The Killer Menu: A Delicious Tale of Food, Family and Murder.

By Annette Joseph

Henry is deliciously charming chef. Talented, handsome and intensely obsessive. He goes to extreme measures to insert himself into the lives of his girlfriend's family. A wide spanning thriller where love and loss create a recipe for disaster. You will travel the streets of Paris to the chic cities of Italy on Henry's chilling journey. Finding l

• Language: English
• Publisher: all about annette
• Release date: Oct 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088179512

Annette Joseph

Annette Joseph is an author. She lives most of the time in Italy. She is an expert on entertaining, cooking, and food and home styling. She regularly appears on the Today show and Martha Stewart Living Radio. She has been featured in Better Homes and Gardens, Epicurious, Vogue, MSN, Elle Decor, Southern Living, and goop, Milk Street, among others.Annette has over twenty years of experience working in media, and on television, her expertise includes photo styling for interiors, food propping and styling, cooking, and gardening and lifestyle tips, Italian travel tips. She conducts flea market shopping, styling, photography, and slow food, and cooking and yoga and wellness retreats in northern Tuscany. Where she has renovated and lives in a 12th century fortress with a vineyard. She's written six books including her current one The Killer Menu, At the Table of La Fortezza, My Italian Guestbook, Italy is My Boyfriend, Cocktail Italiano, Picture Perfect Parties.She is the author of many books, including: Picture Perfect Parties, Cocktail Italiano, Italy Is My Boyfriend, and My Italian Guestbook and At the Table of La Fortezza. Follow her crazy adventures on her You Tube Channel, All About Annette

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Prologue

Lonnie Miller was plain and unaffectionate, and always had been. She was a chain smoker and a terrible cook. She spent most of her time sitting at their kitchen table, listening to the radio. Out of sheer necessity, because he could not stomach his ma’s cooking, Henry learned to cook at an early age. His earliest memories were of poring over her recipe books, and battered copies of Better Homes and Gardens stacked on the shelf next to the kitchen table. He painstakingly taught himself to cook by age eleven. He was much more at ease next to a stove than on a tractor. He knew at an early age that farm life was not for him.

Being an only child, he was always lonely. He longed for the day he could escape this hellish place. Lonnie was verbally abusive most of the time—generally speaking, a terrible parent. She told him on a daily basis that he was a mistake and should have been aborted. He felt his heart crack a little every time she said it. By his teenage years, he no longer reacted to her hurtful comments; his heart had hardened by then.

His father was not much better. He was a simple man, a farmer. Starting at ten, Henry was constantly being dragged against his will to work in the fields. Instead of working like his father told him to, he would lie in the field tearing apart corncobs to see how they tasted. When he wasn’t tasting the corn, he was analyzing kernels of wheat, rolling them between his fingers. Every time his father would find him eating the fresh corn, his face would get red, and he would yank Henry up by the arm and slap him hard across the face.

You think I have time for this? He would ask.

The slap from his porkchop hand would sting and throb as Henry ran all the way back to the house. His father would continue yelling at him until he was finally too far away to hear it. Entering the kitchen, his Ma would be sitting at the table smoking and listening to the blaring radio. Glaring at him, she’d turn it down to speak.

What are you doing here, you moron? You can’t even manage to help your father! You’re worthless!

Henry would head to his bedroom to escape. As he walked past her, she would pelt the rolled up morning paper at him like he was a stray dog. He would look back to see her take a big drag on her cigarette, then scurry to his room and quietly shut his door.

Don’t come out until I tell you to, you hear me? She spat the words at him.

Banishing Henry to his bedroom was the ultimate punishment since his only reprieve was the joy he got from cooking in the kitchen.

High school wasn’t much better. He longed to fit in, but he loved reading cookbooks and the recipes in women’s magazines. These were hardly the interests of a normal boy, he sometimes thought.

Henry grew up to be quite good looking. His head full of curly locks and his chiseled features made the girls swoon. But he had no idea what to do with his movie star good looks. When Henry talked to a girl, he struggled to make conversation. All the girls loved Henry despite his extreme awkwardness. One day a new girl said hello and asked him for directions to the library. Henry was unable to form words. He pointed and walked backwards and stumbled, catching his sleeve on an open locker door and falling to the floor. The kids in the hallway all laughed. He ran to his next class as his classmates taunted him and said what a loser he was. High school was a disaster for Henry.

Every day Henry would get home from school and Lonnie would be sitting at the kitchen, smoking and drinking a glass of whiskey. Henry would cringe when he heard the ice clinking in her glass. She had started drinking more since his father had left them. He would look accusingly into her foggy eyes, and she would raise her arm and throw a rolled up newspaper at him, laughing.

