Cookbook for a New Europe

By Richard Segal

To serve society or humanity? It's been fourteen years since the basketball-mad detective Fran Obrien captured the urban bomber Lavi, who has since moved to Spain and rehabilitated himself beyond recognition. Fran is fresh off a two-year sabbatical, during which he tended to 11-year-old Ben, the family comedian, and 17-year-old Alice, with, yes, as much attitude as youd expect. His estranged boss Karl has retired and Fran must learn to deal with the new brass no small task itself.

His first assignment is to investigate an act of alleged political corruption which seems more wild goose chase than duck in a barrel, leading him to question his decision to return to work. After an extended-family culinary expedition to Budapest, Fran's nine-to-five job takes him almost to Albany and to Central America, where he must untangle the mother of all webs. His wife, local family doctor Darby, goes along for the ride, and, oh, pia coladas "to die for." For a detective and amateur gourmet chef like no other, Cookbook for a New Europe is a ride Fran certainly didn't expect. Hes been fiercely focused for years, but a spate of unintended yet momentous events unfolds once he gives free rein to his emotions, and his recipes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467881906

Richard Segal

Richard Segal, an American citizen, resides in London, England, and works as an economic and financial consultant. He has written widely about matters relating to global public policy over the years. His most recent novel was The Man Who Knew the Answer.

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Contents

Come Back Precocious Crab,

All is Forgiven

Car Crash in a Distant Land

Lazy Sunday Morning

The Sunday Night Social

At Home

In the Kitchen

Herculean and Titanic Tasks

Three Weeks Later

Still Sucking in the ’70s

Karl’s Son

To Serve Society or Humanity?

You Never Forget Your First Comedy Club

A Ceremonial Cruise

Return to the Planet of the Tapes

Sweet and Sour Mash

Poster Board

Crocodile Soup

Where’s Aldo?

Juan Two, Too

Those Who Can, Do…

Fran and Lew

Off Duty

Return to the Alamodome

The Day After the Afternoon Before

Lew Checks It Out

The Adirondack Flyer to Albany

Tastes Great, Less Filling

Tastes Great, Less Filling?

Take it to the House

Lorenzo’s Turn

Karl’s Turn

Rhinecliff Redux

To Carolyn Lila

Cookbook for a New Europe

What if I say I’m not like the others?

—D. Grohl

Come Back Precocious Crab,

All is Forgiven

Fran sat on a bench in the Seaport District and reminisced. He hadn’t been to this part of Lower Manhattan since the wholesalers upped sticks and moved north to Hunts Point, their sterile present day home. No more early morning power washers, no more live crabs playing hide and seek with their destiny. Lower Manhattan wasn’t the same, even though the market had long since outgrown this narrow strip of real estate, and admittedly the hygiene standards were not of this century. Fran had adored the sounds of early morning vending and loved the aroma of fish, fuel and adrenaline, but alas, life goes on. He felt severely amiss, but reminded himself repeatedly: They tore down the market in the name of progress.

He searched for Fledermaus Cafe, but that too was long gone, a victim of the once-soaring price of commercial real estate. Ironically, its lot was still vacant, the developer bankrupt from his own avarice and the bank’s rose-colored projections. As for Fran, he was right back where he started from, but was this in a good or a bad way?

Car Crash in a Distant Land

Several thousand miles away, a seeming coincidence was about to occur. Ambassador Keilty was talking gaily when his driver began swearing furiously in colloquial Spanish. El loco! he screamed moments before the car was rammed by a sedan speeding erratically towards it. The force of the crash caused each car to spin violently, until the pair came to a halt by the side of the road and it was unclear which had been their original directions.

Ordinary cars continued as if this were an everyday occurrence, and one or two even had the temerity to stop, gape at the wreckage and screech off. Thanks to happenstance, a police car was in the vicinity and its occupants observed the scene with alarm, one of whom radioed in the incident. Two ambulances arrived within fifteen minutes.

The first, of VIP substance, hastily retrieved the drivers while the second collected the actual VIP, and raced to the hospital. A few minutes later, a second police car appeared from around the corner.

It’s a day and a half later as the ambassador’s wife returns to the hospital, nervous as before, though her hubby has stabilized and his life is no longer in danger.

