As places went, this one might have been considered seedy. Far from the vaunted French Quarter or Garden District, it was not the kind of place a person even
'found' himself stumbling upon. Two years earlier, he had ended up there via an overheard conversation between two fellow travelers on a train bound
for Copenhagen.
Viewed from the outside alone, it was much like the city that housed it ... broken, faded and in dire need of structural repair. But also like the city, the interior of the dilapidated one-time brothel contained a rarely publicized treasure that the locals protected fiercely.
Carefully he climbed the uneven front steps, taking care to avoid the sagging center of the middle one. An offhand warning from a local entering the place had saved him from mishap. He'd almost learned from dangerous experience that first day that the wood was rotted and soft.
He stopped just inside the doorway. Despite the fact that it was mid-morning, his eyes still needed a moment to adjust to the near dusk-like conditions inside. The ornate chandelier that hung precariously from the water-stained ceiling held only eleven little working bulbs. What scarce light they provided was swallowed up by the heavy crimson velvet curtains that lined the walls.
"Mais, get dat!" The frustrated cry drifted out of the kitchen. For just a second, the only other occupants of the room - two old men - looked away from their game of dominoes. And looked directly at him. Resigning himself, Stefan Cassadine elegantly made his way through the maze of haphazardly placed tables. "Hello." Gingerly he held the crustacean-shaped phone to his ear. "How may I be of assistance?"
There was a moment's hesitation. "This ain't Lydia. Hey, is this the Greasy Kitchen?"
Stefan heard the confusion in the caller's voice. He knew from prior experience that callers seeking to order take-out from the little informal eatery were usually greeted with a "Yeah, cher..." Undoubtedly the last thing the caller expected to hear was Stefan's precisely spoken, accentless English. "You have reached the correct number," Stefan replied formally. "Now...How may I be of assistance?"
"Oh...Okay." The caller took the news in stride. "I want two soft-shelled crab specials, but without the..."
Stefan selected a notepad from the messy pile on the bar. This particular one was from a nearby small animal clinic. It was tradition that regulars to the Greasy Kitchen contribute to the pile of notepads whenever they could.
With almost clinical precision Stefan jotted down the man's order in neat black letters. "Twelve-thirty pick up time. Very well." He tore the written order off the pad and placed it beneath the can of pure cane syrup that served as a placeholder. Almost instantly, the phone began to ring again. It was not uncommon. World class cuisine was created in this dichotomy of appearances.
This time Stefan ignored both the phone and the glances of the two old men. He instead reached inside his tailored suit jacket and produced a contribution to the traditional pile. It was a notepad from a five star luxury hotel in Denmark. Trimmed with gold foil, the pad's sheets were made of fine linen paper. Stefan dropped it onto the pile atop a yellow pad from Crazy Al's Rent-a-Lemon and one from The Desk of Steven Spielberg. That done, he took a seat at a table near the kitchen door.
"Don' y'all hear 'de phone ringing?" A tiny bird-like woman rushed out of the kitchen brandishing a long metal spoon. Her hair was short, fine and white with age. She wore an equally snowy apron that said "Kiss the Cook's Ass" in bold red letters. Angrily glaring at Stefan and the two old men, she answered the phone. "Yeah, cher...Whatchu want?"
Stefan watched the woman jot down the order on the pad he'd just added to the pile. She tore off the top sheet and then stuck the pad into her apron pocket for keeping. "What is 'dis?" She snatched the order Stefan had taken from beneath the can of cane syrup. "What is 'dis?" she demanded. Without hesitation, the two old men pointed fingers Stefan's direction. They quickly swept the dominoes into a box and hurried toward the front door. Lydia DuMoine's temper was well known by her customers. No one enjoyed being on the receiving end of her anger when the tiny cook's cardinal rule was broken.
"No special orders! How many times I got to say 'dis?" The woman's long metal spoon waved dangerously near Stefan's face.
Stefan met her angry display with calm. "Mo chagren," he offered.
"Mo chagren," the woman affectionately mocked Stefan's clipped pronunciation of the local apology. She glanced around the empty room. "You will never be mistaken for a local, young man," she teased, in English as flawless as Stefan's own.
"You have managed to accomplish such a feat," Stefan pointed out equably.
"I have had years to perfect my charade. Oh, yes, the tourists believe it wholeheartedly," Lydia shrugged. "But don't be misled. The locals have never been fooled by my 'Authentic Creole Cook' routine. They just believe in 'Live and Let Live' here." She cast Stefan a look. "But I suspect you already know that. It's what keeps you coming back here every few months - that feeling of being able to hide in plain sight."
Stefan did not deny her claims. Since faking his death and disappearing from Port Charles, he had traveled the world, never staying in one place too long and never returning to a location twice. At least, not before visiting New Orleans and the Greasy Kitchen. "Your culinary skills also draw me to New Orleans with regularity," he flirted gently.
"I'm sure they do." The words were said with no false modesty. Lydia turned and headed for her kitchen, an inner sanctum few ever got to see. "Come on," she invited Stefan. "Since you so skillfully emptied the place, we've got a half hour or so until the lunch rush begins and my accent returns."
Stefan rose and followed obediently. "May I ask what you have in mind to pass the time?"
Lydia pointed to a covered plate on the pristine kitchen countertop. "That's fresh ecrevisse (crawfish) strudel. I'm thinking of adding it to the menu. Tell me what you think of it."
