glad she did, because on that seventh day, her period came, and decided to move in; it stayed for an uncharacteristic nine days. But Cassidy had been so relieved she could have gone the whole month, just dripping blood like a percolating coffee pot.
Cassidy rinsed and spit, regarding her reflection. She didn’t look nearly forty, and she certainly didn’t feel it, even though the effects of the last year had definitely taken their toll. There were fine lines—her crinkly Irish laughing eyes didn’t help there—that had creased around the eye area. She had just the slightest tinge of baggy shadows underneath her eyes, and her naso-labial folds had also deepened. At least she didn’t have a double chin, but she did notice that there was some crepiness around her neck skin wrinkles. That had definitely not been there even five years ago. But for all intents and purposes, she felt like she was still somewhere in her mid twenties. She just wanted her face to still reflect her so called “inner beauty.”
In all honesty, Cassidy wanted a man desperately, in her bed, in her life, and the first thing she knew they looked at was the face, and not the beauty within. She wasn’t knocking her looks, because she had been told she was beautiful all her life, by parents, friends, boyfriends alike, but she felt like her face was turning traitor on her a little now. She wondered if it was unethical to use, god willing if she got it, some of the loan money, on some facial procedures like botox and laser resurfacing, and maybe some coveted lash extensions.
But no, Cassidy sighed inwardly, turning off the vanity lights and jumping into bed, that would be totally wrong. Besides she would need all that capital for a new van, new appliances and dishes, payroll for new employees, food, god the food alone was going to cost her a small fortune, and of course advertising, figuring out the website, and on and on.
Cassidy knew she needed to get to sleep, but these thoughts kept running through her head, keeping her awake. She began to take deep Yogic breaths, in through her nose and out through her mouth, counting the exhalations and soon enough she was drifting off to sleep. One last fading thought ran through her mind—what if this falls through? What ever am I going to do with myself if that happens? And then sleep claimed her at last.

Chapter Two

At precisely six am sharp, Cassidy’s alarm blared her awake with the Go-Go’s “We Got the Beat.” She blearily reached over and killed the music, and rolled over, momentarily forgetting the momentous event that awaited her that morning.
“Oy vay! Crap!” Then it struck her. She was going in for her final interview with Mr. Ian Woon this morning, and this was the clincher. She didn’t know what to do first; prep the food or prep herself. She decided to bide time in the shower and go from there. She turned on the hot water faucet, then the cold and finally the third, and in her opinion, obsolete faucet that combined the two into her shower head. Why couldn’t they come up with a better system? Or maybe it was just her crappy apartment shower design. At any rate, she decided to get dressed first as the almost scalding hot water ran over her body and she scrubbed vigorously with her Tangerine Supreme “invigorating” body wash. She figured she could use all the energy she could get.
She put on her terry cloth robe and headed to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She purposefully tried to ignore the mess that still awaited her hands, which she had deemed better suited to other talents than slaving over a sink and dishwasher, even.
Cassidy slipped on her new ivory silk slip dress that was patterned in big black florals. She thought that it would look very hip and sharp with the blazer she had picked out; it had looked nice in the store, and oy, did she ever have to pay a pretty penny for it, but it was an investment in her career. Oh, and if I get this job, I’ll have to consider uniforms—she thought mentally ticking off another thing to add to her ever growing list of company essentials.
She began to apply makeup- she liked using the mineral powders that didn’t leave her skin feeling slick and as if it were melting off. She had the whole Bare Escentuals line that she had gotten with “holiday” money last year from her mother(her mother was a Mary Kay woman at heart and Cassidy knew she was betraying her by buying the competition.) Sarah insisted they observe Chanukah, and rolled her eyes at Cassidy’s Christmas trees and ornaments. Cassidy couldn’t help it; her father had loved the holiday, so while she was growing up it was a sort of crazy hybrid of the two holidays where she was showered with gifts. As a kid she loved the presents, but came to appreciate the holiday spirit as she grew older. And to think Christmas was only about six weeks away. She wondered what eight very practical and personal things Sarah would give her this year, like Spanx, a body shaping undergarment, or Nads natural sugaring system (“For your little mustache problem, bubbalah,” Sarah had beamed when Cassidy had opened that little gem a couple of years ago.)
