Prime Cut

You could die from reading one of Diane Mott Davidson's culinary mysteries: this one includes recipes for Jailbreak Potatoes (butter, whipping cream, freshly grated Parmesan cheese) and Labor Day Flourless Chocolate Cake with Berries, Melba Sauce, and White Chocolate Cream (butter, chocolate, eggs, sugar, whipping cream). So you might want to take both the recipes and Davidson's pinball machine-like plots in small bites. This time, caterer Goldy Schulz careens between the worlds of contracting and high fashion models, with bodies from both camps falling into the food. It's all in fun, and readers have been lapping up Davidson's merry mélanges with increasing appetite. Catering to Nobody , The Cereal Murders , Dying for Chocolate , The Grilling Season , Killer Pancake , and The Main Corpse are available on the paperback menu. --Dick Adler From Publishers Weekly In the markedly lighthearted eighth outing (after The Grilling Season, 1997), Aspen Meadows, Colo., caterer Goldy Schulz is ousted from her kitchen. Bilked, like many other residents, by local contractor Gerald Eliot, her workplace in a shambles, she agrees to help her old teacher, Chef Andre, as he caters a Christmas catalogue fashion shoot. On the way home from the acrimonious set, she stops by to visit her friend Cameron Burr, whose house has also been ravaged by Eliot. Searching for a coffee pot, she discovers Eliot's dead body. At the scene, the police find one of four cookbooks that had been stolen from the museum where Eliot was a part-time guard. Goldy's husband, Tom (a cop), has a confrontation with his rude and politically ambitious boss and is suspended from the force while charges of insubordination are investigated. Compounding Goldy's problems is an aggressive new local caterer who seems bent on stealing Goldy's clients. When Andre is killed, Goldy slips into her super-detective mode to find out who murdered two such disparate victims and why the antique cookbooks were stolen. Despite the accumulation of bad news, Goldy retains her optimism. Davidson laces her frothy tale with 11 calories-be-damned recipes likely to keep readers satisfied on the gustatory front as well as the narrative one. Simultaneous BDD audio; author tour. Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Library Journal In her ninth culinary mystery, Davidson (The Grilling Season, Bantam, 1997) whips up a delightfully entertaining concoction, sprinkled with both corpses and chocolate. Goldy Bear Schulz, owner of Goldilocks' Catering: Where Everything Is Just Right! is known in Aspen Meadow, CO, as "the caterer who figures things out." While her husband remodels their kitchen, Goldy escapes the chaos by catering a magazine fashion shoot. When her beloved friend and cooking teacher is "accidentally" slain, Goldy is determined to find the killer. Davidson has sauteed a savory caper of crime and cooking (she includes 12 tantalizing recipes), with a touch of a historical puzzle for a garnish. Recommended for all public libraries.?Jill M. Tempest, Ocean Springs Municipal Lib., MSCopyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist Last seen in The Grilling Season , caterer Goldy Schulz returns in her usual fine form. However, things are a little disturbed in Aspen Meadow, Colorado, right now: Goldy's policeman husband Tom is having nasty arguments with a new assistant DA with political aspirations and no sense; there's a new caterer in town who seems to be underbidding Goldy at every turn and displays an extremely condescending attitude; and her kitchen is in a state of construction due to the defection of a contractor. Things go from bad to worse when Goldy finds the body of the missing contractor and an old friend, caught by circumstantial evidence, is arrested for the murder at the insistence of the obnoxious new DA. As usual, Davidson cooks up quite a stew, with Goldy as the prime ingredient, whipping up fantastic meals (recipes included) while sleuthing on the side. Good characterizations and a zippy style make this another enjoyable installment in this appealing series. Stuart Miller From the Publisher Five-star praise for The New York Times bestselling mysteries of Diane Mott Davidson: "The Julia Child Of Mystery Writers" --The Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph "Today's foremost practitioner of the culinary whodunit." --Entertainment Weekly "A cross between Mary Higgins Clark and Betty Crocker!" --The Sun, Baltimore "You don't have to be a cook or a mystery fan to love Diane Mott Davidson's books. But if you're either--or both--her tempting recipes and elaborate plots add up to a literary feast!" --The San Diego Union-Tribune "Diane Mott Davidson's culinary mysteries can be hazardous to your waistline." --People From the Inside Flap ;i>New York Times bestselling author of The Grilling Season comes a delectably deadly new novel of savory dishes and unsavory deeds, as caterer turned sleuth Goldy Schulz must find the missing