The American Lady(7)
Wanda took a clean cloth and wiped an invisible splash from the rim of a platter of deviled eggs. “But Mrs. Desmoines, I’m sure you’re never short of ideas!”
Monique looked up from contemplating her perfectly manicured nails. Was she imagining it, or was Wanda’s smile just a little less subservient than she expected from the service at Dittmer’s? Was there even a hint of sarcasm in it?
“No more than your mother is,” she replied, frowning slightly, and then she sighed. She still hadn’t quite gotten used to the idea that the Miles girl was working at Dittmer’s. Thank God her own daughter Minnie would sooner drop dead than stand on her feet for a ten-hour shift. But Ruth Miles herself was a little eccentric—no matter how legendary her hospitality was. Well, the girl was no better than her mother . . . She sighed again, then remembered what she had actually come for.
“Your mother could certainly tell you a tale or two about that; too many parties, too many guests, and nobody these days really knows how to appreciate the lengths a hostess has to go to.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But there’s no use complaining, I always say. Deeds, not words! Deeds, indeed!”
If that’s the worst of your troubles, you should count yourself lucky, Wanda found herself thinking. Out loud she said, “The talent to be a true hostess is something you must be born with.” She squared her shoulders. “Do you have something in particular in mind for your next event? Perhaps you have it all planned out already? As you know, we at Dittmer’s are here to help make whatever you intend go smoothly.” We at Dittmer’s—wonderful!
Monique Desmoines sat up straighter. The Miles girl knew what she was doing after all. Ruth had probably told her what wonderful parties Monique threw. She made a mental note to invite Wanda’s parents to the dinner she was currently planning, then remembered that she had waited in vain for an invitation to Ruth’s most recent event. She struck Steven and Ruth off the list in her head.
“Do I have a plan?” she said triumphantly. “I have more than just something in mind. I have it all written out!”
Monique began to root around in the depths of her handbag. A few moments later she looked up and sighed impatiently. She was holding a sheaf of folded notepaper in her hand.
“What I have in mind will light a fuse under my guests. I’ll be the first to admit it: I want to shock them!” She pursed her lips as though she were expecting Wanda to object. When nothing of the kind happened, she leafed through her bundle of notes.
Wanda waited patiently.
“Of course I want to spoil my guests, but more than anything else I want them to realize just how spoiled we all are—myself included, my dear! Who can still enjoy a dish when we all have so much more than we need? Who can still appreciate food as God’s gift to mankind?”
She swept her hand around in a gesture that included all the counters in Dittmer’s.
“You might say that what I am planning is a culinary allegory, a description in food, a gastronomic depiction of how we were driven from Eden.” Monique raised her eyes piously, as though she were expecting heavenly approval for her idea right then and there.
“A culinary allegory, I see,” Wanda said, nodding earnestly. “That will certainly impress your guests.” Goodness gracious—even for Monique Desmoines, this is going a bit far!
“Here it is,” Monique said. She smiled triumphantly as she handed a folded sheet of notepaper across the counter. But before Wanda could reach out and take it, she snatched it away again.
“Just so that we understand one another . . . I expect absolute discretion. For this party of all parties, nobody must know what to expect. You’ll understand exactly what I mean when you see what I have in mind . . .” Monique glanced hurriedly over her shoulder as though she feared that a pack of hyenas were skulking somewhere, just waiting to steal her party ideas.
Wanda put her fingers to her lips. “I shall be as silent as the grave. And I’ll do more than that; an important event like this calls for uncommon measures on our part.” She beckoned Monique to lean a little closer. “I’ll take your order directly to the kitchen department without going through catering as we usually do. I will also personally guarantee that nobody catches sight of the dishes when they are ready to be delivered. There are spies everywhere after all . . .” she whispered. Ha, if Mr. Dittmer only knew what trouble I am taking over one of his most important customers. She took the folded sheet of notepaper and put it into the pocket of her apron as though she didn’t dare look at Monique’s order herself. Then she buttoned the pocket closed.