Cassidy did take her mother’s suggestion and pulled her hair into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. She parted her hair on the right side, and combed her bangs to the left, so they were sideswept. She wet them down and slicked them back with fiber gum putty, hoping for a professional, yet not too sever look. Oh, one last thing- Cassidy thought, reflecting on her reflection. Mascara. Gotta bring out those eyes or I’ll look dead.
She could smell the coffee in the kitchen and went to pour herself a cup. She doctored her java with plenty of milk, sugar and a dash of cinnamon. She went over the logistics of how she was going to get over to the Frost bank across town located on Fredericksburg Road. She wished Mr. Ian Woon was at a closer branch, like the one down Broadway at loop four ten interchange. But oh well, she thought. Can’t have it all.
Now, she was going to have to get all that food up to temp here in the kitchen, store it in her insulated food carrier. She could reheat the steak with a little bit of wine emulsified in olive oil on the griddle, heat up the risotto with just a little bit of added water, and just remember to bring along her mini blow torch. Gotta make sure that thing’s got enough gas in it. I’m pretty sure it does, Cassidy thought, sipping her coffee and feeling her brain drink in the caffeine. The clock in the kitchen read seven o clock, and she was going to have to hustle to get everything done in half an hour, so she could leave at seven thirty to beat the morning rush hour traffic. At seven thirty five, she was headed out the door, looking like a glorified pizza deliverer, she was sure, but her heart was in her throat. Every thing her heart desired rested in with this precious cargo she was carrying.
Cassidy had nicknamed her Honda Prelude Betsy, and fired the old girl up, kissing the star of david that hung from her rear view mirror, saying a brief prayer and planting a kiss on her finger then touching it to the picture of her father that was wedged into her instruments panel.
“Wish me luck, Daddy,” she whispered, backing out of the apartment complex and jumping onto Interstate ten via two eighty one south. It was a good thing she had left early: traffic around the University of the Incarnate Word was a jumble and backed up at the two eighty one entrance light. She turned on the radio for some back ground noise to distract her mind. She toggled her seek button until it settled on ninety six point one The Mix. “Bleedin’ Love” by Leona Lewis came blasting out at her.
“I don’t care what they say, I’m in love wit’chu…” Cassidy sang along under her breath as she often did with songs that she only halfway knew until she got to the chorus, which she sang in full throated abandon:
“Keep bleedin, keep keep bleedin’ love, ya keep bleedin’, keep keep bleedin’ me…”
Soon she was merging onto two eighty one with the rest of the morning commuters and was heading off to meet with destiny. Oh, that sounded so corny in her head, Cassidy knew, but it rang especially true with entrepreneurs such as herself. She was pretty sure none of them went in feeling a hundred percent confident. She could say, without a doubt that she was a hundred percent behind her food, but when it came to Cassidy herself, well, she would just have to hope that what she presented as her best representation of herself would have to do for Mr. Ian Woon, as he was the one who would be signing off on her.
Twenty minutes later, she was pulling into the Frost bank parking lot. She pulled the rearview mirror towards her and fumbled around in her purse for some last minute lip gloss and powder. Well, I guess that’s as good as I’m gonna get this early in the morning. Cassidy was not normally a morning person—she felt her most creative later on in the day, especially at night. She remembered all the late night coffee house nights at Candlelight Coffee House, brainstorming the very ideas that went into making the final menu that she would also be presenting to Mr. Ian Woon. Though it wasn’t much, only a sampling of what she was capable of, she was most proud of her “house” special salad, a combination of savory microgreens and arugula with pomegranate seeds, walnuts, julienned yellow carrots tossed in a champagne vinaigrette flavored with the aromatics rosemary and oregano, tossed with her very own homemade buttery, garlicky croutons (the secret was soaking day old baguette rounds in olive oil, then crushing the garlic in the pan with butter and more olive oil. Fry the croutons lightly until golden brown, and season with sea salt.) It was truly her own invention whereas she may have taken license with a Martha Stewart recipe and combining it with a Giada de Laurentiis technique.