ingredient to a killer concoction of high fashion, low-life, and murder.An unscrupulous new rival has pushed Goldy's beloved catering business to the brink of collapse. An even more unscrupulous local contractor has left her precious kitchen in a shambles. Yet Goldy has joined forces with her old mentor, French chef Andre Hibbard, to cater a fashion photo shoot at a turn-of-the-century mountain cabin. There, in a hopelessly outdated kitchen, Goldy and the temperamental but kindhearted Andre struggle to create warming Models' Mushroom Soup, Savory Florentine Cheesecakes, and a luscious spread for a vain and vacuous crowd of beautiful people whose personal dramas climax when a camera is pitched through a plateglass window...into the buffet.Things go swiftly from bad Diane Mott Davidson lives in Evergreen, Colorado, with her husband and three sons and is at work on her next novel. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Like a fudge souffle, life can collapse. You think you have it all together--fine melted chocolate, clouds of egg white, hints of sugar andxa0xa0vanilla--and then bam. There's a reason things fall apart, myxa0xa0husband would say. But of course Tom would say that. He's a cop.On the home front, things were not good. My kitchen was trashed, myxa0xa0catering business faced nasty competition, and my fourteen-year-old sonxa0xa0Arch desperately missed our former boarder, twenty-year-old Julian Teller.xa0xa0For his part, Tom was embroiled in a feud with a new assistant districtxa0xa0attorney who would plea-bargain Hermann G&#247ring down to disturbing thexa0xa0peace. These days, I felt increasingly frantic--for work, for cookingxa0xa0space, for perspective.Given such a litany of problems, life had brightened somewhat when my oldxa0xa0cooking teacher, Chef Andre Hibbard, had offered me a one-day gigxa0xa0helping to cater a fashion shoot. My clients--the ones I still had--wouldxa0xa0have scoffed. Catering to models? You must be desperate. Maybe I was. Desperate, that is. And maybe my clients would have beenxa0xa0right to ridicule me, I reflected, as I pulled my van into the dirt lot atxa0xa0the edge of Sandbottom Creek. Across the water stood the Mercifulxa0xa0Migrations cabin, where the first week of the photo shoot would takexa0xa0place. My clients would have cried: Where are you going to hide yourxa0xa0butter and cheese? I didn't know.The cloudless, stone-washed-denim sky overhead and remote-but-picturesquexa0xa0cabin seemed to echo: You're darn right, you don't know. I ignoredxa0xa0a shudder of self-doubt, jumped out of my van, and breathed in air crispxa0xa0with the high country's mid-August hint of fall. It was only ten a.m.xa0xa0 Usually I didn't arrive two hours before a lunch, especially when the foodxa0xa0already had been prepared. But show me a remote historic home andxa0xa0I'll show you a dysfunctional cooking area. Plus, I was worriedxa0xa0about my old friend Andre. This was his first off-site catered mealxa0xa0since he'd retired four years ago, and he was a basket case.I opened the van's side door and heaved up the box containing the Savoryxa0xa0Florentine Cheesecakes I'd made for the buffet. I expertly slammed thexa0xa0door with my foot, crossed the rushing water, and carefully climbed thexa0xa0stone steps to the cabin. On the deck, I took another deep breath,xa0xa0rebalanced my load, then pushed through the massive wooden door.Workers bustled about a brightly lit, log-lined, high-beamed great room.xa0xa0I rested my box on a bench and stood for a few minutes, ignored by thexa0xa0swirl of activity. Frowning, I found it challenging to comprehend myxa0xa0surroundings. Two workers called to each other about where to move thexa0xa0scrim, which I finally deduced was a mounted swath of fabric designed toxa0xa0diffuse the photographer's light. The two men moved on to clamping movablexa0xa0eight-foot-square wood screens--flats, I soon learned--into place. Thexa0xa0flats formed a three-sided frame for "the set." Meanwhile, other folksxa0xa0rushed to and fro laden with hair dryers, notebooks, makeup trays,xa0xa0tripods, and camera equipment. Hoisting my box, I tried to figure outxa0xa0where Andre might be.As I moved along, the models were easy to spot. Muscular young men andxa0xa0impossibly slender women, all with arrestingly sculpted faces, leanedxa0xa0against the log walls or slumped in the few stripped-bark bentwood chairs.xa0xa0The models' expressions were frozen in first-day-of-school apprehension.xa0xa0And no wonder: They were about to undergo the cattle call for the famedxa0xa0Prince & Grogan Christmas catalog. Prince & Grogan was an upscalexa0xa0Denver department store. Auditioning to model Santa-print pajamas forxa0xa0their ads had to be anxiety-creating.I plowed a crooked path to what I hoped was the kitchen entrance. As Ixa0xa0feared, the dark, cramped cooking space featured plywood glued along thexa0xa0one wall not covered by cupboards. Above the plywood, a dusty lamp hung