CHAPTER 7

The French Quarter. Plenty of native New Orleanians would rather be caught soliciting a hooker on North Claiborne Avenue than taking a stroll through this infamous tourist trap.

But yours truly isn’t one of ’em.

From Lakeview to Lake Saint Catherine, I love every square inch of this city. And the Vieux Carré, as it’s also known, is its oldest neighborhood, located right in the heart. Especially on a gorgeous afternoon like this, there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be.

Especially after enduring the circus-like interrogation of the review board, telling my boss that I was through being an NOPD detective, and then being threatened by Ty Grant in public and on the streets.

Yeah, it was a day, all right.

“Can I get you anything else, chef?”

I’m just finishing a cup of chicory coffee and an extraordinary slice of doberge cake—a multilayered masterpiece of silky chocolate fudge and rich lemon pudding encased in a thick fondant shell—here on the open-air, second-floor balcony of Chez Mélanie, a superb French Quarter café. Despite its authentic décor and historic feel, the place has only been around for about a year. And its owner, Melanie Rosenbaum, is actually a thirty-something virtuoso pastry chef … from Toronto, Canada.

As she explained to me after-hours a few months ago on this very same balcony, over a congratulatory bottle I gifted her of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, her adorable brunette curls bouncing with every word, she’d been enchanted by creole food and culture her entire life. So one day, she decided to hop on a plane, accent her name, and open up a boulangerie of her own. She was nervous at first, but the place became a runaway success almost overnight. For good reason.

And here she is now, standing beside me, her springy brown curls—along with the rest of her—looking just as cute as I remember.

“As a matter of fact, Mel, you can,” I say, gesturing to my empty, icing-smeared plate. “How about the recipe for this little slice of heaven?”

Melanie smiles and swats the air.

“Keep dreaming, Caleb. A girl has to have some secrets.”

“Fair enough. I’ll just take the check then.”

“It’s on the house,” she replies. “I insist. Just promise me: if Killer Chef ever starts selling pastries, you’ll let me take first crack at creating them.”

“Are you serious?” I ask. “I’d be honored.”