Cassidy retrieved her insulated bags, the one with the entrée and the other with the dessert, checking them to make sure nothing had spilled, and squared her shoulder as she walked into the bank. The receptionist, whose name tag read “Lorena” was the type of Texas woman who had perfect back-combed hair and the perfect mask of make up that made it hard to tell if she was thirty or fifty. She was blonde, tan and thin and smiled a bleached white smile of perfectly bonded teeth at Cassidy.
“Can I help you out this mornin’, hon?” Lorena’s twang was musical and bright.
Cassidy bristled at the “hon” reference. Only certain relatives and hard core diner waitresses could pull it off in her estimation, but she wasn’t going to let it rattle her, not today.
“I have an eight o clock appointment with Mr. Ian Woon,” Cassidy said drawing herself up to her full considerable five feet eight inches (more like five eleven in these pumps, she thought wryly, trying to wriggle her toes against the unfamiliar sensation of the heels.)
“By all means, his office is just down that hallway, second door on your left. Good luck with your loan, hon!”
Cassidy smiled, but inwardly it galled her that a woman who was probably as old as she was kept calling her hon, but what was she going to do about it? Besides the woman had wished her luck, and she was going to take it wherever it came from, ditzy receptionists included.
Her heels clacked steadily on the shiny tiled flooring, and a minute later she was there. The door was open so Cassidy tapped respectfully on the doorframe. Mr. Ian Woon looked away from his computer and turned toward the sound.
“Ah, good morning Ms. Ballantine! Please come in,” he said, getting up from her desk and ushering her in.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? But I see you have brought something of your own.” He said as they both took seats, she across the desk from him.
“I’m fine for now, Mr. Woon, thanks, and yes, I do have a little something here, just for you actually. I brought along a sample of my menu and one of the dishes off of it for you to try.” Cassidy’s heart was thumping as she pulled out the printed menu and slid it across the desk to Mr. Ian Woon. As he perused it, she began to prepare the sample dish. “I even brought a dessert, since I am mainly a pastry chef.”
“Oh how thoughtful and clever of you. It smells wonderful. Now what do we have here,” Mr. Ian Woon pulled on his reading glasses and skimmed her menu.
“Cornish game hen stuffed with cranberry and pine nut cous cous…Lobster Louis served in an avocado boat…polenta squares topped with bacon and fried sage…”Chef’s Special” salad of arugula and microgreens with julienned yellow carrots, pomegranate seeds, walnuts, tossed with an aromatic champagne vinaigrette flavored with oregano and rosemary and homemade croutons…eggs benedict with steamed asparagus…pan fried catfish with bacon wrapped steak fries…lobster ravioli with a butter and sage sauce…tomatillo and sour cream enchilada casserole…tempura prawn with mango ginger glaze dipping sauce and vegetable fried rice…foie gras and duck liver mousse terrine. Very impressive menu, Ms. Ballantine.”
“I can also do a number of sushi rolls and sashimi cut fish. Here is my signature dish, rib steak in a red wine reduction with zucchini risotto.” She pushed the plate, complete with silverware across the desk and looked expectantly at Mr. Ian Woon. The moment of truth had arrived. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap to keep from fidgeting.
Mr. Ian Woon picked up the knife and fork and cut a bit off the steak, bringing it up to his mouth and chewing efficiently like a little terrier dog, Cassidy couldn’t help from noticing. She stifled a that terrible sensation to giggle at the most extremely inappropriate moment. He then took a forkful of the rice and chewed thoughtfully, closing his eyes as he savored the dish.