toxa0xa0illuminate the battered sink. Next to the sink, buckled linoleum countersxa0xa0abutted a gas oven that didn't look much newer than a covered wagon's campxa0xa0stove. In the center of the uneven wood floor, short, paunchy,xa0xa0white-haired AndrÚ Hibbard surveyed the room with openxa0xa0dissatisfaction. As usual, my old friend and mentor, who had made a rarexa0xa0compromise when he'd immigrated, anglicizing his name from HÚbert toxa0xa0Hibbard,xa0xa0sported a pristine white chef's jacket that hugged his potbelly.xa0xa0His black pants were knife-creased; his black shoes were shiny andxa0xa0spotless. When he saw me, his rosebud mouth puckered into a frown."Thank goodness. " His plum-colored cheeks shook; the silvery curlsxa0xa0lining his neck trembled. "Are these people pigs , that I have toxa0xa0work in this trough ? I may need money, but I have standards !"I put down my box, gave him a quick hug, and sniffed a trace of his spicyxa0xa0cologne. "Andre! You're never happy. But I'm here, and I brought thexa0xa0nonmeat entrÚe you requested. Main-dish cheesecakes made withxa0xa0GruyÞre and spinach."He tsk ed while I checked the ancient oven's illegible thermostat.xa0xa0"The oven is hot. Whose recipe is it?""Julian Teller's. Now training to become a vegetarian chef." I lifted thexa0xa0cakes from the box and slid them into the oven to reheat. "Now, put me toxa0xa0work."I helped Andre pour out the tangy sauces that would accompany thexa0xa0delicate spring rolls he'd stuffed with fat steamed shrimp, sprigs ofxa0xa0cilantro, and lemongrass. Then we stirred chopped pears into the red-winexa0xa0vinaigrette, counted cornbread biscuits, Parker House Rolls, and sourdoughxa0xa0baguettes, and discussed the layout of the buffet. Prince & Grogan wasxa0xa0the client of record. But the fashion photography studio, Ian's Images,xa0xa0was running the show."Ian Hood does fashion photography for money," Andre announced as hexa0xa0checked his menu, "and nature photography for fun. You know this?"In AndrÚ's scratched, overloaded, red cooking equipment box--one Ixa0xa0knew well from our days at his restaurant--I pushed aside his garlic pressxa0xa0and salamander, andxa0xa0nabbed the old-fashioned scoop he used to make butterxa0xa0balls. "I know his pictures of elk. You can't live in Aspen Meadow andxa0xa0miss them."AndrÚ pursed his lips again and handed me the tub of chilled butter.xa0xa0"The helpers are day-contractors working for Prince & Grogan."The word contractor, unfortunately, instantly brought my trashedxa0xa0kitchen to mind. Forget it for now--you have work to do. I scrapedxa0xa0the butter into dense, creamy balls. I wrapped the breads in foil whilexa0xa0AndrÚ counted his platters. Because the cabin kitchen was not axa0xa0commercially-approved space, he had done the bulk of the food preparationxa0xa0at his condo. While he gave me the background on the shoot, we usedxa0xa0disposable thermometers to do the obligatory off-site food-service testsxa0xa0for temperature. Was the heated food hot enough? The chilled offeringsxa0xa0cold enough? Yes. Finally, we checked the colorful arrangements of fruitxa0xa0and bowls of salad, and tucked the rolls into napkin-lined baskets.When the cheesecakes emerged, golden brown and puffed, they filled thexa0xa0small kitchen with a heavenly aroma. AndrÚ checked their temperaturexa0xa0and asked me to take them out to the buffet. I stocked the first tray,xa0xa0lifted it up to my shoulder, and nudged through the kitchen door. When Ixa0xa0entered the great room, a loudly barked order made me jump. "Take off your shirt!" I banged the tray onto the ruby-veined marble shelf that a note inxa0xa0AndrÚ's familiar sloping hand had labeled Buffet. The shelf,xa0xa0cantilevered out of the massive log walls, creaked ominously. The tray ofxa0xa0cheesecakes slid sideways."Your shirt !"I grabbed the first springform pan to keep it from tipping. This was notxa0xa0what I was expecting. Because the noise outside the kitchen had abated,xa0xa0I'd thought the room was empty and that the models' auditions had beenxa0xa0moved elsewhere. I was obviously wrong. But my immediate worry was thexa0xa0cheesecakes, now threatening to toboggan downward. If they landed on thexa0xa0floor, I would be assigned to cook a new main dish. This would not bexa0xa0fun.With great care, I slid the steaming concoctions safely onto the counter.xa0xa0Arguing voices erupted from the far corner of the great room. I grabbedxa0xa0the leaning breadbasket. The floor's oak planks reverberated as someonexa0xa0stamped and hollered that the stylist was supposed to bring out the goldxa0xa0chains right now! I swallowed and stared at the disarray on thexa0xa0tray. To make room on the counter, I skidded the cheesecakes down the marble.xa0xa0The enticing scents of tangy melted GruyÞre and Parmesan swirled withxa0xa0hot scallions and cream cheese spiraled upward. The thick tortes'xa0xa0golden-brown topping looked gorgeous, fit for the centerfold ofxa0&#... Read more