Canal Street was busy as usual, cars clattering down uneven pavement and an occasional clanking of the street car rattling down worn tracks dividing the main thoroughfare. The rancid smell of garbage combined with the late night partying leftovers from Bourbon Street a few streets over stung Cayenne's nose as she picked her way gingerly through the back alley of the Marriott Hotel.

Flamenco was waiting at the hotel's back door which led into the hallways and back rooms connected to the hotel's kitchen. He was a tall, rail-thin nervous man, with handsome Spanish features of dark wavy hair and latté colored skin. He grasped a chef's jacket in his hands and had a chef's paper toque tucked under his arm. Cayenne noticed that Flamenco was wringing the sleeve of the jacket anxiously as he furtively glanced out the door.

"Quick!" He whispered dramatically when he finally spied Cay. He checked the alley both ways before waving Cay through the door. He kissed her quickly on both cheeks, then, fumbling, helped her slip into the jacket, dropping the paper chef's hat twice.

She followed Flamenco through a maze of hallways, passing other similarly dressed kitchen staff, grey jump-suited maintenance men, and one man dressed in a suit, tie and nametag that labeled him "Alexander" from Sales and Catering who was talking intensely on a cell phone. She ducked her head down as they passed him and she followed Flamenco's hounds tooth patterned chef's pants him down the hallway and through a door where a loud clamoring, kitchen was preparing for a luncheon for hundreds of people whose business and passion was food.

"This way!" Flamenco whispered harshly. He bolted down the narrow aisles of the kitchen. Cay knew that back in Spain, Flamenco had learned English by watching reruns of old American television detective shows. Because she is a detective, Flamenco thinks Cay is a movie star. It excites him terribly that she has called upon him to get her into the hotel and "take care of business." Cayenne also knows that she has to be careful because she can see Flamenco is overwhelmed with nervousness and is on the verge of tears.

"I hope you find the killer before he kills one of us!" he says, this time loud enough to make the nearby sous chef grasp his 9 inch butcher's knife and raise it toward Flamenco and Cay.

"Ay díos mío! "Quíen? Quíen nos va a matar?" he answered back, brandishing his knife. "Who kills us?"

Flamenco burst into tears. "Shhhhhh," he shushed loudly, a finger to his lips. "She's undercover! Una famosa detectiva"

"Yo le defiendo! I save you!" Carlos said, and tossed the knife down on the butcher block and exchanged it for a large cleaver. "Dónde el está el matador? Dónde?"

"Stop!" Cay yelled. "No one is trying to kill us."

"Cálmate! Cálmate, Carlos" Flamenco yelled at the same time in Spanish. Carlos froze. "Nadie nos va a matar! Es bueno, Carlos. No hay peligroso. No danger. Nunca. Es bueno."

Flamenco whispered to Cay as he tugged on the sleeve of her oversized jacket. "Vámonos, we better go. Carlos is the best chef in the kitchen but Ecuadorians are too emotional. "

Cay glanced at him to see if he was making a joke but he was dead serious. "Muy grave," was the phrase she recalled from 3x5 card vocabulary list.

She nodded her head at Carlos and said, "Grácias! Buenos Dias!" as she hurried after Flamenco through the kitchen. Many curious Hispanic and Asian faces followed them as they worked behind massive cutting boards, steaming soapy sinks, hot stove tops and bakery tables filled with rolling pins and sheets of flour dusted pastry. Kitchen culture has a definite hierarchy and Flamenco, being a dishwasher, is at the bottom of the heap. Though the celebrity chefs, the Emeril's and the Paul Prudhomme's are the ones that the public think of when they think about dining out, food preparation at all its levels is primary carried out by a team of chefs, all with different skills and jobs. Cayenne saw an army of men and women cutting onions, cracking eggs, washing dishes, hauling boxes of frozen meat, ladling broths from huge stew pots, and endlessly slicing Jumbo Yellow Onions.