“Sublime, Ms. Ballantine. You have most thoroughly demonstrated that you can cook. Do you have a price point for your menu?”
Cassidy barely had time to register her inward sigh of relief. Her cooking had “passed the mustard,” as her father would have joked.
“Yes, I do. I was thinking of starting my more inexpensive dishes at twelve fifty a plate to my more expensive dishes at fifteen dollars a plate, just to give my clients an idea if they have a definite head count. Then we can negotiate group discount prices as the number of people in attendance of the event goes higher.” Mr Ian Woon was nodding as he finished up the small sample Cassidy had given him.
“Once again, that was delicious, Ms. Ballantine. Once you find your clientele, you will have no problem drumming up business. Now, one of the things we had discussed at our last meeting was your choices of real estate for your storefront. You had narrowed it down to three choices. I must ask you now, do you have a favorite?”
“Actually, I do. It used to be a little coffee house at the corner of Broadway and Nacodoches roads, sort of in the neighborhood of the Quarry shopping center. The kitchenette portion can easily be converted into the sort of working kitchen I need, and it has enough room to double as a café, which would provide me with additional revenue between catering jobs.”
“That’s just the sort of spirit that makes me happy to tell you that you have been approved for this loan, Ms. Ballantine. Your credit checks have all been above board, and we here at Frost feel that you can be a great success not only to us, but to yourself as well. I think you’re going to enjoy being your own boss. Congratulations.”
Mr. Ian Woon was extending his hand across and in a fog of joy and near disbelief; not because the interview hadn’t been going well, it was just that how often had she gotten something she really wanted? For the first time since the bastard had left her, she felt her self esteem soar, and some of the old spunky Cassidy seep back into her ego.
“Oh, Mr. Woon, you won’t regret this, I promise! And now, for the icing on top of the cake…”Cassidy bent down and brought out the crème brulee and blow torch. She fired the blow torch up, and watched as Mr. Woon’s eyes widened with surprise and delight. She smiled, having predicted that he would do so. She dusted the top with vanilla sugar she had made with the cast off bean pods. The top of the dessert began to bubble and crystallize and the smell of the burning sugar began to waft around the room. Soon the whole top was a warm toffee brown, and Cassidy extinguished the torch, and brought out a spoon for Mr. Ian Woon.
“Would you care to do the honors?” Cassidy said with a big smile on her face.
“Oh, Ms. Ballantine, you have really spoiled me today.” Mr. Ian Woon said, as he took the spoon and crackled thru the surface of the dessert. He took one bite, and looked up at her, again with surprise and delight.
“This is incredible, so light…so scrumptious.” Mr. Ian Woon raved, attacking the dessert more fervently.
“I hope you don’t think I was bribing you to get this loan,” Cassidy half-joked, feeling relaxed enough and still riding her high on being accepted to let loose with her plan of attack.
“Not at all. In fact, I wish more of our prospective applicants were as tenacious and creative as you. We may have lent out more money if they were. As it stands, you have impressed me, and by proxy, our board very much, and like I said, I think you’ll go far. Now, to the matter of cutting you your check,” Mr. Ian Woon drew out a big ledger full of cashier’s cheques. He filled it out, scrawled his signature at the bottom, and handed it to Cassidy, who drew in her breath. There it was, pay to the order of Cassidy J. Ballantine, fifty thousand dollars. She had never seen so many zeros behind any one number in her life on any check that had her name on it. It was a pretty heady feeling. And this was merely a micro loan, she knew, the most that she could qualify for because of her financial status. But she knew she could count on Sarah to help her out because by nature Sarah would want to invest in her daughter and help her out in any way she could, especially if it was financial. Sarah was a financial whiz, and ran a successful home business herself online selling her hand made paper products, and she occasionally still sold Mary Kay at her famous Mary Kay parties that she held from time to time when cash was running low. There was no bursting Cassidy’s bubble now. She knew she could get Amuse Bouche up and running within the month. Then it was a matter of getting her business base. First order of business was to get her website up and running, and to order business cards. Then she had to talk to the realtor and sign the lease on the property. Then she could think about renovations, furniture, fixtures, machinery, and equipment. Not to mention hiring some trusted employees. She knew that Yolanda from Central Market would come to her aid and be glad for the extra work. She was a single mom with three kids and was always concerned about making ends meet. Maybe she could ask Marcos Olivares and Jennifer Zapien, two of the college kids who worked at the cheese department who Cassidy was on friendly terms with. Certainly they would make excellent cater waiters; she could even offer them part-time work at her café headquarters.