Every night he cooked dinner for he and his Ma. It was just the two of them in this hopeless place in the middle of nowhere. No surprise, he didn’t miss his father. He was relieved to be tortured by just one parent. He endlessly thought about how he would get out of this prison. He could hear his mother’s voice calling him into the kitchen. She asked Henry the same thing every night. Hey, chef moron, what’s for supper tonight?

You’re worthless, she would say.

This isn’t a family, this is a prison, she would say.

Henry didn’t attend his high school graduation. He packed his Ma’s rundown station wagon with a few belongings, including his cookbooks, and without saying goodbye he drove away from the farm. He had no idea where he was going, but anything would be better than staying. It was clear to him that if he stayed he would kill her. He had fantasized about it many times; he dreamt of it. Chicago was not far away and he knew there would be a kitchen for him to work in. He did not mind hard work; in fact he welcomed it. He didn’t care where his future would take him, as long as it was far away from that flying rolled-up newspaper, and that witch. He hated her.

CHAPTER ONE

Success at Last, Chicago

As Axel walked through his state-of-the-art kitchen in downtown Chicago, he often thought back to his mother’s awful kitchen. This place was the antithesis of that childhood memory. It was a bustling urban kitchen, with Axel alongside sixty people all working with him toward the same goal: to serve guests what the name of the restaurant promised—a killer menu. The idea of this menu took years of hard work. Axel had traveled the world to perfect his concept. He had created the perfect fusion of secret family recipes, a brainchild he had when he was twenty-eight and working in a bakery in Paris. He had never worked as hard as he did there for his brutal boss André. But André was the type of man who was as knowledgeable as he was cruel.

Henri, as he was known in Paris, had changed his name to fit in there, much like he had changed his name to Axel Harrod years later to open his own restaurant. It sounded badass and posh, and he wanted to be perceived as a posh, badass restaurateur.

When he had moved to Paris, he craved knowledge and endured whatever came his way in order to master the art of French baking and French cuisine. He was always hungry, hungry for information. Henri had it tough; he cooked by day at French cooking school and baked during the night shift at André’s boulangerie.

Wistfully, it all came back to his reinvented persona, Axel Harrod, that night at the restaurant. It was a full house, and the sound in the dining room was deafening. When Axel made his walkthrough to greet guests, he stopped at every table. Guests stood up at many of the tables and motioned him over. This was his own personal dinner party every night for two hundred people, and he loved chatting with guests, hearing all the compliments; after all, not only was he handsome and charming, but he basked in the adoration, like all egomaniacs. No one suspected his overgrown ego because he was so sweet, kind, generous, and utterly charming. No one saw the other side… no one.

As he was shaking the hand of one of the diners, Axel spotted a man dressed in a slick black suit. He could tell the suit was a European cut. In an instant, he surmised this person was from overseas. His thoughts flashed… why is he just standing there staring? Is he a guest... no he looked like a man on a mission. Axel thought maybe he looked like a cop. The badge he was flashing at Emily tipped him off. Emily, the manager, was a round-faced, tall sandy blonde in her mid-thirties, dressed in a chic little black dress, with long dangling earrings. She pointed toward Axel. The man nodded, and started walking across the dining room.

Emily smiled at Axel as she pointed at the man and mouthed the words, He wants to talk to you.

Axel sensed that this was not something he wanted to deal with mid-service, so he shook his head and headed toward the kitchen. Quickly, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around. The slim man with a French accent and said, Can we talk somewhere private?

Take your hand off me! Axel replied.

We can do this quietly, or we can do this loudly—you decide, Henri, the man holding up his badge answered calmly.

Axel was shaken. Henri—did he call me Henri? No one knew that name in Chicago. Let go of me, Axel said.

Come with us quietly, he repeated.

Just then Axel saw his opportunity to break for the kitchen, and he took off running. This couldn’t be happening, he thought. He had planned everything out so carefully! His cover was blown. The only thing left to do was run, so he ran.

The man took off after Axel. Someone was standing at the kitchen door, holding it open. Thank God, a clear path to my escape! Axel ran into the bustling kitchen and into the sous chef. They both fell to the floor with a loud thud and struggled to get up. Once on his feet, Axel headed toward the back door, taking dishes and pots and pans with him. They clattered as they fell to the floor. The entire kitchen stopped what they were doing. Some of the staff screamed at Axel to stop, not knowing what was happening. Every eye was on Axel and the two large men. Before he reached the door, the man caught up and tackled Axel, holding his arms behind his back, and quickly handcuffing him.

Now, come with me, said the slim man with an accent.