I’m bored, he moaned. Didn’t they at least find my cellphone?

Nice to see you, too, she chided.

You can take the flowers home. It smells like a fragrance factory in here.

She nodded.

I’d jump up and smooch you if I weren’t weighed down by these blankets—and my leg weren’t broken.

The feeling’s mutual, she returned.

So did they tell you what happened? he asked.

Both cars were totalled, she admitted. They took them away.

My phone, though, he implored.

I’ll ask, she agreed, but I think they said they didn’t find anything.

All my contacts were on that phone, he bewailed, but I’m sure I asked Marina to sync it with my desktop not long ago.

Why do you care so much about your phone? she chided again. Shouldn’t you worry about recovering first? And your driver?

My phone? he asked. Was I talking about my phone?

Oh my gg… she apologized. You’re still in shock. I’m sorry.

My driver, he said stoically. Isn’t Pedro OK? He always wears his seatbelt and he slowed down right before. That much I remember.

Her head turned down and she became downcast. No one told you? He inhaled and emitted an air of anxiety, as she continued, He didn’t make it. The driver of the other car was drunk, apparently. Very drunk.

He began to swear, paused and released, Ouch, that hurts. It hurts to swear. Damn, I liked that driver!

Is there anything I can get for you dear? she asked.

You could start with a new phone and driver. And take away these damn flowers.

Lazy Sunday Morning

Fran turned toward his wife Darby as she perused the Mid-Chester Register and for a split second shot a glare of semi-scorn. He had long stopped buying the local papers, the ones he read religiously during the ’80s and ’90s: The New Rochelle Chronicle, which was universally shortened to the NewRoCro, and the now defunct Daily Rope. Ironically, had the Rope still been in existence, it would have been all over the story Darby was about to read. It might have sent reporters to the scene and uncovered who knows what in the murk, funded from who knows where. However, the saga of the Daily Rope is to follow.

When she turned to page 5 of the Register, the international page, and sighed audibly, the watershed was broken. She read out loud the headline: LOCAL MAN AMBASSADOR IN HORRIFIC ACCIDENT. Fran, I don’t believe this! Listen!

What is it Dar? he asked.

The ambassador to… she began. The man they called ‘senator for a week.’ Remember him?

Yes, he came to one of the Sunday Night Socials. I liked him. He didn’t seem too slippery. What’s he done?

He’s been in a car crash!

Oh, my! Where? Fran asked again.

In South America.

Is he-?

The paper says he’s in serious condition. He’s expected to be OK.

He’ll have to fly back to recuperate, I’d imagine, Fran spoke, with relief.

No, apparently he’s in the best hospital in the country. It was funded with US aid. It seems to be fine.

Interesting. The roads must be real bad there. Did it happen at night? he asked.

No, she countered, broad daylight. It says the other driver was drunk. Had been drinking the local moonshine.

You can’t be too careful.

Here’s something else. She smiled.

Something funny? he asked.

It says the hospital has built a special wing with, he’ll be able to work while he convalesces.

Only in South America.

It’s Central America, actually, she clarified.

The Sunday Night Social

Fran used to consider weekends a waste, when nothing useful in a work sense could take place. This was one of the reasons he loved his monthly sports club. It could share or occupy his attention while he waited for Monday morning, when he could continue his investigations. He could conduct background research, sure, on a given Saturday morning, but hardly anyone would pick up a phone, and those who did wouldn’t talk shop.

Life was different during his two sabbatical years, in his town where everyone was working for the weekend. His trial balloon, pot luck event the Saturday Night Special was transformed to the Sunday Night Social to allot more time to prepare.

He thought about the hog roasts he used to organize. His slow roast pork leg, duck tacos for the masses on the side. Or his swan song of mixed-meat burgers and many-ways-cooked dough, assisted ably by his children. To give another example, ‘French toasted’ rolls as sandwich wrap. A given person had never seen such an imaginative under the shoulder burger holder and couldn’t help but tuck into one.

Share the wealth, he would say to those he’d catch devouring, joyously oblivious.

Isn’t it ‘don’t eat the profits?’ would be the response when the ‘culprit’ was Ben, his 11-year-old son, also a budding comedian.

