Saving Irene (A Culinary Mystery)
Genre: cozy mystery
Pub date: September 16, 2020
Irene Foxglove wishes she were a French chef.
Henrietta James, her assistant, knows she is nothing more than a small-time TV chef on a local Chicago channel. And yet when Irene is threatened, Henny tries desperately to save her, wishing always that “Madame” would tell her the truth--about her marriage, her spoiled daughter, her days in France, the man who threatens her.
Henny’s best friend, the gay guy who lives next door, teases her, encourages her—and maybe loves her from afar.
Murder, kidnapping, and some French gossip complicate this mystery, set in Chicago and redolent with the aroma of fine food.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
At five foot nine, Irene Foxglove towers over me by a good five inches. This was particularly unpleasant when she was angry, and she was angry this day.
“Henrietta, the béchamel sauce is scorched.” Those loud, slightly disdainful deep tones rang out like a bell.
I hate to be called by my proper name, Henrietta. When given such a last name as James, you’d think my mother would have chosen a matching simple first name, maybe Sue. But no, she chose Henrietta. When I was a kid, the other children teased me about having an old-fashioned name and shortened it to Henny. Chef Irene Foxglove calls me Henrietta, and I cringe a bit half the time.” She, on the other hand, prefers to be addressed as “Madame.” Given my druthers, I’d address her as “Bitch.” But I work for her—and today, Madame was displeased.
Irene has a low-budget, local TV cooking show, from a small independent Chicago production company and cleverly titled Cooking with Irene, on an independent station. I am her gofer. It’s not a glamorous job, but when your eye is on a career in food television, you start where you can. My goal in life is to be a producer, doing documentaries. International cuisines intrigue me—I read a lot of Anthony Bourdain—but so does American cooking. Meanwhile, as her “culinary assistant”—my grand title—it’s my responsibility to assemble and prepare all ingredients before the shoot, so Irene looks organized and skillful. I’m not just behind the scenes. During a shoot, I have to wear a white butcher’s apron—but no chef’s hat like Irene—because I occasionally have to walk onto the set to hand her something.
I’ve learned to squelch my natural instincts to be a smart mouth and instead to be accommodating, so rather than “Make it yourself,” I said, “I’ll fix it.” How in heaven’s name can you scorch béchamel sauce? It’s nothing but the white sauce my mom taught me to make dressed up with a bit of nutmeg. But I took the pan, cleaned it, and made a new batch of sauce that passed muster.
Then she looked at the menu for the day, the one that would show onscreen for viewers, and literally shrieked. “Henrietta! The béchamel has no accent mark. It cannot go like this. We will appear as provincial bumpkins.” In Madame’s mind nothing could be more damning than the provincial label. I fixed that too. I was her fixer.
Today’s dish was croque monsieur or, if want to put it in plain English, a grilled ham-and-cheese. The béchamel, sometimes called the mother of French sauces, was used to slather the inside of the ham-and-gruyere concoction. Irene was ticking off the ingredients, checking to be sure I had them all ready and measured. Butter? Flour? Nutmeg? Sliced ham—is it the very best you could get? And so it went. I had it all laid out in neat little glass ramekins. After making the basic sandwich, Irene would top if off with a fried egg, transforming it instantly into a croque madame. I didn’t have a Texas name for that—we didn’t often top a grilled cheese with a fried egg back home. . . . .
About her toque. When I asked, as a new employee, where she took her culinary training, she eyed me for a long moment, then waved a hand airily and said, “France. Of course, France.” I wondered if the truth was something like Kendall College in Chicago. But she was all about France—French recipes, as today demonstrated, French phrases that she dropped here and there, even what she thought of as a French fashion style, chignon and all.
My doubts about her training came because sometimes I had to give her small cooking hints, things mostly my mother had taught me: a pinch of sugar in tomato-based sauces, which led Irene to say, “Mais oui, that is what we did in France.” Or a few drops of olive oil to keep pasta from clumping while you put finishing touches on the sauce. She’d say, “Good for the home cook, no? The chef, not so much. Not needed.” I wanted to reply that pasta is pasta, and it is all starch, and it will get gummy.
The shoot that afternoon was hard. When she was stressed, Irene had a tremor in her left hand, and today it was back. I had no idea what particular stress was causing it, nor did I want to ask. When she spilled the flour, I quickly measured out some more and ran it in to her. She filled the time by chatting on about the difficulty of getting béchamel just right. Which she almost didn’t do. I supposed the film crew wouldn’t mind as much as I did. They were the ones who would eat it. Irene nearly burnt the outside of the sandwich because her timing was off, but it was cooked onscreen and there was nothing I could do about it. Obviously flustered, she chattered on about how to pace your cooking so that the meal was all ready at once. And finally, she broke the egg yolk on her first try at transferring the fried egg from skillet to sandwich. Wordlessly, I handed her another egg.