As they reached the end of their hectic journey through the kitchen, Cay suddenly remembered the important message she had for Flamenco. "Hey, I talked to Mary Dan over at the Krewe du Couture. They need someone to drive the tractor in the Mardi Gras parade so if you want to be part of their krewe, they want you. "

Flamenco stopped suddenly, causing Cayenne to step quickly to the side to avoid running into the back of his white kitchen jacket. He grabbed Cayenne in a big hug and burst into tears. "Grácias! Grácias, señorita! Me haces muy felicitas! You make me the happiest. Mi sueño," he stumbled over his words, "Perdonmé, my dream is to be of the Mardi Gras. My dream come true!"

It took a few more hugs and pumping of her hand before Cay could get to the door that lead to the back hallway that led into the convention hall where Food Con was taking place. She slips off the coat and hat and hands it back to Flamenco.

"Call me when you need to leave and I wait here for "the getaway." He holds up his cell phone and winks.

Cay leaned over and kissed him on the cheek . "Tú es muy sucre" she said, and he looked confused.

"I am sugar?"

"I meant, you are very sweet. You are what we say on American television, 'my sidekick.' "

His grin grew huge. "Like Tonto? Like Hutch? Like Lenny Briscoe on Law y Order?" He said his teeth as shiny and white as his chef's uniform.

She nodded. "Tú eres mi Lenny Briscoe."

Cay slipped into the hubbub of the conference crowd. She thought her best plan of action would be to pass as one of the attendees, attending some of the events and nose around a bit. She walked into the crowded hall of intense people from all walks of life. As she worked her way through the crowd, dodging clusters of conventioneers and navigating past tables in the large ballrooms, she eavesdropped in on conversations floating by her like Chicago windstorms.

"...try a pecan pesto sauce, or better yet, a sweet onion béarnaise sauce on that fish and now you're talking!....."

"...schooled at the Cordon Bleu but that is such a touristy place now, I took classes at L'atelier des Chefs and it was much more real." Mmmmm, I'm signed to go to Ritz Escoffier. "

"California wine is so yesterday. You've got to think Chile..."

"...I divorced him. He insisted on using metal spatulas on my Le Creuset cookware ..."

The crowd was clustered near the break table which was piled with mini-beignets, cheese blintzes and elegant glasses of pomegranate juice with mint and blood orange slices. She spotted an unattended nametag minding its own business atop a pile of conference materials and unobtrusively slipped it off the pile of an unattended conference folder. Surely, Cay thought, the conference attendee was cruising the refreshment table which held small cheese blintzes and cups of pomegranate juice with mint and blood orange slices. She slipped the nametag around her neck, grabbed the conference schedule from the pile, and chose a blank complimentary notepad from the center stack on the table. Suddenly, according to her nametag, she was Dolores from Kansas City, Missouri, who was the author of the cookbook, "Muffin Magic in Your Kitchen." She moved away from the table toward the back of the room and tried to get her bearings.

From the conference schedule, it looked like most of the workshops were on the second and third floors of the hotel. She noted that Cason Fontainbleau had a workshop this afternoon titled "175 Ways to Skewer, Roast, Toast and Broil: Words to Use When the Food is Bad." She was also pleased to see The Swiss Miss Cheesecake wagon was featured in the pages of the program and was set up in the hotel lobby. She walked out of the main ballroom, spotted the escalator and headed toward the first floor.

The Swiss Miss cart was set over to the side of the lobby where conference registration was taking place. It was a cute little cart, cut with a Gingerbread cut canopy and festooned with tons of Mardi Gras beads, masks and a long feather boa twining up the supporting poles. Several people worked in the space behind the cart. A young black man worked the espresso cart to the side of the bakery table, where a long line of people waited anxiously for their morning fix of caffeine.

Cay spotted Yolanda at the cash box. "Hey, punkin' pie! Looks like business is kicking today."

