couldn’t be this busy over there. They did have chicken; that she knew. Unable to stand the fear that she might have genuinely ruined her mother’s ability to open tonight, Amanda had asked Mary Laura to text Angelique. Everything was fine, apparently; by the time Angelique got to work everything was basically normal, except for Patrick frantically bringing down all his pies.
“Something about your mom not having time to bake,” Mary Laura said with a wink, and Nancy, walking past them, stopped.
“It’s not funny,” she said. “You think about your mother, Amanda. You know what coping with all that frozen chicken must have been like. And to know you would do that to her—to think we would do that to her—is that what you want? We can win without—without that kind of”—she stopped, then spat out the word as though it cost her something—“crap, Amanda. That kind of crap.”
Without giving Amanda a chance to defend herself, Nancy stalked off in the direction of the kitchen. Mary Laura had turned to a customer, and Amanda leaned on the bar for a minute, the crowd pressing behind her. Mae deserved it. Painting over Amanda’s sign wasn’t even about Food Wars; it was just plain mean. And Barbara—the image of her mother and Andy cheering Mae on while she erased Amanda’s favorite chicken was a humiliating scene playing on constant repeat in her brain. Maybe it had never been a good sign in the first place. Maybe Sabrina, who didn’t know it was her sign, had suggested that it go. Barbara was always telling her drawing was a waste of time, that she should do something more productive with herself. She had probably been wanting to cover it up for a long time. Probably meant to do it sooner.
The last thing Amanda wanted was to be roped into the arrival of the next two chefs, a husband-and-wife team who almost never seemed to agree on anything, but it was obvious from the moment Sabrina arrived with them that she wanted their visit to mirror Rideaux’s in every respect. Amanda would greet them, Amanda would seat them, Amanda would, damn it, sit right down and chat, but she had had it with chatting. “Would you like to see a menu, or should we just bring the chicken?”
“Bring the chicken, please,” said James Melville without looking at her. He was turning to take in the entire restaurant, even rising from his chair to look toward the kitchen.
“And also the menu,” said his wife and partner, Cary Catlin. Gwennie brought a menu, and Cary Catlin took a pair of glasses from where they were nested in her abundant brown hair and opened the folder, running a finger down each column. At the bottom of the first page she looked up at Gwennie. “I just wanted to see the menu, not order from it,” she said, gesturing her away. “Bring the chicken, of course.”
“The meatloaf is also very good,” offered Amanda.
“If I ate anything but what we’re supposed to eat at these stops I’d be as big as a house. Just the chicken is fine.”
Gwennie rushed off, and Cary Catlin leaned over and snapped her fingers at her husband. “Pay attention.” She turned to Amanda. “Okay, let’s have a look at this menu. Mozzarella sticks. Frozen?”
Amanda was taken aback. Of course the mozz was frozen; people expected it to look like the little sticks you get everywhere. But why were they asking? “Yes,” she said cautiously.
“Stuffed mushrooms? Crab cakes? Frozen?”
Amanda nodded. The chef was running a finger down the other side of the menu, possibly preparing more questions. Jeez, could she get some help here? Amanda looked around and saw Nancy heading their way, but bearing menus, and with two regular customers following her. Maybe Nancy would stop. The Russells knew where they were going. She tried to give her mother-in-law a desperate look.
“Amanda,” Cary Catlin said, “I understand the famous Frannie’s biscuits are frozen?”
No. They were on shaky ground with this one, and she knew from the smug look on her inquisitor’s face that Catlin knew it. Making the biscuits by hand required three additional cook shifts weekly, and the switch to frozen biscuits meant a substantial savings, but they’d been quiet about it, because the biscuits were, like the chicken, at the heart of Frannie’s. They were practically house made—the company they ordered from used nothing artificial, and even when they had made their own at Frannie’s, they’d frozen them before baking, everyone did, even