The Angel Wore Fangs
Chapter 1
LA CHIC SARDINE PASTRY MENU
Salted caramel crème brûlée—Rich cream and imported toffee, chef’s specialty.
Opera Cake—An elegant gâteau of mocha buttercream spread over thin layers of pound cake soaked in coffee syrup, topped with ganache.
Assorted cookies—Chocolate-dipped madeleines; almond meringue macaroons, small in size but sinfully satisfying.
Dacquoise à la Framboise—Almond meringue filled with pastry cream and fresh berries, a seasonal delight.
Napoleons—Traditional flaky pastry layered with chocolate mousse, vanilla or coffee cream, and covered with ganache; one is never enough.
Bourdaloue peach tart—Fresh peaches and almond cream in a generous-size sugar tart shell, can be shared.
Petits fours—Assorted, including LeCygne, a miniature cake filled with vanilla hazelnut cream and Hill Farm natural strawberry preserves.
Crepes filled with fresh fruit of choice, topped with thick whipped cream and dark chocolate shavings, light and decadent.
Sister, where art thou?
“ISIS? Why would any woman in her right mind join that militant group?” Andrea Stewart remarked skeptically into the cell phone she had propped between the crook of her ear and raised shoulder. Her hands were free to stir the chocolate ganache to be spread atop the Opera Cake she was preparing for tonight’s dessert menu at La Chic Sardine.
The elegant gâteau was composed of mocha buttercream spread over thin layers of cake that had been soaked in coffee syrup, topped with the ganache, then sliced into bars. One of her many specialties at this Philadelphia restaurant. As far removed from ISIS as, well, the Liberty Bell.
“How do I know why your sister does the things she does?” her stepmother, Darla, whined into the phone. “All I know is, I have a picture here in front of me, and she’s wearing some kind of robe that covers her from head to toe with only her eyes peeking out.”
“A burqa?” That was a switch for her sister, who was more inclined toward tight jeans and skimpy shirts.
“I don’t know what they call those things. They look like tents, if you ask me. I get a hot flash just thinking about how uncomfortable they must be in this heat. Thank God I’m not an A-rab.”
It was summer, and the city was in the midst of an unusual heat wave—unusual for Pennsylvania—but Darla would have the AC on full blast. Is she in menopause? At forty-five? Andrea did a mental Snoopy dance of glee. There is a God! But that was nasty. Darla didn’t mean to be such an insensitive dingbat. She was just clueless.
Andrea set aside her whisk and adjusted the phone at her ear. Sitting down on a high stool at the kitchen prep table, she sighed and said, “Celie is going purdah? That’s a new one. How is she going to show off all her tattoos? And her body piercings will set off airport alarms if she tries to leave the country.”
“Andy! That’s not funny.”
Actually, it was. Celie’s ink, seventeen at last count, had started with a tramp stamp when she was only thirteen. Winnie the Pooh giving the finger. As for piercings, Andrea had personally witnessed a belly button ring, as well as multiple holes in her ears, eyebrows, tongue, and God only knew where else. Ouch!
To her credit, Celie had let some of the piercings grow back, but still, what was she thinking?
She wasn’t, that was the point with her sister, who was on a continual quest to find herself.
“Honestly, Andy, this is going to kill your father. How much more of this crap can he take?”
Andrea rolled her eyes. Darla had been saying the same thing ever since she, a mere thirty-year-old, married fifty-year-old widower Howard Stewart fifteen years ago, when Andrea had been fourteen years old and her sister Cecilia a mere four. Crap was her universal word for anything the two children did to “ruin her life.” On Andrea’s part, it encompassed everything from strep throat to a dirty kitchen due to one of her latest culinary experiments. When it came to her sister, it could be bedwetting, a low grade on a math test, or promiscuous behavior as a preteen.
Darla, a former Zumba instructor, did not have a maternal bone in her well-toned body. She’d no doubt thought she’d landed a sugar daddy when she met their father, a successful stockbroker, who was brilliant when it came to the market and dumb as a Dow Jones clunker when it came to women. Little had Darla known that the Wall Street gravy train also carried some irritating baggage in the form of two kids, who hadn’t been as sweet and invisible as she’d probably expected.
It was only nine a.m., and the kitchen was empty except for Andrea at this early hour. The restaurant didn’t begin serving until five p.m., but employees would be trailing in soon. Andrea needed to get off the phone and get back to work. “Darla, how do you know it’s Celie?”