What in the hell is this about? Axel asked.

I will tell you in the car.

Parked out front was a black SUV. They walked through the dining room with Axel in tow. Every guest in the place was glued to his chair, watching the scene. Axel smiled for the crowd. I’ll be right back, he bluffed, trying to hide his fear.

Emily looked at him, dumbfounded. His smile gave it away; there was no hiding that he was terrified.

When they reached the car, the man flashed his badge. It was dark, and Axel had to strain to see it. He was from the French police; his name was Claude Chaud. I think you know my partner Sindee Phan.

Axel was speechless when he saw Sindee standing at the car. She nodded, but did not say a word.

Henry Miller, you are wanted for questioning in a murder and kidnapping case. Claude motioned him into the back seat, where he read him his rights. We are here to take you into custody. You will be flying to Miami within the hour. You are welcome to find counsel here, or we can help you with that in Miami. Just let us know.

They drove off toward O’Hare airport. Henry sat in the back of the car in disbelief. Typically, he claimed no knowledge or responsibility for any crimes. But he knew the monster inside him was about to be revealed.

CHAPTER TWO

Arriving Paris, Five Years Earlier

Henry headed to the apartment. After getting lost twice, he finally found the place in the 2nd arrondissement on Rue Sainte Anne. After a few years working in restaurants in Chicago, he thought, I am finally here. The sun caught his eyes, and he squinted as he looked up at the building. This was probably it, he surmised. The apartment was right above a noodle joint. He could smell the dried shrimp and basil and meat stock simmering. It was pungent and pleasant, all at the same time. He noticed his stomach was rumbling, and he couldn’t wait to try a bowl of warm savory noodles. But he was on a mission to find this apartment. Looking up and down the street, Henry saw it was an eclectic blend of Asian restaurants and fabric stores—a tapestry of bright colors and chaotic noises. The signs on some of the stores were worn, and some of the storefronts were boarded up. It seemed a little seedy, but he liked that. He liked it all.

Climbing the flight of stairs, he knocked on a dirty green door with the number three on it. Lucien opened the door, smiling. He was tall and thin, around twenty-five, scruffy and friendly-looking. Not handsome, but definitely a sexy type of Frenchman. He motioned Henry into the tiny apartment. Henry looked around. It wasn’t much, but it had a nice size kitchen. The place was sparsely furnished with one big, brown leather Chesterfield sofa with missing buttons—he thought it most certainly had been found on the street. An overstuffed green velvet chair sat on a threadbare Persian rug that covered the floor. An antique lamp with a fringe shade topped off the room decor. It was cozy as a flea market.

Ciao, you must be Henri? Lucien finally asked, using the French version of his name.

Yes, you must be Lucien. Your English is good, said Henry.

Thank you, I worked in London for a couple years! Do you speak French? he replied.

My French is shit, but I’m here to learn.

Come, I will show you your room, Lucien offered.

They walked to a corner bedroom with large windows and a perfect view of the street below. He looked out the window at the scene. It almost seemed like a painted backdrop—it was unreal—only the frenzied motion of the people below made it real. After years of reading French cookbooks in his room, he was finally here! He stood staring for a minute, thinking of how lucky he felt. Was this how it felt to be happy? Even though he had nothing, he vowed to work hard no matter what, so he would make it here. He turned around, taking in the room, and saw that the walls were covered in a faded, greenish floral pattern that was peeling and dirty. It was meager, but meager surroundings were nothing new to Henry, it was where he’d come from. He dropped his stuff on the floor. A large, lumpy bed took up most of the room, and there was one chair and a dresser. An iron rack with five wire hangers clinging to the rusted rod sat in the corner.

We share the bathroom with the apartment next door, Lucien said.

The bathroom is in the hallway? Henry laughed. You mean we have to leave the apartment to shit and shower?

"Oui, oui, Lucien said, nodding his head. This is how it is in Paris when you’re poor, Henri. With that, he slapped him on the back. You hungry? he asked.

Henri, as he began to think of himself, was hungry—starving actually. It had been a long journey, and he had not eaten anything but a sandwich on the plane.

I am hungry, he admitted.

Lucien headed to the kitchen and pulled out a baguette, an array of cheeses, and some pickles. He sliced some salami, and cracked eight eggs into a bowl. Then he whipped the eggs into a frenzy with a flourish of salt, and poured them into an omelet pan that sizzled with butter. Out came the most perfect omelet that Henri had ever seen.

Wow, Henri said. Can you teach me to do that?

You will learn everything at cooking school, Henri, don’t worry, Lucien said as he slid the omelet onto a plate. Lucien then handed him a napkin and fork and knife and said, Eat.

