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"Dud, mon frère, what's on your bill o'
fare?" This is from Beau, easing through the café door like he does.
Always got some snappy line for the folks in there. Smell that cologne? Beau
drives clear into New Orleans just to buy that cologne. Hear the click! of
those heels? Oh yeah, no mistaking when it's Beau walking through the door.
Everyone around here comes to the Rendez-Vous---Beau arrives. Dud, he's standing behind the counter with his hands (magic hands,
some say!) on his hips, staring at Beau and rolling his eyes like he does.
Beau knows that bill o' fare from head to hock---knows it about as well as Dud
knows it himself. Of course, that's no small feat. Most nights Dud's bill o'
fare is likely to be as long as anything Beau's read in his life. But not
tonight. "Got that glide in my stride," says Beau, "now I
need you to cook me up something gonna put a little pep in my step." It's Saturday night and Beau's all chalk-stripes and painted
silk. Wearing his two-tone "spades" with the stacked-up wooden
heels for that just right click! Got his pants
"draped" and "pegged"---belt loops dropped low and cuffs
tight around the ankle. Creases looking about sharp as one of Dud's butcher
knives. Got a fresh gardenia in his lapel shining bright as a
flashbulb---bright as his brand-new '52 Buick convertible parked out front.
Shining bright as the eyes of the young women when they watch Beau step out
of that famous machine. Only car in town with wire wheels and dual chrome
tailpipes. That "spinner" on the steering wheel is made from a
solid ivory cue ball and it's not just for show. Needs that knob for navigating
one-handed down those twisty back roads. You ask any lucky gal he's given a
ride home from the café. Dud still staring at Beau. He's wiping his hands on his greasy
old apron and just staring at that boy. It was Beau Broussard and his crowd,
of course, who gave him his name. The only name he's known by around here.
Not that his true Christian name, Dudley Fecteau, was anything to crow about.
Especially the "Fecteau" part. The Fecteaus have been long
notorious as the most worthless sorts in the area and Dud's mamma, Angel
Fecteau, was no exception. She abandoned him when he was just a child, and,
since his daddy was not known, he had to bear the further shame of becoming a
Fecteau by taking the name from his mamma. That's how they do it
around here. Anyway, Pep Bergeron, owner of the Rendez-Vous, took Dudley in.
The Bergerons got so damn many kids it seemed that one more would hardly
matter. Room being scarce as it is in their home, Pep (short for Pépin,
or seed, another community-bestowed name) raised Dudley in the
café and it was there he discovered that the boy had a gift. Dudley could cook. Makes no sense at all, but even as a little
boy, he could cook. Sure didn't learn it from his mamma. Didn't learn it from
Madame Bergeron, who was more concerned with how to feed fifteen children
with one rabbit than what sauce to put on it. Didn't learn it from anyone in
that wandering tribe of greasy-spoon cooks that used to work the Rendez-Vous
kitchen just long enough to buy a jug of wine. And, no, just like what Beau's
got, what Dud's got you can't get from a book. There's no explanation for
it---and it's best to leave it at that. Of course, you'll find folks living
out in the black water that claim there's some sort of juju involved
here. Well, they can believe what they want. What I believe is, some people
are just special. They're put on this earth for a purpose, and Dud was put
here to cook. Simple as that. Good thing young Dudley was gifted like that, too. Being so
slightly built, there wasn't much else he could have done but help in the
kitchen to earn his keep. Pep, he wasted little time turning Dudley's
childhood playground into his workshop. Can't really blame him. When you got
someone around with such a gift, it's only natural to take advantage of it.
So, pretty soon, Dudley, he's running that kitchen where he used to just peel
potatoes and stir the gumbo. (Folks here will swear on a Bible that the first
time Dudley stirred the gumbo, customers asked Pep if he'd finally hired a
real cook). Before he was even a teenager, that skinny, nervous little kid
had become a genuine chef. I guess it's been a good ten years now that
everyone in this small town has just taken the fine fare at the Rendez-Vous
for granted. Come to expect it like the rising sun. And if Dudley Fecteau missed
out on a real childhood, or if he didn't exactly learn all the social
graces---if he had to become "Dud," well, maybe that's just the
price you pay for having a gift. Now let me tell you something more about this gift. I'm just
going to have to take the time to do that because . . . . well, let me give
you an example. Every mother's son around here, legitimate or otherwise, can
whip up a proper roux. They'll cook all the different roux in
the book. But Dud, he's got a red roux that makes people
break out in freckles and the most beautiful chorus of Danny Boy you've ever
heard. People that never sung a note before in their lives! He's got a
blonde roux that after one taste is going to put you on a
bear-skin rug with the Northern Lights swirling around your head. Folks in
the café know to wear a sweater when Dud cooks with that roux.