"Hey, lemon drop. where y'at?" Yolanda handed change back to a woman who had purchased a slice of sweet potato pecan pie, topped with a cinnamon laced dollop of whipped cream. "Thank you, m'am. "

Another young doe- eyed, dark haired woman appeared from behind the cart wearing a colorful vintage apron and a neck full of Mardi Gras bead that tumbled over her buxom form. Upon spotting Cayenne, she waved a thin bladed knife in her direction. "Hey it's Cay!"

Yolanda continued to take money from a customer in exchange for a plate of powdered beignets as she spoke in Cay's direction. "So we heard you were out investigating the death from the Casa de Gumbo. Do you think Gusto is guilty?"

"Wow!" Cay shook her head in amazement. "Rumors travel quickly up and down the food chain, don't they?"

"We keep an eye out on our own. Anyway, that reviewer guy who died actually was here the day before when we were setting up. He had attached himself to one of the conference organizers like a bad piece of Velcro and was whining loudly in a Yankee accent how the food was too spicy for him down here." Yolanda shook her head in disgust. "What does he expect? She finally went to look for some kind of Mylanta or something just to shut him up. We wouldn't serve him. Told him we weren't open yet. Introduced himself and said he could get us mentioned in the New York Times if we treated him right."

Deirdre shook her head. "I don't often speak badly of the dead, but if the New York Times hires writers like that to write about food, I'm never eating anything from north of the Mason Dixon line."

Cay raised two hands in surrender. "Well, rest assured. I'm leaving the murder of people who complain about New Orleans food to Rufus and his police department. I'm here to investigate if this cheesecake is as good a Kristina Guillames claims it is.

"Bless her heart," Deirdre said. "It was her review in frenchquarter.com the craze for it. Here, baby, try a slice of this."

She cut a thin slice of festive looking cheesecake that was the pale color of freshly churned butter, with a festive fireworks of colored swirls in the batter of purple, gold and green. She plunked a green metallic King cake baby on top and said, "This is our special, Deirdre's Bourbon Mardi Gras Cheesecake. It's fun that the convention is taking place during Carnival. More fun food to try out on people who aren't afraid to try different things."

"Hey, I'm queen for the day!" Cay picked up the baby and licked off the chocolate icing that covered its plastic bottom. It was sensuous, rich and obviously naughty, the perfect cheesecake to eat in the weeks before Mardi Gras and the weeks of Lent to follow.

"Yup, that how it works around here. Everybody is royalty during Mardi Gras." Deirdre laughed. "But I suggest taking a cab home if you leave within the next hour."

Yolanda shooed her away. "Now go get yourself a coffee from Curtis over there."

"I heard he came from juvie." Cay said nonchalantly, focusing on the creamy remnants that clung to her spoon, though listening carefully to the answer.

Deirdre nodded. "Actually, it's part of the Juvenile Justice Project, you know that diversion program? If he works with us and keeps out of trouble, he stays out of jail and learns a skill. He is a good kid. You should go over and meet him." "

Cayenne had every intention of meeting Curtis. She made her way to the short line waiting for coffee specials and studied him as he worked to get orders of vente skinny lattes, double caf cappuccinos and iced mochas. He was a young, skinny black man who had a baby face with old eyes dressed in a simple green polo shirt, faded black jeans, and a clean white apron tied around his waist. Dark tattoos lined his left arm and his hair was shaved in a swirling design close to his head.

"I'll have a double skinny latte, please." Cayenne stuck out her hand. "Hey Curtis, my name is Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi. I'm friends with your employers."

Curtis looked at her with eyes squinted. Then his face split into a bit white toothed smile as he reached out to take her hand firmly and shake it." Damn, I know who you are. You are that detective that Ms. Yolanda and Miss Deirdre are always talking about. Shoot." He looked down, suddenly shy, and started disassembling the espresso machine to fill with fresh ground coffee.

