French Quarter Kisses

“They made it out, your family?”

“Yes,” Roz answered. “Our home wasn’t in the major flood area, but my parents didn’t want to take any chances. One of my uncles lives in Atlanta. They left before the storm hit. What about you? Where were you when it happened?”

“A few blocks over.”

“From where we are now?”

He nodded.

“In one of the areas hardest hit. That had to have been a painfully frightening experience.”

“It was.”

“Did you have to be rescued?”

“Almost. We were able to get on one of the buses headed to Houston where...we have family.”

“So your whole family was displaced. Mom, dad...”

“My sister and I.”

“And your parents stayed here?”

“My mother raised us. She stayed behind to help my grandmother. It was a traumatizing experience that’s hard to talk about. I survived it by focusing on what was ahead of me, not by looking back.”

“Yet while living in Houston you ended up at a restaurant called New Orleans.”

“It wasn’t planned.”

“How did it happen, you working at a restaurant that bears your hometown’s name?”

Pierre shrugged. “Needed money.”

“McDonald’s wasn’t hiring?”

“I’ll admit that the name of the place drew me in. I missed the food we’re known for and wondered if the place lived up to it name. Of course, I couldn’t afford to order a meal. So I asked for a job instead.”

“Ingenuity in action.”

“More like desperation, but whatever, it worked.”

“They hired you as...”

Pierre smiled and looked toward the kitchen. “A dishwasher. And to my great surprise the food was delicious, just like back home. I was there for about a month, glad to be eating good and earning a steady paycheck, when one of the prep cooks quit unexpectedly and I volunteered to take over. The work was tedious, but the kitchen atmosphere—infectious. The workers loved and often fought like family. But during service all hostilities were dropped for the sake of synchronicity. That’s when I discovered the mechanical and scientific aspects of cooking, the work that went into each perfect plate. Marc orchestrated each player’s movements like a conductor leading an orchestra. Everyone’s role was important, from dishwasher to head chef. Don’t get me wrong. The work is hard, the hours long. And if you’re running the kitchen, it can consume your life. But I found it fascinating, began staying late and coming in early, learning how the kitchen ran, how things got done. Marc noticed my interest and took me under his wing. My culinary journey continued from there.”

“Your ability to adapt is impressive, especially after such a horrific experience. And you were how old? Nineteen, twenty?”

Pierre looked sheepish as he answered, “Fifteen.”

“Didn’t that go against child labor laws?”

“It may have, had they known it. But I could easily pass for seventeen at that point and that is what I put on the application.”

“Did your boss ever find out?”

“When he took me in and I had to change high schools, I also had to come clean about my real age.”

“So you went to live with your mentor? Why?”

“Wasn’t working out where I was.”

“With your mom and sister?”

“Things always remained cool with my sister. It was me and the rest of the household that didn’t see eye to eye. Marc saw I was troubled and wanted to know why. When I told him, he offered me his spare bedroom. Taking him up on that offer was the best decision I could have made. Undoubtedly changed my life.”

“Katrina, though devastating, led you to your destiny.”

“I guess so.”

“So you believe you survived because the restaurant gave you focus.”

“Focus. Family. Goals. Motivation. Marc was like a father figure to me. Still is.”

“Did you know your father?”

Pierre shook his head.

“Did your family situation ever smooth out in Houston?”

After a long pause, he nodded. “Yes.”

“Does your mom still live there?”

“No.”

He hadn’t meant for the word to come out so harshly, but he didn’t want to discuss his mother.

“Where do you think you’d be had Katrina not happened and you’d stayed here in New Orleans?”

“That’s a good question,” he replied. One that Pierre had never asked himself. When the answer floated into his mind it surprised him, but he looked at Roz and answered truthfully. “Probably dead.”

Instinctively, she reached over and placed her hand on his forearm. “The streets can be dangerous. I’m glad you escaped them.”

“Me, too. I plan to pay it forward by doing for others here what Marc did for me in Houston. By teaching some of this city’s young men the joy of cooking, a lesson that teaches many other skills, as well.”

“What are you going to call it?”

“I don’t know yet. The idea is just a dream right now. I have my hands full getting this new business up and running.”

“Well, whenever it happens, the program sounds wonderful. Tell me more about it.”

Pierre did, becoming more talkative and animated as he expounded on his passion for cooking and for mentoring young men. Aside from Marc and Lisette, he hadn’t mentioned his dream to anyone, not even his sous chef, Riviera, who he planned to recruit to be a part of his mentoring team. It also helped that talking about the program took them away from speaking about floods and family.

They talked for two hours, leaving only when Ma threatened to make them help her clean up. Once outside, the two became quiet. Surprising, but Pierre knew what was on his mind. He wanted more conversations with this probing reporter, ones when she was not on the clock. Did she feel the same way?

“So, Mr. LeBlanc, was that as painful as you thought it would be?”

“Not at all. For a supposedly socially awkward sister, you’re not so bad.”

Roz gave him a look. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“What did you expect?”

“Someone more shallow and self-absorbed. I mean, you may very well possess those traits, but I thank you that tonight at least you’ve kept them to yourself.”

“Ha!”

Roz held out her hand. “Seriously, it was a good interview. When it’s up online, I’ll send you a link.”

“You can do me one better,” Pierre replied, returning Roz’s handshake and once again noticing her soft skin. “You can bring a copy over to the restaurant and then stay for lunch or dinner, whichever works, on the house.”

“I thought you were sold out.”

“We are. But I’m the boss. I can make exceptions.”

“Thank you, but...I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“What, eating?”

“Accepting your invitation for a free meal. There may be strings attached.”

“Will you feel better paying for it? Seems rather disingenuous to write about a restaurant you’ve not even visited.”

“I thought that was settled. The article will be about you, not the food. But put that way, I guess it would be advantageous to come to your establishment and find out what all the hype is about, a visit that could lead to a follow-up story.”

“What about Wednesday evening, around nine?”

“This Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t nine o’clock rather late?”

“Yes, but the kitchen isn’t as slammed at that hour. I could put all my focus on tantalizing your taste buds.”

Pierre watched Roz nibble the side of her lip as she thought. “Okay, Wednesday at Easy Creole Cuisine.”

“Cool. See you then.”

She reached her car, opened the door and then turned around. “Oh, and Pierre?”

“Yes.”

“I won, so thanks for my parent’s reservation, as well.”

Roz’s smile was mischievous, smug even. Pierre started toward her but she slid behind the wheel, started the car and sped away. Clearly, she wanted to have the last word.

Pulling away from the curb, he played back those last few minutes. The devilish glint in Roz’s eye as she boldly proclaimed victory regarding the bet. How her brow scrunched each time she nibbled her lip. How before saying yes to his invitation she’d darted her tongue out to moisten those tempting, cushy lips. He wondered how soft they were, and how long he’d have to wait to find out. A kiss was definitely in their future. That and much more. Roz may have won the food bet but after tonight Pierre was clear about the next thing he wanted to win. Her.

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