Page 62 of So Not My Thing
Chapter Sixteen
Miss Mary looked outover the packed tables, each full of customers she’d known for years, and smiled.
“You okay?” I asked, watching her face.
It was a Saturday night, one of the few that the café had ever stayed open, and Miss Mary and a whole crew of her family had been prepping a giant goodbye gumbo for days. I’d come down several afternoons and helped Jerome with veggies, chopping up vats of onion, bell pepper, and celery—what we called the holy trinity in Cajun cooking—and slicing sausage and okra to get it all ready for Miss Mary to cook it up.
She’d spent all day on the gumbo yesterday, making the rich brown flour roux—had to be the color of an old brown penny, she’d told me for as long as I could remember—then she and Jerome had sauteed veggies and fried sausage and browned chicken, building the flavors of the gumbo layer by layer.
Gumbo was a thick stew served over rice, and it was everything you needed in one dish, so people didn’t often bother with sides beyond oyster crackers on top for some texture. I’d once heard one of Miss Mary’s grandkids complain about not liking okra, and Miss Mary had set her straight. “Okra is where gumbo gets its name, you hear? Our people brought okra from Africa centuries ago. Ki ngombo, it was called, and we used it to thicken our stews. How are you going to make a gumbo with no okra? Next you’re going to tell me we don’t need filé.” She’d shaken her head. “Just cook it down all day and you’ll never know the okra is in there.”
I knew about filé from my own grandmother. It was a greenish brown powder made from ground sassafras and used as a thickener too. It didn’t taste like anything by itself, but add it to the gumbo, and suddenly it was magic.
But both my grandmother and Miss Mary lived by the rule that gumbo was always better the second day, just like homemade marinara sauce. It had to do with letting all the flavors steep overnight, so yesterday had been Miss Mary’s gumbo-making day, and today it was Miss Mary’s gumbo-feeding day, opening up the café to people all day long to come in and get their last bowl of gumbo, all the proceeds going into the college fund she’d set up for her grandkids.
She’d also decided it was a good time to give the neighborhood a preview of what would replace her. Miles had refused to perform, saying he didn’t want to overshadow her final day.
“You’re crazy,” she’d told him. “We’d get so many people here and word would get out about what’s coming, and it’d give you a huge head start.”
But Miles wouldn’t hear of it. Watching the two of them try to wear each other down was like watching an unstoppable force meet an immovable object—basically, my grandad refusing to evacuate no matter the category of an incoming hurricane, Miles being my obstinate grandad and Miss Mary being the relentless hurricane.
Ultimately, I gave the final point to Miss Mary because she prevailed upon Miles to provide music, even if he wasn’t doing it himself. And so against the back wall where Miles eventually wanted to put his stage, a trio of kids from the Tremé music center was getting ready to play. Boogey was on keyboard, there was another kid on an upright double bass, and a third on a scaled down set of drums, ready to play with brushes.
“I’m okay,” Miss Mary confirmed. “It feels both harder and easier than I expected it to. I know in my bones it’s time, but it’s strange to think I’m not coming in tomorrow to prep for the Sunday brunch crowd.”
I draped an arm around her shoulder. I couldn’t imagine it either. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Just make friends with Miles’s new chef and bum food off him, same like you did with me. Miles will do fine,” Miss Mary said, no concern in her voice. “When he showed me his concept for the new interiors, I knew there was nothing to worry about. He has his head on straight.”
Miles walked out from the kitchen right then. He’d made himself comfortable with the staff entrance over the last week at Miss Mary’s insistence, and he hurried toward us now with a smile.
“Miss Mary,” he said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “I stole a taste of gumbo, and now I have all kinds of guilt for taking over your place. I’m worried the neighborhood will run me out when you leave and take your gumbo with you.”
She laughed and pulled him against her side in the half-squeeze she gave all her grandkids. “Stop it with that nonsense, you charmer. You know it’s the chicken and biscuits that’s going to get you in trouble.”
Miles laughed and hugged her back. “You’re right. I might be doomed before I even open.”
“Don’t you worry,” she said, her eyes twinkling up at him. “I might have had the cook from the new café in here last week showing her how to make them, so Miss Mary’s chicken and biscuits can live on and no one has to boycott your new place. Besides,” she said, nodding in the direction of the trio, “I was listening to them warm up, and if that was anything to go by, your bigger problem is going to be finding enough seats for everyone who wants to get in.”
“I hope so,” he said with a soft sigh. “They’re really good, huh?”
“They really are,” she confirmed. “Why don’t you go see if they’re ready, and we’ll kick this party up a notch?”