LA CHIC SARDINE PASTRY MENU
Salted caramel crème brûlée—Rich cream and imported toffee, chef’s specialty.
Opera Cake—An elegant gâteau of mocha buttercream spread over thin layers of pound cake soaked in coffee syrup, topped with ganache.
Assorted cookies—Chocolate-dipped madeleines; almond meringue macaroons, small in size but sinfully satisfying.
Dacquoise à la Framboise—Almond meringue filled with pastry cream and fresh berries, a seasonal delight.
Napoleons—Traditional flaky pastry layered with chocolate mousse, vanilla or coffee cream, and covered with ganache; one is never enough.
Bourdaloue peach tart—Fresh peaches and almond cream in a generous-size sugar tart shell, can be shared.
Petits fours—Assorted, including LeCygne, a miniature cake filled with vanilla hazelnut cream and Hill Farm natural strawberry preserves.
Crepes filled with fresh fruit of choice, topped with thick whipped cream and dark chocolate shavings, light and decadent.
Sister, where art thou?
“ISIS? Why would any woman in her right mind join that militant group?” Andrea Stewart remarked skeptically into the cell phone she had propped between the crook of her ear and raised shoulder. Her hands were free to stir the chocolate ganache to be spread atop the Opera Cake she was preparing for tonight’s dessert menu at La Chic Sardine.
The elegant gâteau was composed of mocha buttercream spread over thin layers of cake that had been soaked in coffee syrup, topped with the ganache, then sliced into bars. One of her many specialties at this Philadelphia restaurant. As far removed from ISIS as, well, the Liberty Bell.
“How do I know why your sister does the things she does?” her stepmother, Darla, whined into the phone. “All I know is, I have a picture here in front of me, and she’s wearing some kind of robe that covers her from head to toe with only her eyes peeking out.”
“A burqa?” That was a switch for her sister, who was more inclined toward tight jeans and skimpy shirts.
“I don’t know what they call those things. They look like tents, if you ask me. I get a hot flash just thinking about how uncomfortable they must be in this heat. Thank God I’m not an A-rab.”
It was summer, and the city was in the midst of an unusual heat wave—unusual for Pennsylvania—but Darla would have the AC on full blast. Is she in menopause? At forty-five? Andrea did a mental Snoopy dance of glee. There is a God! But that was nasty. Darla didn’t mean to be such an insensitive dingbat. She was just clueless.
Andrea set aside her whisk and adjusted the phone at her ear. Sitting down on a high stool at the kitchen prep table, she sighed and said, “Celie is going purdah? That’s a new one. How is she going to show off all her tattoos? And her body piercings will set off airport alarms if she tries to leave the country.”
“Andy! That’s not funny.”
Actually, it was. Celie’s ink, seventeen at last count, had started with a tramp stamp when she was only thirteen. Winnie the Pooh giving the finger. As for piercings, Andrea had personally witnessed a belly button ring, as well as multiple holes in her ears, eyebrows, tongue, and God only knew where else. Ouch!
To her credit, Celie had let some of the piercings grow back, but still, what was she thinking?
She wasn’t, that was the point with her sister, who was on a continual quest to find herself.
“Honestly, Andy, this is going to kill your father. How much more of this crap can he take?”
Andrea rolled her eyes. Darla had been saying the same thing ever since she, a mere thirty-year-old, married fifty-year-old widower Howard Stewart fifteen years ago, when Andrea had been fourteen years old and her sister Cecilia a mere four. Crap was her universal word for anything the two children did to “ruin her life.” On Andrea’s part, it encompassed everything from strep throat to a dirty kitchen due to one of her latest culinary experiments. When it came to her sister, it could be bedwetting, a low grade on a math test, or promiscuous behavior as a preteen.
Darla, a former Zumba instructor, did not have a maternal bone in her well-toned body. She’d no doubt thought she’d landed a sugar daddy when she met their father, a successful stockbroker, who was brilliant when it came to the market and dumb as a Dow Jones clunker when it came to women. Little had Darla known that the Wall Street gravy train also carried some irritating baggage in the form of two kids, who hadn’t been as sweet and invisible as she’d probably expected.
It was only nine a.m., and the kitchen was empty except for Andrea at this early hour. The restaurant didn’t begin serving until five p.m., but employees would be trailing in soon. Andrea needed to get off the phone and get back to work. “Darla, how do you know it’s Celie?”