TABLE FOR ONE: The Dying Season

By John Louis Lauber

TABLE FOR ONE: The Dying Season is the second installment in the Jacques Rousseau Mystery Series.

It is the sequel to the well-received debut novel, TABLE FOR ONE: The Standard.

Jacques

• Language: English
• Publisher: IngramSpark
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987522875

John Louis Lauber

John Louis Lauber is a former news reporter and anchor who has previously written about food in periodicals and other media. He is uniquely qualified to write compelling murder mysteries in the world of food and fine dining, having worked as a waitron and cook in his younger years. His fascination with the crime genre is readily evident in his descriptions and prose; his storytelling ability leaves his readers captivated, always ready to turn to the next page, chapter or book.

Book preview

John Louis Lauber

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or is used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

TABLE FOR ONE: THE DYING SEASON

Copyright © 2023 by John Louis Lauber

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews. 

First Edition: June 2023

ISBN 979-8-9875228-3-7

Published by Properly Seasoned Media LLC https://johnlouislauber.com

For my friend Dan Hartnett

Sometimes, there’s God…so quickly.

From A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams

Chapter 1

He walked down Michigan Avenue in a relaxed, casual manner. It was another beautiful Friday afternoon during an already superb summer and he was merely another young Chicagoan walking home from work or out to an evening’s destination. Perhaps he was meeting a date or a group of friends at one of the many popular pubs, whiskey and vodka bars and restaurants in and around Chicago’s magnificent downtown. The sun began a long, fine downward arc to the horizon line of Lake Michigan, casting rays off the water and setting a perfect visual prelude to the weekend, as Fridays usually do. 

The man was walking that distinguished American Boulevard known as The Magnificent Mile. Michigan Avenue—aka The Mile—remained as one of the most striking urban constructs in America, as it stylishly has done for over 90 years, its stunning skyline morphing subtly with the times, certainly, but it continues to exhilarate visitors and residents alike, particularly the view facing cityward from the lake.

The allure of these natural and architectural endowments had zero effect on our friend here, for he paid no such attention to either the sight lines or the water or anything human, for that matter.

He strolled The Mile toward the Rush and Division district, in light microfiber pants and a tasteful button-down shirt, untucked, and in powder blue, the style and crisp press of his clothing conveying his job paid well. He looked like a techie, but he could have been a marketing wonk or involved in business development or something equally lucrative.

His Cubs hat was turned backward on his head, with the requisite Bluetooth appliance plugged into his left ear. Wraparound designer sunglasses completed the ensemble, a thoroughly modern and Middle American Millenial’s taste in fashion; a backpack of nondescript navy blue was slung over his right shoulder. 

Nothing stood out to the casual observer that this young man was anything but pure Chicago, either in his gait or mannerisms. Even his accent was perfect—he had robotically and repeatedly practiced it on the nonstop flight from LRS/Lyon, France to ORD/Chicago, USA—speaking into a tiny recorder, listening and replaying back untold examples of the Chicago accent for hours, so that by the time he arrived at O’Hare, his voice was pure Chi-Town. 

Witnesses on the street had not seen the eyes behind the shades, for if they did, it would have rendered a chill of pure cold and dread. Millenials from across the Pond can be quite different from their American counterparts, but this young man was quite rare; he brought with him a deadly wrath from Europe, sent to deliver a very brutal message.

The young man’s backpack had a telling feature:  A side compartment, easily accessible through a long Velcro strip. Inside was a Walther P38, complete with a silencer. The gun itself was highly illegal, the silencer, even more so; if caught, the young man would find the inside of a penitentiary for the remainder of his 20’s. Accessing the gun would merely appear like scratching his back or fishing for a bottle of water.  Deadly convenient.

It was now approaching the shank of the dinner hour—8:00 p.m., give or take—and there was activity abuzz coming from the back patio of the restaurant known as Chez Rousseau. A steady, friendly murmur signaling high anticipation was the soundtrack of the evening there. 

The alley path ran from the buildings behind East Bellevue Place within shouting distance of Chez Rousseau and the assassin walked this path behind the patio and had a wide, easy view of all the guests. He kept his eyes straight ahead, using his acute peripheral vision, never daring to look inward, simply walking at a leisurely pace, taking in the warm evening and then circling the block several times, using different routes so as not to be noticed. He made four trips, once altering and once removing his Cubs hat to appear different each time. 