“Well, Ms. Ballantine, if you’d like, we can deposit that check if you’d like to open your business account with us. It is not mandatory, of course, I see that you bank with Wells Fargo, but we can offer you at this time an exclusive Blue for Business card from AmEx. It offers a wide variety of incentives, such as zero percent introductory APR on purchases for up to fifteen months,
no annual fee with the flexibility to pay in full or carry a balance, a fixed APR of four point nine-nine percent for the life of the balance for balance transfers submitted with the application or posted to your account during the first six months of Card membership. Then, the standard APR for purchases will apply, option to enroll in the complimentary Membership Rewards Express(R) program, with flexible rewards for you or your business. What’s more, Ms. Ballantine, there's no limit to the number of points you can earn and points have no expiration date. And of course it features built-in ExpressPay technology that lets you make small purchases fast without swiping your Card. Have I convinced you with my pitch? You listened quite attentively, and I thank you!” Mr. Ian Woon joked.
To tell the truth, Cassidy had simply put on a serious face and nodded interestedly at the important points. She only had one credit card, and she supposed the reason her credit was so good was the fact that she rarely used it. In her mind, credit cards were the handiwork of Wall Street devils who wanted to keep America spending money they didn’t have on things they didn’t really need but thought they wanted. Maybe it was because she was on a high from getting her loan approved, but as a good business owner, she should definitely have a business account, and what could just one more eensy credit card hurt? Besides, it would be strictly for business, not anything else. She would not let it go to her head. But she could certainly charge those nice new uniforms and chef’s wardrobe with a card like that. She could charge top of the line and beautiful tableware and flatware and linens with a card like that. Cassidy’s head was already swimming and she forced herself to concentrate on what Mr. Ian Woon was saying.
“…So that’s why I recommend we open you up an account. What do you say, Ms. Ballantine?”
“I say, sign me up, Mr. Woon!”
***
“I’m walkin’ on sunshine, whoa, I’m walking on sunshine, whoa-oh-oh, I’m walkin’ on sunshine, whoa, and don’t it feel GOOD?!” Cassidy sang at the top of her lungs, driving her Honda Prelude Betsy home. She took her hair out of its ponytail and shook it about like a wild woman. She dug out her cell phone and punched number one on her speed dial, Sarah Bloomberg-Ballantine. After two rings, Sarah picked up, breathless.
“You caught me in the middle of pilates Cassilah. Well? Are we in business?”
“YES, MA, we’re in business! I got my loan! Fifty thousand smackers. It’s just a micro loan, but that was the max they were gonna award me anyway, and what with the rent on the property, I think I can make it, Ma. It’s really gonna happen!” Cassidy squealed, as breathless as Sarah.
Sarah heaved an audible sigh of relief.
“Oh, Cassie, I’m so proud of you, honey. I just wish your father was here to celebrate with us. Speaking of which,” she hurried through, not wanting to become overwhelmed with the emotions she was feeling, “what time should I pick you up tonight, and where do you want to go? It’s my treat.”
“Well, I’ve still got a lot left to do today. I want to get a hold of my realtor and sign off on the property and I also want to call that contractor I talked to last month about coming in to renovate the kitchen. Then I need to get an ad in the want ads for staff. I’ll see if they’ll let me post a flyer up at Central Market at their customer service poster board. And then I have to go ahead and give Andre my two weeks at Entrees. That’s going to be the hardest part, leaving him. I learned so much from working there.”