Whatever, Ben, Fran replied. Get to work and stop eating.

But Dad, they’re SO delicious.

Flattery will get you everywhere—except here. There will be plenty of leftovers.

Leftovers—every dad’s favorite. And you heard it here first, Ben joked.

You’re bucking for a game of ‘let’s see who can hit the softest.’

At that moment, the banter would be interrupted by older sister Alice, carrying an urgent message. Fran could read the anxiety on her face: What up, Ally, 40 hot dogs missing again?

No, she replied, Incoming wounded, we need supplies and replacements. She was too focused, and determined, to remember whether this was an inside joke, and he didn’t want to jut the flow, so he reverted to her formal name as well.

No problem, Alice, we’ve got heaps.

In case someone else asks, what do you call them?

Pljeskavica, he said slowly. I stole, uh, borrowed, uh, the recipe from Bart P, remember?

Pl-yes, she stated inconclusively. Never mind. I’ll just say they’re your patent-pending burgers. And you can’t make any more until you hear from the Patent Office.

Cool beans Alice, watch this, Fran commanded and turned to the side. Ben, I used to think white pizza was abnormal, but then I tried Tarte Flambee.

I don’t understand Dad, Ben responded.

A little culinary humor, Fran clarified.

Yes, Ben agreed. Very little.

Lame, Dad, very lame, Alice verdicted.

OK, sorry guys, Fran conceded. How many people are out there? I should say hello.

About 60. Some of them are waiting for you.

What about ‘the man who beat boom and bust?’ Is he out there? Fran was referring to a local real estate developer-politician—who argued forcefully during the campaign, convincingly for a while—that ‘because of the shift to the new economy and deregulations which favored the real estate industry, recessions have been outlawed.’

With bells on. For real. He’s brought a cowbell. If he thinks this is gonna speed delivery to his table-

Excellent. I’ve been waiting for this moment. Fran ladled a large spoonful of meat into a square of flatbread, followed by a tongful of simmered onions and peppers, and rolled it into a cone which he then surrounded by a kind of fishwrap, except he used the developer’s campaign leaflets, rather than traditional grease-resistant paper or mock newspapers.

Dad, what are you-? Alice questioned.

Don’t worry, he’s got a sense of humor, I think. Well, if not, this is my show. Careful how you place the tomatoes, Fran urged his children. The Ginsus are pretty sharp.

The Ginsus to which he referred were his nickname for knives, in reference to the staple of late-night TV commercials in the ’80s and ’90s. The knives were sold as part of a kitchen package with pots and pans, which allowed the voice-over actor to pose the immortal question What could top this? Covers. (This actor also coined the phrase: So you don’t forget, order before midnight tomorrow!)

Fran was particular about the vegetables in his salads, especially cherry tomatoes, which had to be sliced precisely in the middle and placed sunny side up, as he called it, and therefore easier for the diner to stab. Otherwise, they risk splattering and sliding elusively toward the edge of the plate.

Yes sir, Captain Dad, Alice replied. She in turn was referring to a song they’d heard on the car radio on the drive over. It was customary for the young Obriens to fight over shotgun seat in the family car, because this gave right of first refusal over the radio station. Ben’s tastes were fairly diverse for an 11-year old, though his first preference was the irreverent children’s channel WBAF, which satirized noxious and nauseating nursery rhymes (well, he’s brushing his teeth on the bottom, ’cuz the ones on the top are all rotton…). Alice won the race to the front seat that afternoon and was searching for boyband drivel when she paused on the song I’m Your Captain. Fran smiled for two reasons; first, because this song didn’t fit any of the day’s genres and rarely received airtime; and second, because Alice took her hand off the dial after listening for a few seconds.

Fran smiled a third time when he remembered that his musical tastes matured at the age Alice was now and perhaps hers were graduating from teeny bopper pop. He instinctively rubbed the back of his crew cut and recalled the first time he’d heard I’m Your Captain. In those days, everyone wanted to be a hippy, from the straight laced pre-med whose favorite song was Avenging Annie to the genuine hippy who’d wander around campus reassuring interested as well as don’t-care students that I’m higher than you’ll ever be.

