Krewe du Review

Links & Lagniappe

Calendar of Events

Back To Current Issue

Volume 1, Issue 1. January 9, 2007.

ONE NIGHT AT THE RENDEZ-VOUS CAFÉ

By Joe Karson, Juneau, Alaska

"Dud, mon frère, what's on your bill o' fare?"

This is from Beau, easing through the café door like he does. Always got some snappy line for the folks in there. Smell that cologne? Beau drives clear into New Orleans just to buy that cologne. Hear the click! of those heels? Oh yeah, no mistaking when it's Beau walking through the door. Everyone around here comes to the Rendez-Vous---Beau arrives.

Dud, he's standing behind the counter with his hands (magic hands, some say!) on his hips, staring at Beau and rolling his eyes like he does. Beau knows that bill o' fare from head to hock---knows it about as well as Dud knows it himself. Of course, that's no small feat. Most nights Dud's bill o' fare is likely to be as long as anything Beau's read in his life. But not tonight.

"Got that glide in my stride," says Beau, "now I need you to cook me up something gonna put a little pep in my step."

It's Saturday night and Beau's all chalk-stripes and painted silk. Wearing his two-tone "spades" with the stacked-up wooden heels for that just right click! Got his pants "draped" and "pegged"---belt loops dropped low and cuffs tight around the ankle. Creases looking about sharp as one of Dud's butcher knives. Got a fresh gardenia in his lapel shining bright as a flashbulb---bright as his brand-new '52 Buick convertible parked out front. Shining bright as the eyes of the young women when they watch Beau step out of that famous machine. Only car in town with wire wheels and dual chrome tailpipes. That "spinner" on the steering wheel is made from a solid ivory cue ball and it's not just for show. Needs that knob for navigating one-handed down those twisty back roads. You ask any lucky gal he's given a ride home from the café.

Dud still staring at Beau. He's wiping his hands on his greasy old apron and just staring at that boy. It was Beau Broussard and his crowd, of course, who gave him his name. The only name he's known by around here. Not that his true Christian name, Dudley Fecteau, was anything to crow about. Especially the "Fecteau" part. The Fecteaus have been long notorious as the most worthless sorts in the area and Dud's mamma, Angel Fecteau, was no exception. She abandoned him when he was just a child, and, since his daddy was not known, he had to bear the further shame of becoming a Fecteau by taking the name from his mamma. That's how they do it around here. Anyway, Pep Bergeron, owner of the Rendez-Vous, took Dudley in. The Bergerons got so damn many kids it seemed that one more would hardly matter. Room being scarce as it is in their home, Pep (short for Pépin, or seed, another community-bestowed name) raised Dudley in the café and it was there he discovered that the boy had a gift.

Dudley could cook. Makes no sense at all, but even as a little boy, he could cook. Sure didn't learn it from his mamma. Didn't learn it from Madame Bergeron, who was more concerned with how to feed fifteen children with one rabbit than what sauce to put on it. Didn't learn it from anyone in that wandering tribe of greasy-spoon cooks that used to work the Rendez-Vous kitchen just long enough to buy a jug of wine. And, no, just like what Beau's got, what Dud's got you can't get from a book. There's no explanation for it---and it's best to leave it at that. Of course, you'll find folks living out in the black water that claim there's some sort of juju involved here. Well, they can believe what they want. What I believe is, some people are just special. They're put on this earth for a purpose, and Dud was put here to cook. Simple as that.

Good thing young Dudley was gifted like that, too. Being so slightly built, there wasn't much else he could have done but help in the kitchen to earn his keep. Pep, he wasted little time turning Dudley's childhood playground into his workshop. Can't really blame him. When you got someone around with such a gift, it's only natural to take advantage of it. So, pretty soon, Dudley, he's running that kitchen where he used to just peel potatoes and stir the gumbo. (Folks here will swear on a Bible that the first time Dudley stirred the gumbo, customers asked Pep if he'd finally hired a real cook). Before he was even a teenager, that skinny, nervous little kid had become a genuine chef. I guess it's been a good ten years now that everyone in this small town has just taken the fine fare at the Rendez-Vous for granted. Come to expect it like the rising sun. And if Dudley Fecteau missed out on a real childhood, or if he didn't exactly learn all the social graces---if he had to become "Dud," well, maybe that's just the price you pay for having a gift.