"Hey, don't tell anyone, " she joked. "I'm undercover." Then she winked so he would realize she was joking. She chatted with him about how she had first met Deirdre and Yolanda at the old Slippery Slope bakery and waited until he was a little more at ease with her. Then she moved in with her request. "Listen, Curtis, I know you are now doing the baking thing and Yolanda and Deirdre are the best in the business, but I need a computer address tracked down. Know anyone who is looking for a little extra work? My client is willing to pay at a pretty good rate."

Curtis didn't say anything, and frowned as he expertly slipped the cup into the steaming pipe from the espresso machine. A loud hiss of steam gurgled into the stainless steel pitcher.

She tried again. "I'm not asking you to hack or do anything illegal. I just need to know where some internet postings come from and sometimes that information is a little hard to get. I hear you are pretty good with computers. Can you do that?"

Through the cloud of steam, Cayenne could see him struggle, and then nod. "Yes, ma'm. I can do just about anything when it comes to computers."

Cayenne felt guilty . Curtis looked a bit torn about being asked to do again what sounded like what got him in trouble in the first place, But she didn't know how to do that herself. "Listen. We are the good guys. We aren't going to hurt anyone, in fact, we are going to help someone who is being hurt by this person who own this web address. I just don't know how to find him without a good citizen like you." She reached into her purse and pulled out the slip of paper that Rey de Queso had given her.

Curtis paused, then nodded again as he handed over her latte and took the paper. "Yes, m'am. As long as I don't go back to juvie because of it."

"You're hired. Give me a number or email I can reach you at and we can talk some more." As he scribbled some numbers on the back of a Swiss Miss napkin, Cayenne felt compelled to warn him. "Probably best not to let Yolanda know."

*******************************************************

Carson Fontainbleau's workshop was in a large meeting room, one of those constructed from dividing the Ile de France Ballroom into smaller meeting rooms. The Ile de France I was filling up fast, and the noise levels was rising. Cayenne studied the crowd as she chose a seat toward the back and saved the chair next to her for Kristina. The group was diverse, from the Delores of Missouri types of middle age men and women who fancy themselves cookbook authors, to the more Eastern looking business types who were in the publishing industry, looking for the next cooking fad, to the television cable types from the West coast looking for the next Rachel Ray, to the dapper restaurant reviewer types working for magazines, trade journals and newspapers.

The workshop was schedule to have started five minutes ago, but Carson Fontainbleau was just walking in. He made his way through the crowd leisurely, enjoying the attention and the adoration. He was a tall, lean man, with sharp chiseled features, a Roman nose, and curly salt and pepper hair. Dressed in an Italian silk suit and pants with a grey and pink pattern tie, he was an incredibly striking man, but even from a distance, Cay could see he had harsh, piercing dark eyes, that would change as he saw different people in the crowd. As she watched, she noticed that he was incredibly gracious with some member of the audience, such as kissing the hand of a regal looking older woman in a red wool suit and wearing a diamond necklace, and holding her hand languidly as he smiled and seem to say something complimentary, looking her deep in the eyes.. But next to her was another man, the East Coast publishing suit type and he shot him a cold look that could only be called a Baked Alaska, hold the baking instructions. Cay laughed to herself. If this convention was a krewe, Carson Fontainbleau would surely be King of the Royal Court. He was thoroughly enjoying his celebrity status.

Close behind him, a very attractive, fashionably dressed young woman followed closely behind, occasionally touching his elbow to steer him through the crowd. She looked at her watch then leaned in intimately to whisper something in Carson's ear. He nodded and straightened up, taking a final deep breath before walking to the front of the room. The young woman walked behind him, flipping through a manila file folder as she walked smartly in her gorgeous, well fitting sapphire blue skirt, patterned silk jacket cut low to reveal a lace cami. Her hair was cut in an Princess Dianna type haircut, and she walked with the confidence of the young, talented and brilliant.