“But he always knew this day was coming, didn’t he? I mean you were up front from the beginning that someday you wanted to open up your own catering business?” Sarah inquired.
“Yeah. And it was pretty amazing of him to give me a job even though he knew I’d be competition one day. I really got a feel for how the business end was run by observing him.”
“We’re truly blessed, but you still haven’t answered my question. Where do you want to go to celebrate? And remember, the sky’s the limit.”
Cassidy sighed. She did want to see Sarah, but she was also very psyched about getting her business up by the beginning of November, because she was anticipating the holiday rush of business. Every second counted, but she supposed she should take the time out to spend some quality time with her mother. She had worked so hard this past year it seemed like she barely saw Sarah anymore.
“Okay. How bout this, since I don’t when I’ll be done, I’ll meet you at Hung Fong’s at about seven.”
“Hung Fong’s, really? Out of all your haute cuisine choices out there, you want greasy Chinese?”
“It is not greasy, Ma, and I’m really in the mood for their lemon chicken and fried rice. Not to mention their crab Rangoon.”
“Okay, whatever my little chef’s heart desires, that’s what she’s gonna get. I suppose I can order something stir fried and steamed.”
“I’m sure you can. Look Ma, I’m in the car, and I should probably go.”
“Cassilah! You know I hate it when you call me when you’re driving. Hang up already!” Sarah’s voice became strident with concern.
“Love you, Ma,” Cassidy said with a grin in her voice, because nothing, not her mother’s overbearing attitude, was going to stand in the way of her golden ticket day. She clicked off her phone, and turned up the volume on her radio, which was now blaring Nina’s “Ninety Nine Red Balloons.”
“Awesome!” Cassidy exclaimed as she attempted to sing along with the eighty’s New Wave hit.
“Ninety nine knights of the air/Ride super high tech jet fighters/Everyone’s a super hero, everyone’s a Captain Kirk/With orders to identify/To clarify and classify/Scramble in the summer sky/Ninety nine red balloons go by.”
Cassidy felt as free as those balloons, and that nothing could keep her down. She kept humming the tune as she pulled into her parking lot a few minutes later, and got her favorite spot under the large magnolia tree. She reclaimed all the insulated bags from the backseat and walked with a spring in her step to her apartment, 2A (luckily) on the ground floor.
She let herself in, kicked off her shoes and did a very silly, yet totally unfettered dance of joy. She immediately shed her jacket, pulled the slip dress off, and went to go put on some jeans and Marc Jacob’s olive floral jacquard print button plaquet tank she purchased at TJ Maxx a few months ago on a splurge. It was still expensive, even though it was incredibly discounted from a suggested retail price of one hundred thirty five dollars. But since she was going to be seeing more people today, she figured she ought to try and look semi-professional; Cassidy just wanted to dress up more like herself. They’d respect her for that, wouldn’t they, she thought, as she pulled on ankle high brown leather Nine West boots that went under her boot cut dark denim wash jeans.
Minutes later she was placing a call on her cell phone to Naomi Wron, her realtor.
“Naomi Wron.”
“Hi, Naomi, it’s Cassidy Ballantine. From Amuse Bouche?”
“Ah, yes, the catering business, right? So I take it you have some good news for me?”
“Yes, I was approved earlier this morning, and I’d like to go ahead and sign a lease on one of the properties we’d discussed.”
“Great. I’m thrilled for you. So, which locale did you decide on?”
“The one on North Broadway and Nacodoches, where there’s that wine tasting room called Rebar, and that restaurant Antojos is.”
“Oh, yes. Well, if that what’s going to work for you, I’d be happy to meet you out there to go over final paperwork, and hand over the keys.”
“That sounds fabulous. How early can you meet me?”
“Well, it’s what, about nine now? Can we do it over lunch? Say noon?”