The kill would come soon, but perfection-through-patience was his only chance of success, and though the young man was only 24, he had spilled blood seven times in his early career as a paid assassin; cool and calculating resolve were his calling card and the proof of his skill sets would result in yet another dead body, this one destined to lie on the patio stones of Chez Rousseau.

For now, he would wait.

Chapter 2

Jacques Rousseau and Remy Thibodeaux stood in the kitchen, surveying the preparation for the evening dinner service, while they worked alongside their team to prepare the sumptuous and ample buffet for a large group of special guests, all of whom had converged on Chez Rousseau for a special event, the unveiling of a new discovery in the food and wine world. The buffet was being served outside in the back on a brand-new patio expanse and 50 excited gourmands waited, in great and enthusiastic anticipation, for the announcement. It added a shot of adrenaline to the crew as well, who on top of the exquisite buffet, also had to execute and serve the regular dinner menu to Chez Rousseau’s guests, who by now had filled the restaurant every night, expecting the highest cuisine served in the land. You could have fooled even the most astute gourmand, for the atmosphere in the kitchen was calm, professional and slick. Nothing new at The Chez. 

Jacques and Remy both grabbed sterling oval platters containing individual plated servings of the entree that had made them famous:  the incomparable Poisson Avril, a heavenly salmon dish consisting of a plump salmon portion poached in lobster stock fortified with Pouilly-Fusse wine and adorned with a creamy Sorrel sauce. The dish had put Chez Rousseau on the culinary map, and serving it tonight was merely a reminder of the good and fine things in life and what got them there. 

But time is a fickle lover, especially in a cutting-edge restaurant. The Poisson aside, the highlight dish of the evening was a Fluke Mercoise, fluke being a member of the sole and flounder family. It was prepared in ribbon strips of the fish’s flesh, the slices awash in a light bath of lime juice and seasoning, white wine and pureed shallots and completed with an adornment of tiny petals of carnation and fronds of saffron, which would add a bright, peppery note to the finished dish and a stunning color presentation.

It was simple, yet ingenious in its preparation:  the acids in the wine and lime juice cooked the fish by chemical reaction; with no heat, fire or flame necessary, and as such, each bite was designed to literally dissolve on the palate, leaving behind the pure essence of the ocean and a gentle breeze of citrus and spice aftertaste; it also spurred the hunger button, leaving the diner wanting more, price no object. It was yet another breathtaking creation from the fertile imagination of America’s most famous chef and his second-in-command.

Rousseau and Thibodeaux now commanded the greatest assemblage of cooks and chefs around the country, if not the world, all who would have given a pinkie to come and ply their trade at The Chez. Everyone who cooked and wanted Michelin stars in their galaxy someday desperately strove to work at Chez Rousseau, as if the intelligence and vision of R&T could pass to them by osmosis. Many offered to work for nothing, but the promise of tutelage, for any resume carrying the Rousseau cachet was a gold stamp of approval in the restaurant world.

It was a remarkable time, seemingly without the possibility of failure or disappointment.

Jacques came back to the kitchen and inspected the last trays of Fluke being transported out to the new patio area; satisfied, he strolled to the bar, where he grabbed a silver tray containing 6 flutes of chilled 1971 Dom Perignon and, using only his fingertips, brought it to his shoulder and walked briskly, not eyeing the tray and certainly not spilling a single drop. Though he was trained and lived his working life as a cook, chef and restaurant-owner-supreme, Jacques knew all the finer points of exemplary service and could certainly have opened a school for butler training, if that had been his vocational calling.

He strolled with an erect carriage through his own dining room, all guests pausing forks and glasses and noting the famed owner in their presence. True, he was both the proprietor and the renowned chef at Chicago’s Chez Rousseau, but most notably, he had nailed down his 3rd Michelin star, a career achievement, and the awe from his customers was palpable…Jacques Rousseau just passed by our table! Jacques had received his first Michelin star at his Louisiana restaurant, Clarice and then his 2nd Michelin star during the year he opened Chez in downtown Chicago, just off the Miracle Mile. 

Two short years later, the elusive 3rd Michelin star had launched he and everyone at Chez Rousseau into orbit, joining them in that pantheon of the culinary gods around the globe, past and present. There is no such thing as a 4th Michelin. Once you get to three stars, your legend in the firmament of food is secure and your reputation solidly stamped in history, and the red-hot Rousseau brand was now firmly entrenched in the world culinary consciousness. Jacques Rousseau had indeed become a god of cuisine, as the food critics and fine dining community had once predicted.