Henri wolfed down the delicious omelet in four bites—it was as if he was tasting eggs for the first time. They were light and fluffy! These eggs are my future, he thought. He slathered the slices of bread with molten cheese, and took a big bite of the salami.

This is heavenly! he said, his mouth full, his lips glistening.

Lucien smiled and poured two glasses of wine. Henri sighed, full and happy.

A toast, said Henri. Here’s to living to tell the tale.

Lucien smiled. They clinked glasses, and repeated, To living to tell the tale!

CHAPTER THREE

French Cooking School

Lucien and Henri both awoke at six a.m. and walked down the street to the nearest café, where they both ordered croissants and coffee.

Are we going to learn how to make these? Henri asked, his mouth full of the buttery croissants.

Of course we are, Henri, this is France, Lucien laughed. "This is the breakfast of champions in Paris. My mère makes these every week. Like the breakfast of champions in America, I am sure your mother makes a tasty American waffle, no?"

Henri didn’t want to think about America right now. He focused on the buttery treat and pointed to his full mouth, indicating that he couldn’t answer. Truth was, he didn’t want to answer. His past was nothing—nothing worth sharing.

Let’s go Henri, we don’t want to be late. Lucien said, when they finished.

I see the American has arrived! The Chef shot a look at Henri that sent a shiver down his spine.

As Henri walked into a big room lined with sinks, cooktops, stainless-steel worktables, and a wall of ovens, everyone turned to see who the new chef was. He was embarrassed that he was a little late. Everyone was dressed in the same uniform, with stiff toques and clean white coats. Henri quickly found a spot on one of the stainless steel tables. He ran his hand over the cool surface, and quickly unfurled his knife wrap. Surveying the room, he felt nervous and hoped every other student was having the same untethered sensation.

Henri’s initial thought was, this is going to be hard, really hard. But he knew hardship; all he had to do was think about the odd jobs he had taken to make it here. He felt could get through anything.

He couldn’t read the emotions of the other students, but he noticed they all jumped in unison when the chef cleared his throat again and proceeded to call roll from his printout. When he heard his name, Henri meekly raised his hand. When he was finished, Chef rolled up the printout and used it to point at the students. Then in French, he said, Let’s get started!

As he walked around the room, Chef continuously whacked the rolled paper on his palm. The sound made it hard for Henri to concentrate. He kept thinking of Ma throwing the rolled newspaper at him. He felt shaky, but he pushed the feeling away—he could not let himself slip. He tried to focus on the words Chef was saying, rather than the slapping sound the paper was making. There was a pile of vegetables and fruit in the middle of each workstation. Henri pulled on a stalk of celery only to realize one of his classmates had hold of the other end. The pretty woman on the other end was small and thin and dark-skinned. She smiled at Henri, and released her end, giggling self-consciously. Lovely, he thought. It was a room full of nervous energy. Henri realized quickly he was not the only student that felt it.

So sorry, the woman said. There’s plenty to choose from… here, you take that celery.

Henri smiled as he placed the celery on his cutting board and began to chop. Merci. You speak English?

Yes, I am from London.

Henri smiled and continued cutting.

The rest of the morning was spent chopping and slicing and dicing. The sound of knives hitting cutting boards was all you could hear in the kitchen, with the exception of the chef’s voice guiding students through the lesson. Everyone silently concentrated on perfecting their knife skills.

This is quite meditative, Henri thought. He noticed his shoulders relaxing, and he began to enjoy himself. But it seemed that as soon as he was relaxed, it was time to move on to the next class. He felt like he was riding a roller coaster of emotions all day. He hoped eventually he would feel more at ease, but his sense was that he might be on edge most of the time here. Classes finished at three o’clock, and he could not have been happier to see the first day end. He met up with Lucien outside.

Lucien patted him on the back, and asked how it went.

Pretty overwhelming, Henri replied. I’m not sure how I’m going to make it.

You will be fine, my friend. Now come on, and we will walk over to the boulangerie where you will be working. André is waiting for you, Lucien said.

Still shaken, Henri followed Lucien through the winding side streets. After a fifteen-minute walk they arrived at a storefront laden with an assortment of breads and pastries.

We are here! Lucien announced in French. Come, I will introduce you to André.

They made their way back to the small but efficient-looking kitchen. Andrè, a large man with a red face, greeted them.

Allo, he said in his heavy French accent. "I hope you speak French Henri, because my English is merde."

They all laughed and shook hands. Lucien did some quick introductions, and then he departed.

Henri was left alone in the kitchen with André, not knowing what to expect. Quickly, André showed Henri where to stash his things, and handed him an apron.

Come with me, he said in French. We will start.