She walked up the stairs and positioned herself at the podium. She took a breath and said, I would like to welcome you all to the New Orleans Marriott and hope that you are having a wonderful time in our wonderful city of New Orleans. Remember what goes on during Carnival Season is forgiven during Lent, so y'all have a really good time while you are here." She spoke with an indistinguishable accent like many people in the city who had moved here from other places but had fallen into the easy cadence of the speech patterns of the South.

"I am Costanza Collens, and as a member of the conference organizing committee, I have just a few announcements about some changes in your program and some of the events that we hope you will enjoy as part of the conference. "

As Cay was watching this spectacle, she felt Kristina slide into the seat next to Cay that she had been saving.

"Going to listen to the grand old man, huh?" She put her canvas Food Con bag on the floor, reached in and brought out a still warm Tupperware container. "Here, you can take the rest of this with you. We were using it in the workshop as an exercise."

"What is it?"

"Red Bean and Andouille Soup. People describe it as everything as sublime with hints of rosemary, mint and okra while a young woman with a belly ring who was texting on her cell phone the whole time said, 'it needs salt.' "

"How did it go?"

"Packed. They put us in the Muses room, the smallest meeting room in the hotel. The powers that be" she nods her head in the direction of Carson "have yet to accept that internet review are here to stay, but the room was standing room only."

"So this guy has some juice in the food community, huh?"

"His words can make or break a restaurant ." She whispered as she moved Cay's sweater and notebook she had put down to save her seat. "Remember the Acadian Restaurant?"

"That place on St. Peter? Yeah, I ate there. It was really good. Didn't stay open very long." Cay remembered stopping in there with Flamenco on one of their "Let's Learn Spanish" lunches and ordering a corn chowder soup with a crab cake. It was excellent. The chowder was seasoned in a way she had never tasted before

"It a closed a month after Carson ran his article in Food Review magazine and it was reprinted in the Times Picayune. If you ask me, the guy won't like anything that isn't the Commanders Palace or Antoine's. He goes for classical impeccable style and doesn't care for anything new. I think he's a bit racist as well. The Acadian Grill had a head chef who was both Thai and black and brilliant, I thought. He had this fusion idea and Carson hates restaurants that experiment. But I think the real thing came down to ego. The chef was fairly new to town and he didn't recognize Carson when he came in. Kept him waiting for a table for about ten minutes and that pissed him off so after that nothing they could do was right. (Click Here For Fontainbleau's review of The Acadian Grill )

"I thought food writers go in disguise?"

"Some do. I do. I want to see the restaurant in the same way every person who goes out to eat will see it. But there are privileges when people recognize you. You always get something special from the cook and the best wine and lots of attention. That's what doing thirty years of food reviews will do for you. Open a lot of kitchen doors and get you some really good food."

"That guy told Gusto he was writing a review for the New York Times. That probably got him a better seat and better service." Cay thought out loud.

Kristina added, "I will say that Fontainbleau can make or break your career, too. He has helped a couple of his pet young food writers break into the business. And if Fontainbleau is behind you, you have a golden slide into success. If not, good luck in this town."

Ms. Collens was finishing up her announcements and now was directing her remarks at Fontainbleau.

" and it's been a privilege to have worked with this legend in our business for almost two years now. This man can spot a trace of black truffle oil a mile away, can tell how long you stirred your roux by tasting your broth, and has been the inspiration for all of us who passionately care about food. You will have other opportunities see him here at Food Con. He will be participating in FoodSpell, our spelling bee for food journalists, and has been chosen to be on our panel of judges for the Black Pot Chef competition on our final night of the conference. I'm privileged to introduce to you, food journalist, best sell author, and restaurant critic, extraordinaire, Mr. Carson Fontainbleau."

The crowd erupted into enthusiastic applause, punctuated with a few loud bravos. As he walked up to the podium and reached the spot where Costanza was leading the applause, Cay noticed that Fontainbleau gave Collens an enthusiastic kiss accompanied by lingering hug. Passionate about their work indeed, she thought, intrigued of the drama in the moment.