Now let me tell you something more about this gift. I'm just going to have to take the time to do that because . . . . well, let me give you an example. Every mother's son around here, legitimate or otherwise, can whip up a proper roux. They'll cook all the different roux in the book. But Dud, he's got a red roux that makes people break out in freckles and the most beautiful chorus of Danny Boy you've ever heard. People that never sung a note before in their lives! He's got a blonde roux that after one taste is going to put you on a bear-skin rug with the Northern Lights swirling around your head. Folks in the café know to wear a sweater when Dud cooks with that roux. His roux noir can turn your hair nappy and every song on the jukebox into jungle drums. Now, now you see what I'm talking about? You see why maybe I'm not so anxious to be discussing this subject? And there's more. The boy's etouffée doesn't smother those shrimp, just massages them into a mellow mood so they'll crawl onto your spoon, curl up and purr. His sauce piquant sets them dancing on their tails. (Leaves on their rear legs for the cancan). And his sausage! He doesn't stop with a boudin blanc and a boudin rouge, oh no. He's got a baiser premier, his "first kiss" sausage, and a bris d'pretemps, his "spring breeze" sausage. His "mother's smile" sausage, his boudin sourire l'maternel, has been known to leave the biggest, toughest men in the parish dropping tears into their plates. He knows the secret of the mélange, too---knows how to make the just right combinations. Like, you ever go walking with your sweetheart on a frosty fall night and stop to give your sweetheart a hug? You ever reach inside your sweetheart's coat for that warm, bundled-up body, and at the same time press your face against your sweetheart's cool cheek? Well, if you've ever done that, you'll know about Dud's spicy Creole chicken with the chilled vinaigrette on the side. And you'll know why he calls that dish Octobre Nuit. All his young life, Dud's been in the kitchen cooking up those fantastic meals. But not tonight.

Tonight, Dud's just standing there, watching Beau Broussard work that crowd like he does. Always knows what to say, that boy. Always gets the folks laughing.

"Need something nice," says Beau, "like some sticky chicken and dirty rice." Beau, he's making like a rooster now.

Dud's already told Beau that he can't have whatever he wants tonight. Any other night, you want some sticky chicken and dirty rice and it's not on the bill o' fare, no problem. Dud's going to cook you up whatever you want. Heck, you sick of sticky chicken and dirty rice? He'll cook you up some dirty chicken and sticky rice, if that's what you want. But not tonight.

Pep himself is in the café tonight, been over talking with that stranger sitting alone at the counter. Skinny guy with his hat brim pulled down over the side of his face.

"Don't know who that guy is," Pep says to Beau, "but he seems kinda familiar. Sounds like he's from over in Alabama somewhere."

Beau's shaking his head. "Whoever he is, he sure looks like he could use a meal. Wonder if he can pay for one."

"Oh, he says he's got all the work he wants. Just likes to go out sometimes and 'drift'."

"He's sure drifted into the right place if he wants to fatten up a bit---but not particularly tonight. What's wrong with ol' Dud, there?"

"I don't know," says Pep, scratching his chin. "Told me not to worry. Says he's got plenty food cooked up, but it's a 'limited menu' tonight. Says the food's all cooked up and ready to go, but he's leaving the café early. Never known him to that."

"Damn!"

Dud's taken his apron off, thrown it back in the corner. He's sporting some new "chino" pants and his penny loafers look like he's been buffing them half the day. Must be the first time folks here have seen Dud in anything but jeans and that nasty old apron. They been steadily bugging him about this 'limited menu' thing, but, Dud, he's sticking to his guns. He's got some good local specialties cooked up and that's just going to have to do. Can't be stuck in that kitchen all night---not tonight. Dud's heading for the countryside to visit a certain little someone he's met. It was out at the farm where he goes to pick up his honey, that's where he found something sweeter than all the honey in the world. A nice country girl, not like those girls that hang out with Beau and his crowd. Not some girl who's been hanging out late nights at the Rendez-Vous with the smoke and the hot, sweaty bodies all pressed together. Never danced to that throbbing bass and the chanky-chank of the frottoir. He likes her family, too. Hard-working folks to whom he's still Dudley or Monsieur Fecteau.

Beau and the others, they're still going on about their food, but Dud's already stepped out from behind the counter. He's got the night's fare cooked. He's got those three dishes all cooked up, and he sings out loud and clear just what they are. Sings it out so everyone in the café can hear. Customers, now, they're are all grumbling and asking what's happened. Folks around here get set in their ways, you see. They want Dud to tell them why things are different tonight, but he's sick of dealing with those folks. Sick to death of them. That's why he likes having a little secret from them. That's why he walks over to the stranger and says into his ear, " 'cause tonight I'm gonna to see my. . ."

Stranger just looks up at Dud and gives him this big smile.