The song had a second lifetime in Fran’s mind, around the time he became an entry-level detective. Reflecting first week nerves and insomnia, he spent a lot of hours listening to the Neer Brothers and channel surfing, often ending up on the CBS Late Night Movie because he loved the theme tune. The year was 1983 and little did he know. When he heard If You Don’t Know Me By Now and other similar songs, he was distracted from challenges of the day and brought back to the era they were released and promises of emotional commitment he made to himself at the time.

Fran eyeballed the paper Dar was clasping and returned to the present. I’m gonna miss the Sunday Night Socials, Dar, but I’ve had a two-year career break. It’s time for me to go back to work.

When do, how do, you need to be in touch with them? Darby asked.

It’s kind of automatic, I think. I must send a formal letter confirming my proposed start date, and someone on the other side processes paperwork.

I see.

Well, he propositioned, Alice may have more attitude than a plane has altitude, but she was right. How about some attitude adjustment? The leftovers won’t take long to prepare.

Fran, it’s Monday.

Oh yeah, he accepted, when you work weekends, Monday is your Saturday. I thought the Seaport had that Monday Blues feeling this morning.

Well, you worked hard last night, she relented, you deserve to let your hair down. But I’m OK. I have lots of patients’ files to review.

Fran was on his way to the kitchen when the phone rang. At this time of day, 6:15 on a Monday evening, it most certainly would be for Dr. Darby Obrien, which is why he answered the phone with a slightly high-camp Dr. Dar’s office, how may I help you?

Anyone who called at home this time of day would understand—perhaps even appreciate—a little levity. No reply, though. Hello, this is Dr. Obrien’s residence. Is anyone there? Now he felt guilty, because he thought he’d driven away a patient. Then he heard a click and felt even worse. Oh, calico, what have I done?

Calico? Fran and Darby were conscious of their language in front of the kids. When Alice was about four, she returned from nursery school with a drawing. What is the beautiful picture? Fran asked innocently. It’s a fucking goddamn fucking bird she responded unknowingly. Naptime became swearing time to the couple and Fran adopted codewords such as ‘calico’ to prevent the children from becoming inadvertently foul mouthed.

Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll call back.

Thanks. Take away one of my gold stars. Where was I? Oh, yeah, a beer. He completed this precise mission and went in search of the sports section. He’d yet to memorize the weekend box scores."

About ten minutes later, the phone rang again. You’d better get this one, Fran urged. I already scared away one client.

Darby arose and grabbed the phone within three rings. Taking no chance, she answered with a simple hello.

Just a moment, please, he’s right here, she continued.

A few moments and some audible phone line cackle later, she was forced to repeat, I said just a moment!

Dar, I was just thinking, Fran said absentmindedly. Detroit and Pittsburgh absolutely rock at ice hockey, but they suck at everything else.

Fran, I’m going to have to tell you about my patient who won’t take off his Steelers jersey some other time. It’s someone named Joseph Candela for you. He says it’s urgent.

Joey Candelaya? What can he possibly want? OK, tell him I’ll be right there.

Fran walked to where Darby was standing as slowly as possible and took the cordless phone from her.

Sir! he said sarcastically.

Fran Obrien please.

Very funny, Joey, what is it? Fran asked.

Ahhrm, we’re gonna hafta delay your return to work by a month.

Arn? My name’s Fran, not Arnold, Fran replied sarcastically.

Yes, Fran, I mean you. One month.

Oh, OK, a month. So what? What should I do after a month?

Come to the office, Joey suggested. "We’ll assign you a case.

We. Who’s we?

The department, Joey affirmed.

You’re joking.

No.

OK, that’s that, Fran rationalized.

"One more thing. Can I call you sometimes, to update you on progress?" Joey pronounced, accenting and intoning this word incorrectly.

Taken aback, Fran allowed, Yeah, I guess.

Feeling victorious, Joey became palsie. See ya ’round then.

It’d be an honor, Fran said sarcastically. He clicked off the phone and returned it to its base.

What was that all about? Darby asked in a state of curiosity.

They want me to wait another month. Fran answered dumbfoundedly.

Can they do that?

A month perhaps. Any longer probably not.

What are you going to do? she asked.

Have a beer and think about it, I suppose. I’ll decide in the morning.