Irene Foxglove was clearly off her game, and I worried that something more than fatigue was bothering her. Easy as she was to resent, Irene still struck a chord of sympathy in me. She was wound tight in the way that only insecure people are. I’d catch her staring off into space, and when I gently tried to bring her back to reality, she’d look around for a moment, startled, as though she couldn’t remember where she was.
Buy Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Saving-Irene-Culinary-Judy-Alter-ebook/dp/B08GXB8KP6
Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/id1531206726
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/saving-irene-judy-alter/1137615165;jsessionid=25CDBD588337575DFC7FD06A31F73A63.prodny_store01-atgap04?ean=2940164502515
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/saving-irene
Saving Irene (A Culinary Mystery)
Genre: cozy mystery
Pub date: September 16, 2020
Irene Foxglove wishes she were a French chef.
Henrietta James, her assistant, knows she is nothing more than a small-time TV chef on a local Chicago channel. And yet when Irene is threatened, Henny tries desperately to save her, wishing always that “Madame” would tell her the truth--about her marriage, her spoiled daughter, her days in France, the man who threatens her.
Henny’s best friend, the gay guy who lives next door, teases her, encourages her—and maybe loves her from afar.
Murder, kidnapping, and some French gossip complicate this mystery, set in Chicago and redolent with the aroma of fine food.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
At five foot nine, Irene Foxglove towers over me by a good five inches. This was particularly unpleasant when she was angry, and she was angry this day.
“Henrietta, the béchamel sauce is scorched.” Those loud, slightly disdainful deep tones rang out like a bell.
I hate to be called by my proper name, Henrietta. When given such a last name as James, you’d think my mother would have chosen a matching simple first name, maybe Sue. But no, she chose Henrietta. When I was a kid, the other children teased me about having an old-fashioned name and shortened it to Henny. Chef Irene Foxglove calls me Henrietta, and I cringe a bit half the time.” She, on the other hand, prefers to be addressed as “Madame.” Given my druthers, I’d address her as “Bitch.” But I work for her—and today, Madame was displeased.
Irene has a low-budget, local TV cooking show, from a small independent Chicago production company and cleverly titled Cooking with Irene, on an independent station. I am her gofer. It’s not a glamorous job, but when your eye is on a career in food television, you start where you can. My goal in life is to be a producer, doing documentaries. International cuisines intrigue me—I read a lot of Anthony Bourdain—but so does American cooking. Meanwhile, as her “culinary assistant”—my grand title—it’s my responsibility to assemble and prepare all ingredients before the shoot, so Irene looks organized and skillful. I’m not just behind the scenes. During a shoot, I have to wear a white butcher’s apron—but no chef’s hat like Irene—because I occasionally have to walk onto the set to hand her something.
I’ve learned to squelch my natural instincts to be a smart mouth and instead to be accommodating, so rather than “Make it yourself,” I said, “I’ll fix it.” How in heaven’s name can you scorch béchamel sauce? It’s nothing but the white sauce my mom taught me to make dressed up with a bit of nutmeg. But I took the pan, cleaned it, and made a new batch of sauce that passed muster.
Then she looked at the menu for the day, the one that would show onscreen for viewers, and literally shrieked. “Henrietta! The béchamel has no accent mark. It cannot go like this. We will appear as provincial bumpkins.” In Madame’s mind nothing could be more damning than the provincial label. I fixed that too. I was her fixer.
Today’s dish was croque monsieur or, if want to put it in plain English, a grilled ham-and-cheese. The béchamel, sometimes called the mother of French sauces, was used to slather the inside of the ham-and-gruyere concoction. Irene was ticking off the ingredients, checking to be sure I had them all ready and measured. Butter? Flour? Nutmeg? Sliced ham—is it the very best you could get? And so it went. I had it all laid out in neat little glass ramekins. After making the basic sandwich, Irene would top if off with a fried egg, transforming it instantly into a croque madame. I didn’t have a Texas name for that—we didn’t often top a grilled cheese with a fried egg back home. . . . .
About her toque. When I asked, as a new employee, where she took her culinary training, she eyed me for a long moment, then waved a hand airily and said, “France. Of course, France.” I wondered if the truth was something like Kendall College in Chicago. But she was all about France—French recipes, as today demonstrated, French phrases that she dropped here and there, even what she thought of as a French fashion style, chignon and all.
My doubts about her training came because sometimes I had to give her small cooking hints, things mostly my mother had taught me: a pinch of sugar in tomato-based sauces, which led Irene to say, “Mais oui, that is what we did in France.” Or a few drops of olive oil to keep pasta from clumping while you put finishing touches on the sauce. She’d say, “Good for the home cook, no? The chef, not so much. Not needed.” I wanted to reply that pasta is pasta, and it is all starch, and it will get gummy.