The first congratulatory tweet came from his fellow Frenchman, and longtime friendly competitor, Chef Eric Ripert of Le Bernardin in New York, whom Rousseau had supplanted as the best chef in America:  Welcome to your 3rd Star, Jacques!  We’re all very happy for you! said the tweet, and then Ripert texted Jacques privately, with a one word salute: Bastard! It was a friendly, harmless jab.

No small credit for this ascendancy was due to Rousseau’s partner and best friend, Remy Thibodeaux, who had been with Jacques through the identical journey, having joined him when Jacques first opened the New Orleans landmark, Clarice. After that, Remy provided key contributions that helped build the rising Chez empire, from carefully paring location choices to making key hiring decisions, right down to the strident menu repertoire they both sweated over each week; the two were the bricks and mortar of the stunning success that was now Chez Rousseau on this very evening and the celebration was in full-swing.

Now, for Remy, it became not a question of if, but when he would set off to plant his own culinary flag.

The Chez was as packed as any 60-seat restaurant could be, and the volume was not loud by any means, but the atmosphere was lavish and rich, heavy with joyous anticipation and an equal measure of release. Such was the heady nature of the wonder and expectation of being served the finest food in the land.

Tonight, Chez Rousseau was the epicenter of North America’s dinner.

It also served as the evening’s launch pad for a whole new brand destined for great success. 

Jacques moved out the large quadruple-French doors next to the bar and stepped onto his new patio. It had been furnished luxuriously and with great functionality—alfresco dining at its comforting best. The lighting was intended for emotional soothing and adjusted via remote control and by all accounts was doing its job well, because the vibe was lovely, humming and rising in the oncoming Chicago dusk, men and women engaged in that evocative, preening dance, alert to the opposite sex; such was the thrusting, evocative effect of superb food and sublime wine in a lavish setting.

On the matter of the allure of the grape, Jacques’ fiancée, Lisette D’Argent, was tonight’s star, there to be honored for introducing a revolutionary new hybrid grape of French and American domain she had pioneered through her employer, Bailey Farms & Garden.

The early buzz from wine experts on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean had already predicted great success and word was spreading quickly.

The grape was birthed by cross-pollinating a rare Burgundy varietal and an American Marechal Foch, the marriage of which yielded a sumptuous red wine of sturdy constitution and bold flavor with mesmerizing, very nosey taste-leaps and a velvety, earthy finish of chocolate, orange zest and rosemary, with a whisper of tobacco at the end. Simply a phenomenal bouquet. 

Best of all, the sturdy Foch lineage ensured the grape could be grown in the soil of the Upper Midwest and Great Lakes regions, where even the thought of a bitter winter’s wind was enough to demoralize most other French grapes.  It was aptly named by Lisette with the perfect nom du vin, for it embraced not only the individual seasons of the year, but imbued that every day of the year was the season for good and memorable wine.

The new discovery was welcomed by oenophiles everywhere, but already had become a growing concern to competitors in Europe and France especially, a select few who wanted nothing but utter failure from the new American vintage.

Jacques stopped momentarily with the tray of champagne and scanned the crowd on the patio, spotting Lisette speaking to Charles Bailey, the owner and patriarch of the Bailey Farms family, as they stood together alongside Lis’ parents, Simon and Julia D’Argent. The D’Argents had flown in to Chicago from France just yesterday, and were dressed in the finest French couture. Jacques moved over to the gathering and held out the silver tray so each could take a chilled glass.

In a playful mood, Jacques asked innocently, So, what are we drinking to tonight? 25 years after coming to America from Marseilles, his voice still exuded a distinct French accent on the ear. 

"What shall we drink to?" gasped Lisette, grinning, but slapping him lightly on the arm and leaning into him. Her accent still accompanied her everywhere as well and she had a lovely speaking voice.

Allow me, said Charles. He took a glass of champagne from Jacques, turned to the crowd and spoke in a pleasing baritone:

Everyone! May I have your attention, please? he asked, raising a hand very briefly. The patio volume from all 50 people dropped to zero and he commanded the space. 