"Merci, merci." Carson Fontainbleau acknowledged the crowd, obviously agreeable with their good judgment. "Please, sit, Sit. Thank you. I want to thank the organizers of the conference, with a very special debt of gratitude to my personal assistant who I rely on totally and am forever indebted to," he held his hand over his heart then extended it gallantly towards Costanza, who bowed to him and the audience just before she turned to leave the stage. He joked to the crowd, " I guess I wasn't challenging enough to manage. She had to take on a couple hundred more of me and be one of the organizers of the conference as well."

He turned to the crowd, reach inside his inner coat pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses. "I've been asked today to speak about food. As the young people would say these days, Duh!"

The audience laughs.

" I am pleased to talk to you today, because I strongly believe," he paused for emphasis, " we are a profession under attack. Our job as food reviewers is to protect and educate our audiences. People spending their hard earned money deserve good food and honest food. Many of you know that I have a bias toward well prepared and honestly cooked food. I strongly believe that just because a style of cuisine pastes the word 'nouveau' in front of its description does not mean that it is any better than what has come before."

Cay noted that many in the audience were leaning forward and listening carefully. Some were taking notes on hotel issued notepads.

"We are a profession under attack because now, anyone who can pick up a fork and have it find its way to his mouth thinks that he, too, is qualified to judge what is worthy cooking. When you have people who have no clue about food writing about food, there, my colleagues, lies the path to mediocrity. This blasted thing called the internet has allowed anyone amateur critics to call themselves, food critics, when they can hardly distinguish a oyster po'boy from a McDonald's burger, let alone judge the quality of the Creole mustard used in making that sandwich." He shuddered for emphasis. "For example, many of you know that a certain Gusto Perez was making a splash on the here-today-and gone tomorrow fifteen minutes of cooking fame scene, supposedly with a roux to beat all roux.

"I guess I should have fawned my way over the food like every other two bit food reviewer in this town, such as the ersatz food reviewer who said, and I quote, 'The Roux, black and silky and shiny that served as the base for the seafood gumbo, was killer.'" He glanced down at his notes, peering through impossibly small reading glasses, then looked out at his audience with his piercing dark eyes. "This from a writer on the internet who, names her drivel Krewe du Review." He peered out at the audience with his piercing dark eyes and paused for emphasis. " Usually I deplore amateur food reviewers who use inaccurate vapid terms to describe food but this one seemed to be incredible succinct and accurate. Killer indeed. "

Cay was stunned. It seemed a cheap and insensitive shot. The cause of death had not yet been determined, yet Carson was judging, trying and hanging Gusto's career in front of this influential crowd. And he was humiliating her friend Kristina while he was doing it.

The crowd tittered uncomfortably and several knowledgeable folks threw a glance at Kristina. Cayenne glanced at her friend and saw that Kristina's cheeks burned with embarrassment.

"Killer, indeed," he repeated, relishing the entendre. "Perhaps the reviewer from the fine city of New York would still be alive if the Krewe du Review would have just declared Gusto Perez's gumbo, " Esa es swine."

Carson continued on with his lecture, focusing on his topic of how to describe food accurately that isn't very good, with the undertone theme of food reviewers as knights in shining armor, defending the unknowing public from bad food, mediocre service, and folks who might try to make them eat something new by calling it "cuisine."

Cayenne reflected how she probably would have been sucked into his dynamic and charismatic personality if she wasn't painfully aware of her dear friends discomfort and uncomfortable shifting in her chair while everyone absorbed the food prophet's words.

It was a painful hour for both Cay and Kristina, but Carson had the entire group laughing and nodding and taking notes. Looking around, she saw that many in the audience clutched his latest book, 175 Ways to Skewer, Roast, Toast and Broil. When the final applause died down, Carson moved to an autographing table and the army of admirers surged forward to get their copies autographed and murmur assents of agreement of how writing about food could not be left to the masses.

