(Note: when last we left the No-Name Food Private-Eye he had been knocked unconcious and was lashed to a crate of pomegranites aboard a slow boat to the remote island of Booga Booga. Using some duck tape, a paper clip and a jet-ski coffin, our hero managed a dramatic escape and soon found himself in the relative safety of his of his office back in Lotus Land.)
When you’re a private dick in the clandestine food racket, it’s important to keep your body in top shape and your mind razor sharp.
That’s why when I retreat to my office, a few hands of poker with some sarcastic street dogs, a couple of bowls of pretzels and a cheap bottle of bourbon will do the trick. As I gazed at my gat and peeked at my cards, she walked in. Damn, a pair of cowboys in the hole. Of all the card games in all the world, she had to walk in to mine. It was Lily Macedone, a sultry siren of sweet and savory sticky buns. She was the baker’s wife, Pierre Macedone, an Algerian baker with North Korean connections who owned the cheesecake factory on the waterfront near the Li Ki Boatyards.
This dame smelled of fresh baked peach cobbler and doughnuts filled with danger. The factory had just been raided by the Feds a few days ago for receiving a banned boxcar of blackmarket banana bouchees.
She slid into the sofa across the room like a steaming souffle that had just fallen. I turned to the table of poker pooches and winked. “Take five dogs.” I turned my attention back to Lily Macedone. “Howl can I help you doll?”
“The cheesecake factory has been robbed.”
So, the old bakery heist caper and another dame with a yeast infection wanting my help.
“How much bread did they get?” I often began a case with a critical question. I reached in my side pocket for a stick of Juicy Fruit and offered it to her. “Gum?”
“No thank you, I’m watching my sweets. The thieves made away with over one-hundred loaves of whole wheat.”
Sounded half-baked to me.
“Did they get any dough?” I kneaded to know and I was hoping she would roll with it.
When I turned back toward her she was gone, the sofa standing empty in the darkness. She had vanished quicker than a chocolate éclair on the dashboard of a cop’s squad car.
But there was one question still burning on my mind.
Just what the hell was a banana bouchee?
Puff Pastry Tart Shells
½ Cup Heavy Cream
2 Tbs. Sugar
2 Tsps. Dark Rum
1 Tsp. Vanilla
2 Ripe Bananas, Cut in Pieces
2 Tbs. Brown Sugar
1 Tbs. Dark Rum
1 Tbs. Fresh Lime Juice
Whip the cream, sugar, rum and vanilla. Fold in the bananas and brown sugar.
Pipe in to puffpastry shells and drizzle with lime juice and ark rum. Garnish with strawberry slices and mint sprigs and chill before serving.
I decided to cash in my chips before taking on this syrupy situation…