Ladies and gentlemen, we are here tonight to toast this incredible creation of our own dear Lisette’s. I have known this young woman ever since she first came to America from France as our foreign-exchange student some years ago. During this time, I have watched her grow and learn and stretch so very much with her work ethic and her imagination, yet never forgetting her exceptional French roots. We are so very blessed to see the result of it here tonight…or at least we will in the coming year. We have to grow the grapes’ inaugural vintage, after all, and then make some wine with it. He paused for effect and smirked. You know…the easy stuff! and Charles smiled broadly and winked at Lisette and everyone in the crowd laughed.

He continued, But I believe every indication is present that this will be only the grandest success and we are so fortunate to have Lisette leading us into this new chapter of Bailey Farms’ history. I think we can all agree this is a monumental accomplishment, and with this, Charles turned and faced Lisette directly and she began to register real emotion, touching her hand to her throat and visibly forcing tears to remain in check. It was readily apparent she deeply adored Mr. Bailey and the entire Bailey family. Charles had long ago sensed in his young French charge, a grand potential, perhaps one that could exceed his own mastery of plants and Earth, which was considerable, given the wealth tallied by his years of toil in the sun.

He continued, And certainly, we would all be remiss, myself especially, if we were to not pause and recognize this moment, for it is a stunning achievement in our world, Charles said.

He finished his glowing tribute. Lisette, my darling girl, if you were my own daughter, I could not be prouder of what you have achieved! He raised his glass. "To Lisette D’Argent, ladies and gentlemen, and her singular and magnificent discovery of the new grape…Cote d’Fontrachet!

Vive le Fontrachet!" he exclaimed, his glass high in the air.

Chapter 3

The crowd responded to Charles’ declaration loudly, in concert with one another, VIVE LE FONTRACHET! and she broke, did Lisette, dissolving into tears. Jacques was ready for the meltdown, having dispatched the tray and presenting his shoulder for her to cry upon. She first went to Charles’ arms and was enveloped by a sweeping, heartfelt embrace from the big man, accompanied by many kisses on both her cheeks. He too was laughing and tearing up now as they hugged. It was a truly marvelous moment, secured in amber by the presence of her parents, Simon and Julia, who had flown across the Atlantic Ocean to share in their only child’s greatest achievement and its glory.

It was Jacques’ plan all along, to stage the premiere for her at Chez Rousseau. What better place, after all, than where the magic had first begun? When the two had first met well over a year ago, he had not known she had long been elbow-deep in the exhaustive due diligence of the Cote Project, including two season’s worth of growing tiny vines in the Bailey hothouses and the constant propagation and revision work necessary to creating the Cote d’Fontrachet grape; it hadn’t even been named then—it was merely a glowing ember of promising innovation and a bar she had set exceedingly high.

Her execution of the eventual wine’s flavor profile was crafted based upon a staggering measurement of scientific factors:  Acidity, sugar content, pH levels, malic acid and specific gravity to name barely a few. Tiny samples of 6-10 grapes each were placed in centrifuges and pH meters and titrators and spectrophotometers and the grape juice was analyzed exhaustively. 

Hundreds of such experiments took place until one day, a breakthrough occurred: Lisette’s team of horticulturists had perfectly matched the chemical composition of a wine so revered, yet thought to be extinct, it was the oenological discovery of the last 100 years. She catalogued each detail to the nanogram and set out with her team to find a way to replicate it on a larger scale. 

The next and greatest challenge was ensuring the wine paired well with food. This was not your garden-variety, daily drizzle, after all, but a nectar so redolent with history, it was imperative that it hold the firm hand when dancing with any and all cuisines. This was most critical, and why Lisette needed Jacques now, more than ever. If the wine didn’t marry beautifully with food, what was the point?

As their relationship had grown into a trusting love, Jacques and Lisette had begun living together at Jacques’ spacious Oak Park carriage house, and Lis shared what she had been working on all this time, and now was the moment she simply had to involve Jacques, as his incomparable expertise in food would be the key to finding the perfect balance of taste and character the wine required.

Lisette had dug the foundation for a new and potentially grand wine, perhaps the grandest of them all, and now it would have to be manipulated, going forward, and this presented the high possibility of defeat.

Jacques had sensed her reticence to involve him when her discovery first emerged, yet this new task was so in his wheelhouse, he couldn’t have imagined not helping her, and in the end, Lisette required the Rousseauvian touch.

He had no doubt delivered perfectly