The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,38
until he’s free. Thank you.”
Before the hostess can stop me, I step into a nook near the entrance. And wait.
One glance around his flagship establishment and it’s clear that Billy Needham is an exceptional chef and owner. But that isn’t surprising. It’s in his blood. For generations, the extended Needham family has had a hand in a staggering number of eateries all across the city. Exact stats are hard to come by, but something like one in five New Orleans restaurants is either owned or partially financed by someone with that surname. For years, rumors have swirled about discord and family drama behind the scenes, which has apparently been getting worse. But no one in the food world can figure out why. By all accounts, the Needham family business is booming.
To kill some time before I speak to Billy, I take out my phone to see if one of my private investigator friends—Gordon Andrews—has gotten back to me yet. I called him when I left the police station this afternoon and asked him to do a little digging for me on a whole host of topics. Gordon is one of the best PIs in Crescent City and definitely the most educated, with two master’s degrees: criminal psychology from LSU and French literature from Tulane. I check my voicemail and refresh my e-mail, hoping I’ve gotten a response. But nothing.
“Excuse me, Mr. Rooney? Your table is ready.”
I look up at the hostess, who is somehow smiling even bigger than before. I’m not surprised someone on staff recognized me. But giving me a table?
“That’s very kind of you, but like I said, I’m not here to—”
“Please. Mr. Needham insists. This way, sir.”
They’re really rolling out the red carpet for me. All right then, I think. Let’s play along, see where this goes.
I follow the hostess as she leads me to a spacious four-top in the most desirable corner of the restaurant with the best view of all the action. I’ve barely pulled my chair in when a French-born sommelier appears beside me, brandishing some bubbly.
“Welcome to Petite Amie, Monsieur Rooney. May I offer you a glass of 2004 Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame Rosé to start?”
That’s a full pour from a three-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne. Knowing resistance is futile, I shrug and accept it.
“What about an amuse-bouche?” asks a server. “Gulf oyster–enriched grass-fed veal cheek, topped with organic rhubarb aioli.”
Again, I acquiesce. So he places a large plate in front of me containing a small oyster shell. Inside is what looks like the world’s tiniest grilled steak, drizzled with pink mayonnaise and flecked with diced green onion.
“This really isn’t necessary, guys,” I say. “But thank you both.”
“Enjoy,” they say in unison, then depart.
I really did just come here to ask Billy a few questions related to the investigation, not get a comped drink and app while I waited.
But as it turns out, this is only the beginning. Over the next ninety minutes, despite my constant protests and insistence that I simply want to see the owner, dish after scrumptious dish is set in front of me.
Entrees like sugarcane rum–braised Kobe beef, which tastes sweeter than candy, atop a bed of curried collards and mashed yams. Truffle-braised scallops with an orange-saffron vinaigrette, a delightful blend of savory and tangy. And a cast-iron-seared duck breast finished with an absinthe glaze, a unique blend of fowl and licorice flavors I’ve never tasted. And of course, each dish is paired with an exceptional glass of red or white wine, with a palette-cleansing sorbet in between.
Try as I might to stop them, the servers and sommelier just won’t listen.
When the desserts finally arrive—a heavenly creole-style bread pudding drowning in praline sauce, and a slice of pistachio cream pie topped with candied pecans—my belly is full and my mind is a little hazy. I hate to admit it, but if Billy was trying to show off and impress me, it’s certainly worked.
I’m sipping a demitasse of hickory-infused espresso when I notice the evening’s last seating of patrons has started to trickle out. The restaurant is growing quieter. Dinner service is nearly complete. I get the attention of a passing waiter and say firmly, “Excuse me. I’d like to order one final thing for the table, please. The owner.”
The server nods and disappears into the kitchen. But Billy keeps me waiting a solid ten minutes more before finally emerging, arms spread and smiling wide, like we’re old friends. In fact, we’ve only met a few times over the years. But