Cay had hoped to get a word in with Carson, but figured she would never get a chance because of the crowd clustering adoringly around his autograph table. She noted that Costanza was off to one side reviewing notes on a clip board, so she walked up to her, slipping her jacket over her nametag so only the plastic edges stuck out, making her eligible to be here, but not revealing her name.

"Ms. Costanza, I really learned a lot from this workshop." Cayenne said, making Costanza look up from her studying of the next round of workshops coming up. "Thank you for all the work you put into organizing this conference."

She flashed a beautiful smile and said "thank you" and went back to writing in her list of conference notes.

"I'm Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi," Cayenne pursued and stuck her hand forward toward Costanza, " and I'd love to get a chance to talk to you about Monterey De Queso. I understand Carson Fontainbleau is publishing his cookbook?"

Cay noted a small hesitation in the pen as Costanza pause. She composed herself then turned her attention to Cayenne.

"Excuse me, Ms ...Del Roi did you say?" Cay noticed she glanced down where her nametag was but was now covered by her coat. "I do not feel comfortable talking about that here. Mr. de Queso is well known in the food industry, but I don't think we will be publishing his cookbook due to ... certain irregularities." She snapped her book shut. "I'm sure you'll understand that I cannot talk about this with you. But thank you for the nice things you have said about the conference and I hope you enjoy the rest of the training." She walked over to Carson's table and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and rose, apologized to the next in line, and left the room with Costanza.

Cayenne walked back to where Kristina was still sitting, busying herself by looking through the program. She noticed that the people in front of her would make an arc as they walked by Kristina's chair, as if there was an invisible force field that kept them at a distance and forced them to avoid eye contact.

"What's that all about?" Cay asked as she caught Kristina's eye and she shrugged her shoulders.

Kristina supplied the answer. "Folks need to stay clear of me for while," she said, closing her program and putting it in her bag. "I've just been "Fontain-blowed." In the industry, that means no one wants to be associated with me for awhile. You know, I'm like bubonic plague, hepatitis A and the stomach flu. " She stood up and swung her bag strap over her shoulder. "People don't want to get too close to me right now, " she said, "lest they, too, get "Blowed"

She brushed it off, but Cay could see she was obviously upset.

Kristina said, "Hey, can I invite you to come have a mediocre bowl of gumbo at the Beer Tasting? The American Brewers Association is sponsoring a tasting of Microbrews of the area and we are cooking. Gusto, bless his heart, will be there too. I got him a pick up job helping to pour beer for Jax. I felt bad I couldn't let him near the food. Steve, you remember him from McCloskeys? He's over there now and agreed to take him on."

Cay cheered up. She hadn't seen Steve in while and it would be good to see part of the old, pre-Katrina New Orleans.

"I didn't think Louisiana drank anything darker than an old Miller Lite in a 10 oz can." Cayenne asked.

Kristina admitted. "Not like Portland or Seattle by any means, But we have some good microbrews in this state. The focus this year is on pairing Beer and Cheese, so there will be lots of the cheese people too. The de Quesos will be there, Cowgirl Creamery, Bittersweet Plantation Dairy and La Fromagerie D'Acadiana and others."

Cay nodded. "My client is planning on attending with the Houma Brewing Company, though I bet he represents some of the De Queso Family of Cheeses."

"Oh, I love their gouda with jalapeño slices." Kristina exclaimed. " That goes so well with a sweeter beer, like an oatmeal stout." She thought for awhile, then added. " The De Quesos are a great family. I don't know the whole family, but Bert De Queso is a great cook here in New Orleans. He cooks over at Pegasus, near Tulane."

"Wow, a De Queso who's not named after cheese?" Cayenne cracked. "His parents must have run out of names."

"Not so fast, oh-great-detective-you." Kristina grinned at Cay. "Bert is short for Camembert."