“I’ll be there,” Cassidy said. “Thanks again Naomi. You were really helpful.”
“Just doing my job, Cassidy. See you at noon.”
“See you.” Cassidy clicked her phone off and mentally crossed one thing off the to-do list she had dictated to her mother earlier. She went to her desk and rooted through her filofax, looking for a business card she had picked up several months ago. It was for a contractor she had met at Lowe’s while she was window shopping for appliances such as ovens and dishwashers. She located the card and punched in the number. The phone rang and rang until finally someone picked up on the other end.
“Sepulveda and Sons General Contracting,” said a voice in mildly accented English.
“Hi, my name is Cassidy Ballantine. Am I speaking with Jesus Sepulveda?”
“Yes, that’s right. How can I help you?” That last “you” coming out sounding like “jew”, it made Cassidy almost giggle inappropriately again, but she held it back and sternly told herself to be professional. She was a bona fide professional now after all, she should begin to act the part.
“Yeah, I don’t know if you remember me. We met at the Lowe’s in Balcones Heights a few months ago? I was pricing ovens, and we got to talking and you gave me your business card? Well, as it turns out, I’d like to hire you immediately for a kitchen renovation job at my new property.”
“Oh, I remember you now, pretty big blue ojos lady. Yeah, sure, I can take your job,” Jesus said, warming to her over the phone.
“That’s great news. Now, here’s what needs to happen in the kitchen,” and Cassidy outlined a sketch of the most basic changes that she wanted done and asked for a ball park figure. He quoted her an estimate that would consume about a fifth of her loan money, but she was ready for it. She always knew that was going to be the most costly part of the outfit, well that and the lease on the property itself.
“So, that will include time and materials, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. I think we could get it done in about two weeks.”
“That sounds fantastic,” Cassidy exclaimed. If Jesus and sons could actually pull it off, she thought, but immediately banished that negativity out of her head. She was going to trust that this very nice and seemingly honest man, from what she remembered, would come through. He was the Mexican equivalent of what she imagined her grandfather would be like, if she could remember either of them. They had both died when Cassidy was very young, and one of them had lived in Ireland to boot, the other on the East Coast in New York City. Cassidy had vague remembrances of her grandfather Ari Bloomberg, or Zeyde as she had called him, which was Yiddish for grandfather. She was five and he had taken her all around New York, to see the Statue of Liberty, cruise around the bay, and finally a day at Coney Island. She remembered he bought her all the cotton candy she asked for, and how later on that evening she didn’t touch her dinner and how Sarah had berated him for spoiling her.
“How’m I supposed to know what kids these days eat, already? You were a picky one yourself, bubby.” And he had winked at Cassidy conspiratorially.
But sadly that was the one and only time she could remember with her maternal grandfather while he was alive; she wished time would have afforded them more of itself together, but he passed from their lives within the next year, so the next time Cassidy saw him, it was at the funeral. Then Sarah had to plan the whole shivah herself because her mother had already died before Cassidy was born. But Sarah was a pillar of strength for her mourning relatives and friends, with her handsome albeit goy husband by her side and her beautiful baby girl, she considered herself very lucky to still be alive, and knew that Zeyde was in a better place, as she tried to explain to young Cassidy.
Jesus had been rattling off itemized costs and it shook Cassidy out of her reverie.
“Mr. Sepulveda, I’d like to set up an appointment today with you, as soon as possible, maybe say two o clock at the property, so you can get a feel for the place. I’d like to break ground as soon as possible.”
“Sure thing. Where’s your business at?” Jesus asked.
“It’s at the corner of North Broadway and Nacodoches road. You could take two eighty one north, and get out at Basse. I believe Basse runs into Broadway.”
“I got GPS, I’ll find you. Two o clock, then?” Jesus confirmed.
“Yes, sir. I’ll see you then,” Cassidy said, clicking off her phone and feeling like a steam train going full tilt down the tracks—nothing could stop her.