*Roday - (cajun/creole) to go from place to place or run the roads--never staying in one place
*Mo chagren - (cajun/creole) I'm sorry
I know that the deadline passed. But what the heck, I had a free lunch break at work and this is the result, lol.
Viewed from the outside alone, it was much like the city that housed it ... broken, faded and in dire need of structural repair. But also like the city, the interior of the dilapidated one-time brothel contained a rarely publicized treasure that the locals protected fiercely.
Carefully he climbed the uneven front steps, taking care to avoid the sagging center of the middle one. An offhand warning from a local entering the place had saved him from mishap. He'd almost learned from dangerous experience that first day that the wood was rotted and soft.
He stopped just inside the doorway. Despite the fact that it was mid-morning, his eyes still needed a moment to adjust to the near dusk-like conditions inside. The ornate chandelier that hung precariously from the water-stained ceiling held only eleven little working bulbs. What scarce light they provided was swallowed up by the heavy crimson velvet curtains that lined the walls.
"Mais, get dat!" The frustrated cry drifted out of the kitchen. For just a second, the only other occupants of the room - two old men - looked away from their game of dominoes. And looked directly at him. Resigning himself, Stefan Cassadine elegantly made his way through the maze of haphazardly placed tables. "Hello." Gingerly he held the crustacean-shaped phone to his ear. "How may I be of assistance?"
There was a moment's hesitation. "This ain't Lydia. Hey, is this the Greasy Kitchen?"
Stefan heard the confusion in the caller's voice. He knew from prior experience that callers seeking to order take-out from the little informal eatery were usually greeted with a "Yeah, cher..." Undoubtedly the last thing the caller expected to hear was Stefan's precisely spoken, accentless English. "You have reached the correct number," Stefan replied formally. "Now...How may I be of assistance?"
"Oh...Okay." The caller took the news in stride. "I want two soft-shelled crab specials, but without the..."
Stefan selected a notepad from the messy pile on the bar. This particular one was from a nearby small animal clinic. It was tradition that regulars to the Greasy Kitchen contribute to the pile of notepads whenever they could.
With almost clinical precision Stefan jotted down the man's order in neat black letters. "Twelve-thirty pick up time. Very well." He tore the written order off the pad and placed it beneath the can of pure cane syrup that served as a placeholder. Almost instantly, the phone began to ring again. It was not uncommon. World class cuisine was created in this dichotomy of appearances.
This time Stefan ignored both the phone and the glances of the two old men. He instead reached inside his tailored suit jacket and produced a contribution to the traditional pile. It was a notepad from a five star luxury hotel in Denmark. Trimmed with gold foil, the pad's sheets were made of fine linen paper. Stefan dropped it onto the pile atop a yellow pad from Crazy Al's Rent-a-Lemon and one from The Desk of Steven Spielberg. That done, he took a seat at a table near the kitchen door.
"Don' y'all hear 'de phone ringing?" A tiny bird-like woman rushed out of the kitchen brandishing a long metal spoon. Her hair was short, fine and white with age. She wore an equally snowy apron that said "Kiss the Cook's Ass" in bold red letters. Angrily glaring at Stefan and the two old men, she answered the phone. "Yeah, cher...Whatchu want?"
Stefan watched the woman jot down the order on the pad he'd just added to the pile. She tore off the top sheet and then stuck the pad into her apron pocket for keeping. "What is 'dis?" She snatched the order Stefan had taken from beneath the can of cane syrup. "What is 'dis?" she demanded. Without hesitation, the two old men pointed fingers Stefan's direction. They quickly swept the dominoes into a box and hurried toward the front door. Lydia DuMoine's temper was well known by her customers. No one enjoyed being on the receiving end of her anger when the tiny cook's cardinal rule was broken.
"No special orders! How many times I got to say 'dis?" The woman's long metal spoon waved dangerously near Stefan's face.
Stefan met her angry display with calm. "Mo chagren," he offered.
"Mo chagren," the woman affectionately mocked Stefan's clipped pronunciation of the local apology. She glanced around the empty room. "You will never be mistaken for a local, young man," she teased, in English as flawless as Stefan's own.
"You have managed to accomplish such a feat," Stefan pointed out equably.
"I have had years to perfect my charade. Oh, yes, the tourists believe it wholeheartedly," Lydia shrugged. "But don't be misled. The locals have never been fooled by my 'Authentic Creole Cook' routine. They just believe in 'Live and Let Live' here." She cast Stefan a look. "But I suspect you already know that. It's what keeps you coming back here every few months - that feeling of being able to hide in plain sight."
Stefan did not deny her claims. Since faking his death and disappearing from Port Charles, he had traveled the world, never staying in one place too long and never returning to a location twice. At least, not before visiting New Orleans and the Greasy Kitchen. "Your culinary skills also draw me to New Orleans with regularity," he flirted gently.
"I'm sure they do." The words were said with no false modesty. Lydia turned and headed for her kitchen, an inner sanctum few ever got to see. "Come on," she invited Stefan. "Since you so skillfully emptied the place, we've got a half hour or so until the lunch rush begins and my accent returns."
Stefan rose and followed obediently. "May I ask what you have in mind to pass the time?"
Lydia pointed to a covered plate on the pristine kitchen countertop. "That's fresh ecrevisse (crawfish) strudel. I'm thinking of adding it to the menu. Tell me what you think of it."
*Roday - (cajun/creole) to go from place to place or run the roads--never staying in one place
*Mo chagren - (cajun/creole) I'm sorry
I know that the deadline passed. But what the heck, I had a free lunch break at work and this is the result, lol.