His roux noir can turn your hair nappy and every song on the
jukebox into jungle drums. Now, now you see what I'm talking about? You see
why maybe I'm not so anxious to be discussing this subject? And there's more.
The boy's etouffée doesn't smother those shrimp, just
massages them into a mellow mood so they'll crawl onto your spoon, curl up
and purr. His sauce piquant sets them dancing on their
tails. (Leaves on their rear legs for the cancan). And his
sausage! He doesn't stop with a boudin blanc and a boudin
rouge, oh no. He's got a baiser premier, his "first
kiss" sausage, and a bris d'pretemps, his "spring
breeze" sausage. His "mother's smile" sausage, his boudin
sourire l'maternel, has been known to leave the biggest, toughest men in
the parish dropping tears into their plates. He knows the secret of the mélange,
too---knows how to make the just right combinations. Like, you ever go
walking with your sweetheart on a frosty fall night and stop to give your
sweetheart a hug? You ever reach inside your sweetheart's coat for that warm,
bundled-up body, and at the same time press your face against your
sweetheart's cool cheek? Well, if you've ever done that, you'll know about
Dud's spicy Creole chicken with the chilled vinaigrette on the side. And
you'll know why he calls that dish Octobre Nuit. All his young
life, Dud's been in the kitchen cooking up those fantastic meals. But not
tonight. Tonight, Dud's just standing there, watching Beau Broussard work
that crowd like he does. Always knows what to say, that boy. Always gets the
folks laughing. "Need something nice," says Beau, "like some
sticky chicken and dirty rice." Beau, he's making like a rooster now. Dud's already told Beau that he can't have whatever he wants
tonight. Any other night, you want some sticky chicken and dirty rice and
it's not on the bill o' fare, no problem. Dud's going to cook you up whatever
you want. Heck, you sick of sticky chicken and dirty rice? He'll cook you up
some dirty chicken and sticky rice, if
that's what you want. But not tonight. Pep himself is in the café tonight, been over talking with that
stranger sitting alone at the counter. Skinny guy with his hat brim pulled
down over the side of his face. "Don't know who that guy is," Pep says to Beau,
"but he seems kinda familiar. Sounds like he's from over in Alabama
somewhere." Beau's shaking his head. "Whoever he is, he sure looks like
he could use a meal. Wonder if he can pay for one." "Oh, he says he's got all the work he wants. Just likes to
go out sometimes and 'drift'." "He's sure drifted into the right place if he wants to
fatten up a bit---but not particularly tonight. What's wrong with ol' Dud,
there?" "I don't know," says Pep, scratching his chin.
"Told me not to worry. Says he's got plenty food cooked up, but it's a
'limited menu' tonight. Says the food's all cooked up and ready to go, but
he's leaving the café early. Never known him to that." "Damn!" Dud's taken his apron off, thrown it back in the corner. He's
sporting some new "chino" pants and his penny loafers look like
he's been buffing them half the day. Must be the first time folks here have
seen Dud in anything but jeans and that nasty old apron. They been steadily
bugging him about this 'limited menu' thing, but, Dud, he's sticking to his
guns. He's got some good local specialties cooked up and that's just going to
have to do. Can't be stuck in that kitchen all night---not tonight. Dud's
heading for the countryside to visit a certain little someone he's met. It
was out at the farm where he goes to pick up his honey, that's where he found
something sweeter than all the honey in the world. A nice country girl, not
like those girls that hang out with Beau and his crowd. Not some girl who's
been hanging out late nights at the Rendez-Vous with the smoke and the hot,
sweaty bodies all pressed together. Never danced to that throbbing bass and
the chanky-chank of the frottoir. He likes her
family, too. Hard-working folks to whom he's still Dudley or Monsieur
Fecteau. Beau and the others, they're still going on about their food,
but Dud's already stepped out from behind the counter. He's got the night's
fare cooked. He's got those three dishes all cooked up, and he sings out loud
and clear just what they are. Sings it out so everyone in the café can hear.
Customers, now, they're are all grumbling and asking what's happened. Folks
around here get set in their ways, you see. They want Dud to tell them why
things are different tonight, but he's sick of dealing with those folks. Sick
to death of them. That's why he likes having a little secret from them.
That's why he walks over to the stranger and says into his ear, " 'cause
tonight I'm gonna to see my. . ." Stranger just looks up at Dud and gives him this big smile. © Joe Karson 2007. All Rights Reserved. |
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