Corbin in NOLA (where there is no indifferent food).
Corbin took a sip of brandy and glanced out the window at the flickering black iron lamps on the balcony. The curtains around the open window billowed in the humid breeze. The fingers of one hand trailed slowly across the keyboard of his computer, back and forth, back and forth. When the church bell across the square chimed, he abruptly set the brandy snifter on the table and pulled the laptop towards him.
Subject: Le Bon Temp
My dearest Grace,
As I wandered in the Garden District, I found myself in a small pie shop named Mama Ya-Ya’s on Magazine Street between Napoleon and Melphomene. A delightful little place, held in high regard by the locals. Naturally, I thought of you.
New Orleans is a mecca for my kind, an odd gumbo of depravity and deprivation. I see it in the people, the environment, the entertainment and the food. Every chef here takes delight in seizing the lowliest denizens of swamp or sea and transforming them into ambrosial blends with the most exquisite of sauces and spices. It is rapturous.
I thought you might enjoy this recipe, given to me by Mme. Doucette, the pastry chef at Mama Ya-Ya’s. She has a nice touch with the savories; her pastries are excellent--they are rich and highly spiced--and are in great demand.
He glanced over his shoulder at the tumble of red satin sheets and long dark curls in the bed across the room. An elegant foot peeked out, the toenails painted to match the sheets. His fingers drifted to the keyboard.
“And yet, I feel something is missing... Salt, perhaps?”