Henri grabbed the apron, and listened carefully as André explained how to make the baguettes, and showing him how to lay the baguettes into the linen sleeves. André’s hands were thick and meaty, the kind of hand that he hadn’t seen since his days in the field with his father. He flashed back to his father slapping his face, but quickly forced himself to focus on André’s demonstration.

Henri had made bread before, but nothing like this. André showed him how to knead and proof the baguettes. He watched Henri try to perfect his skills. The first months of learning from the baker became a blur of André screaming at Henri, and throwing his dough in the trash, day after day. André’s face would get so bright red with anger, that Henri would be afraid André might hit him. Every once in a while André would pop him on the back of the head, and make him clean out the dumpster in the alley. Henri kept thinking, I hope I make it. It became his mantra every day.

As the first semester was coming to an end, Lucien invited Henri to join him and a few friends for a weekend in wine country. They would be staying at a place in Medoc, a tiny town on the west coast of France, near Bordeaux. They would be near the seaside, and it promised to be relaxing, with great wine and food.

Lots of mussels and oysters! Lucien promised.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Mini-Break, Medoc

Henri wore a red and white striped shirt and chinos that stopped below the knee, a white pair of sneakers, and a little scarf tied smartly around his neck. He felt dressed appropriately for the French wine country.

"Tres French, my friend." Lucien winked as he gave him the once over, and chuckled as he motioned Henri to get in the car—a vintage silver Citroen he had inherited from his grand-mère. It still ran, and they could fit a ton of baggage in the boot.

Lucien started the car and said, We will pick up a couple friends and then head to Medoc, okay?

Fantastic! Henri hoped this weekend would help him forget about how hard this semester had been. André had made him feel like shit every day, banging on him. He just wanted to cook and drink wine and forget about his worries—and try to enjoy the company of friends.

You will like them, Lucien assured him. Lily is great; she’s a dental assistant to a famous cosmetic dentist in Paris, and her friend Ulla is Swedish, and works for a designer in Paris. Ulla speaks great English, so you will like her as well.

Great, some girls! Henri had been missing the company of women, and this break was already beginning to seem to be just what he needed.

They drove for about ten minutes before Henri spotted two women on a corner, luggage piled around them. They waved happily as Lucien and Henri drove up, and jumped out to greet them. Henri got out and walked around to say hello, too.

Ciao, you beautiful ladies, Lucien said in French.

Lily smiled and said, You charmer! Then she turned and noticed Henri. Smiling, she put out her hand and said in perfect English, So nice to meet you. You must be the American chef Lucien was telling us about. I am Lily.

Henri took her hand, and found he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Hello. Well, hello, he stammered, still holding her hand—it was like their hands were magnets and he couldn’t let go.

This is going to be a great weekend, he thought. She is just my type.

In the meantime, Lucien loaded the boot with their luggage. Ulla was already in the back seat.

Come on, you two. You can stare at each other all you want in Medoc, laughed Lucien, as he climbed into the driver’s seat. Henri and Lily broke their gaze, and Henri open the door and helped her into the back seat.

Lucien turned on the radio, and they roared off toward the motorway.

The conversation never had a lull. Henri told everyone about the soup kitchen where he had worked. I volunteered when I could with the three jobs I was working; it was hard to find the time but I managed. The kitchen was founded by a friend of mine; it started off serving fifty meals a day and has grown. When I left, it was serving over one thousand meals per day, and growing by the minute. Hunger in America seems crazy to me. It’s such a rich country, and yet people go hungry every day. So many people, it’s so sad. He looked back, and both women had sympathetic looks on their faces.

That’s so kind of you, Henri, to work with hunger issues. I am all about it. My father owns a restaurant, and he regularly gives to charities in Paris. I can connect you to some organizations, if you like, Lily said.

Oh, that would be great. Not sure how much free time I have, with school and work, but if I do I will definitely take you up on it, Henri answered.

Lucien turned off the main road onto a small road that led into a tiny village. It looked abandoned, except for one big house on a corner. Now that they were out of Paris in the quiet countryside, there was not a person in sight.

Lucien stopped the car in front of the fenced front yard and shut off the engine. We’ve arrived! He announced.

It’s pretty desolate here. Henri said.

We are in the country, Henri, it’s supposed to be quiet. Lucien chided, smiling. You grew up on a farm, right? You will love it here!

Yeah, sure, I am just a country boy. Henri admitted, even though the thought made him squirm. You have no idea, Lucien, no idea.

Henri entered the side door carrying two suitcases, and flipped on the light switch, immediately illuminating the most beautiful country kitchen he’d ever seen. First thing he noticed was