Back in the days when steamboats paddled up and down the Mississippi River, New Orleans was still a young city. And like all young things it was growing and it was hungry.
Sylvie Bartholomew was young herself, but she knew how to cook. And if there’s anything a hungry city needs, it’s a good cook. Together with her friend Mother Pierre, Sylvie opened a small cafe on Market Street. Mother Pierre waited on tables while Sylvie worked in the kitchen. Though the cafes on either side were larger, Sylvie’s was the busiest by far. People came from all over New Orleans. Everybody declared that her beignets were dainty enough for angels to eat. Her gumbo could consumed by saints without complaint. And if the bread pudding served in paradise was not as good as Sylvie’s, then nobody wanted to go there or would stay if they did. After a while, they called her place “Sylvie’s Bit of Heaven.”
Late one night, just as Sylvie and Mother Pierre had finished washing the pots and wiping all the tables, a young man came in. Both women were startled because they hadn’t heard the door swing open.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “I would like some dinner.” He wore a silk suit with a brocade vest and a diamond stickpin in his hat. Though his hair was dark, his face was white as a freshly peeled leek and his eyes were gray as winter rain. He gazed at Sylvie without blinking.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “We’re about to close.”
The young man took a gold coin from his vest pocket and laid it on the table. “As you can see I am willing to pay generously, ” he continued. “But on one condition.”
“What would that be?”
He tipped his hat to her. “Why only that the charming cook will sit at the table and eat with me.”
Well then, Sylvie thought, it won’t do any harm to fire up the oven again, “Please sir,” she pulled out a chair. “Sit down.”
She hurried to the kitchen. Mother Pierre caught her just as she was about to toss a shovelful of coal into the iron stove. “Stop right there,” Mother Pierre ordered.
“Why?” Sylvie asked.
“Child,” Mother Pierre’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I am an old, old woman. That means I’m old enough to know the devil when I see him. Cook for him if you wish, but don’t eat at the same table. Not one bite. Not one nibble. Don't dine with the devil. You’ll keep your business, but you’ll lose your soul. And that’s for certain.”
Sylvie laughed. “He’s not the devil. He’s just a gambler.”
“And what makes you think the devil and a gambler are two separate things?” Mother Pierre raised her eyebrows until they almost reached the edge of her kerchief.
Sylvie had no answer. She thought carefully. She had known Mother Pierre ever since she was a baby. Mother Pierre had raised Sylvie after Sylvie’s own mama had died. And she had never yet told Sylvie anything other than the truth.
Sylvie put the coal shovel down, wiped her hands and walked back out into the dining room. “I’m happy to prepare your dinner,” she said. “But I don’t eat with customers. It’s against my policy.”
“My regrets.” Bowing slightly, the young man slipped the coin back into his pocket. “I’ll just have to take my business elsewhere.” He left as silently as he had arrived.
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Sylvie Bartholomew was young herself, but she knew how to cook. And if there’s anything a hungry city needs, it’s a good cook. Together with her friend Mother Pierre, Sylvie opened a small cafe on Market Street. Mother Pierre waited on tables while Sylvie worked in the kitchen. Though the cafes on either side were larger, Sylvie’s was the busiest by far. People came from all over New Orleans. Everybody declared that her beignets were dainty enough for angels to eat. Her gumbo could consumed by saints without complaint. And if the bread pudding served in paradise was not as good as Sylvie’s, then nobody wanted to go there or would stay if they did. After a while, they called her place “Sylvie’s Bit of Heaven.”
Late one night, just as Sylvie and Mother Pierre had finished washing the pots and wiping all the tables, a young man came in. Both women were startled because they hadn’t heard the door swing open.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “I would like some dinner.” He wore a silk suit with a brocade vest and a diamond stickpin in his hat. Though his hair was dark, his face was white as a freshly peeled leek and his eyes were gray as winter rain. He gazed at Sylvie without blinking.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “We’re about to close.”
The young man took a gold coin from his vest pocket and laid it on the table. “As you can see I am willing to pay generously, ” he continued. “But on one condition.”
“What would that be?”
He tipped his hat to her. “Why only that the charming cook will sit at the table and eat with me.”
Well then, Sylvie thought, it won’t do any harm to fire up the oven again, “Please sir,” she pulled out a chair. “Sit down.”
She hurried to the kitchen. Mother Pierre caught her just as she was about to toss a shovelful of coal into the iron stove. “Stop right there,” Mother Pierre ordered.
“Why?” Sylvie asked.
“Child,” Mother Pierre’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I am an old, old woman. That means I’m old enough to know the devil when I see him. Cook for him if you wish, but don’t eat at the same table. Not one bite. Not one nibble. Don't dine with the devil. You’ll keep your business, but you’ll lose your soul. And that’s for certain.”
Sylvie laughed. “He’s not the devil. He’s just a gambler.”
“And what makes you think the devil and a gambler are two separate things?” Mother Pierre raised her eyebrows until they almost reached the edge of her kerchief.
Sylvie had no answer. She thought carefully. She had known Mother Pierre ever since she was a baby. Mother Pierre had raised Sylvie after Sylvie’s own mama had died. And she had never yet told Sylvie anything other than the truth.
Sylvie put the coal shovel down, wiped her hands and walked back out into the dining room. “I’m happy to prepare your dinner,” she said. “But I don’t eat with customers. It’s against my policy.”
“My regrets.” Bowing slightly, the young man slipped the coin back into his pocket. “I’ll just have to take my business elsewhere.” He left as silently as he had arrived.
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