Fran spoke hardly a word as he noshed into his beloved of day-old shredded jumbo duck with ketchup, Malaysia’s unsung contribution to global comfort food, and vinegar BBQ sauce. No ordinary bread for toast, but thinly sliced focaccia, so crispy on the outside. He supplied the rest of the family deep fried hot dog rolls with a hint of Emmental, but Fran ODed on those the night before.

The French have a word for it and the word is trompe l’oeil, but Fran calls it his trump card, the ‘it’ being scallop soup. He’d been invited to hoity-toity French restaurant a few years earlier, where the status symbol dish was a combo called scallop carpaccio. Fran sampled it and concluded he could do better. However, in deference to the chef, he renamed his concoction. It goes like this: you take four McIntosh apples—it’s got to be McIntosh—and put them through the juicer. The juice is strained through a coarse colander and the foam is reserved for later. He then feeds fresh garlic, fennel, a banana shallot and half a scotch bonnet pepper to the juicer and combines the liquid with the smooth apple, stirring calmly, afterwards adding olive oil, one teaspoon per person. He slices the scallops thinly, two per person, and rests them carefully in the marinade. A few pinchfuls of rough sea salt on top and the soup is ready to sit in the fridge for several hours. He serves the soup cool with a garnish of lime wedges, coriander, flat parsley and apple juice foam, these decorations.

There’s nothing more beautiful in life than the creation of an instant classic—my scallop soup, for example, Fran spoke to himself. This is so delicious it should be served in an ice cream parfait glass with wide rimmed salt, he then said audibly. It’s good to the last drop. Alice, Ben and Darby looked at Fran, and then at each other. Fran thought he’d been talking to himself as he stared at the dish. Oops, sorry, he apologized. What should I do with myself for a month? he asked himself to deflect the conversation. Internal silence.

He glanced at his family members one by one, and then back again. His eyes began to play tricks, because Darby didn’t appear the second time the way she did the first.

He squinted and rubbed his eyebrows.

Everything OK Dad? Alice asked.

Yeah, he implied. Got something in my eye. Anyone want anything? If not, I’m going to brew some tea.

There being no response, he walked into the kitchen to prepare four cups of after dinner tea but was distracted again, recollecting parts of the conversation with Joe Candela. He glanced at his cookbook collection: Burgers Should Not Be Symmetrical, The Secret’s in the Sauce and Marge is not Short for Margarine. He pondered two ingredients essential to each book—avocados, smoked dry-cure bacon, overripe tomatoes, bacon again, molasses and cider vinegar—and realized his Joey dilemma would not be resolved that evening.

I’ll discuss it with Dar in the morning, he promised himself. All could have been well, yet he was figuratively unnerved. His life was at a junction, and Fran, like most people, became impatient with traffic lights if they stayed red too long. This was entirely Joey’s fault, he decided in a heartbeat. I should be able to return to work the day after tomorrow if I feel like it, he concluded.

He brought the teapot into the dining room and poured servings. Although Ben was just 11, the tea was fruit flavoured and caffeine free. To him, this was a trompe le goût, or a dessert teaser. Alice, 17, drank it eagerly, because it gave her a grown-up sophistication sensibility, in turn because the tea was imported.

It’s no wonder I had enough time to teach myself to cook when your mother and I were twinkies, Fran explained to his children.

Huh? Ben asked. The concept of an acronym was new to him.

Twin incomes, no kids, Fran clarified.

Ugh, Ben responded, as if his father had spoiled the treat. It would be some time before he thought about eating a real Twinkie again.

A few minutes later, the kids left the table to do chores, homework, play games and watch TV, leaving Fran and Darby alone at the table.

If a group of people you casually knew got run over by the same bus, would you go to the funeral uninvited and unattended? Fran asked. That’s how I feel about Joey.

Now, now, Darby interjected. What’s he done to you?

I can’t tell you.

It’s a secret? she probed, as in, was the information undisclosable because it was sensitive?

No, because I’d have to swear, and the kids might overhear.

She laughed. I think I get the picture.

Fran woke up early the next morning, rifled through the cabinet and discovered he was out of coffee. The only teas in the pantry were herbal blends and therefore he jumped into the car and drove to Cafe Ole for some takeouts. Although he