The shoot that afternoon was hard. When she was stressed, Irene had a tremor in her left hand, and today it was back. I had no idea what particular stress was causing it, nor did I want to ask. When she spilled the flour, I quickly measured out some more and ran it in to her. She filled the time by chatting on about the difficulty of getting béchamel just right. Which she almost didn’t do. I supposed the film crew wouldn’t mind as much as I did. They were the ones who would eat it. Irene nearly burnt the outside of the sandwich because her timing was off, but it was cooked onscreen and there was nothing I could do about it. Obviously flustered, she chattered on about how to pace your cooking so that the meal was all ready at once. And finally, she broke the egg yolk on her first try at transferring the fried egg from skillet to sandwich. Wordlessly, I handed her another egg.
Irene Foxglove was clearly off her game, and I worried that something more than fatigue was bothering her. Easy as she was to resent, Irene still struck a chord of sympathy in me. She was wound tight in the way that only insecure people are. I’d catch her staring off into space, and when I gently tried to bring her back to reality, she’d look around for a moment, startled, as though she couldn’t remember where she was.
Buy Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Saving-Irene-Culinary-Judy-Alter-ebook/dp/B08GXB8KP6
Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/id1531206726
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/saving-irene-judy-alter/1137615165;jsessionid=25CDBD588337575DFC7FD06A31F73A63.prodny_store01-atgap04?ean=2940164502515
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/saving-irene
About the Author:
After an established career writing historical fiction for adults and young adults, about women of the nineteenth-century American West, Judy Alter turned her attention to contemporary cozy mysteries. Most of her Kelly O’Connell Mysteries and Blue Plate Café Mysteries were published by Turquoise Morning Press and available from Amazon. When her publisher went out of business, she became an indie publisher and never looked back.
Her western fiction and nonfiction has been recognized with awards from the Western Writers of America, the Texas Institute of Letters, and the National Cowboy Museum and Hall of Fame. She has been honored with the Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement by WWA and inducted into the WWA Hall of Fame and the Texas Literary Hall of Fame at the Fort Worth Public Library. Some of her western books are available Kindle and a variety of other ebook platforms.
Judy is an active member of Sisters in Crime, Guppies, Women Writing the West, and the Texas Institute of Letters. When she is not writing, Judy is busy with seven grandchildren and a lively poodle/border collie cross. Her avocation is cooking, and she is the author of Cooking My Way Through Life with Kids and Books and Gourmet on a Hot Plate, available at from Amazon.
Born in Chicago, she has made her home in Fort Worth, Texas for over fifty years. Judy is also a proud Scot, a member of Clan MacBean. One trip to the Highlands convinced her that is where her heart is, and she longs to write a novel set in Scotland. A novel would probably take a second trip for research, and she hopes to visit again.
Author Contact Links:
http://www.judyalter.com
http://www.judys-stew.blogspot.com
http://www.gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com
https://www.facebook.com/judy.alter?ref=bookmarks
https://www.facebook.com/Judy-Alter-Author-366948676705857/
Twitter: @judyalter
https://www.amazon.com/Judy-Alter/e/B001H6NMU6
After an established career writing historical fiction for adults and young adults, about women of the nineteenth-century American West, Judy Alter turned her attention to contemporary cozy mysteries. Most of her Kelly O’Connell Mysteries and Blue Plate Café Mysteries were published by Turquoise Morning Press and available from Amazon. When her publisher went out of business, she became an indie publisher and never looked back.
Her western fiction and nonfiction has been recognized with awards from the Western Writers of America, the Texas Institute of Letters, and the National Cowboy Museum and Hall of Fame. She has been honored with the Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement by WWA and inducted into the WWA Hall of Fame and the Texas Literary Hall of Fame at the Fort Worth Public Library. Some of her western books are available Kindle and a variety of other ebook platforms.
Judy is an active member of Sisters in Crime, Guppies, Women Writing the West, and the Texas Institute of Letters. When she is not writing, Judy is busy with seven grandchildren and a lively poodle/border collie cross. Her avocation is cooking, and she is the author of Cooking My Way Through Life with Kids and Books and Gourmet on a Hot Plate, available at from Amazon.
Born in Chicago, she has made her home in Fort Worth, Texas for over fifty years. Judy is also a proud Scot, a member of Clan MacBean. One trip to the Highlands convinced her that is where her heart is, and she longs to write a novel set in Scotland. A novel would probably take a second trip for research, and she hopes to visit again.
Author Contact Links:
http://www.judyalter.com
http://www.judys-stew.blogspot.com
http://www.gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com
https://www.facebook.com/judy.alter?ref=bookmarks
https://www.facebook.com/Judy-Alter-Author-366948676705857/
Twitter: @judyalter
https://www.amazon.com/Judy-Alter/e/B001H6NMU6
RSS Feed
