Crepe Factor by Laura Childs

know . . . yadda, yadda, yadda. How was your post-party? All snuggly and nice, too?”
    Carmela shook her head. “Don’t even ask.”
    â€œPlease don’t tell me that Babcock just dumped you at home like yesterday’s California roll?”
    Carmela was going to spill the beans to Ava about Quigg showing up, but since they’d just arrived at the pink stucco building that housed Brennan’s Restaurant, she decided to save her tale of infamy for later. Right now she needed an eye-opening cocktail and a fortifying brunch entrée. Or maybe she’d throw caution to the wind and just skip right ahead to their flaming bananas Foster. Give in to the stark raving sugar junkie that lurked inside of her.
    A well-coiffed maître d’ greeted them in the entry. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
    â€œHuh,” Ava shook her head. “If he says it’s afternoon, then I guess it must be afternoon.”
    The smiling maître d’ didn’t lose a beat. He grabbed two menus and said, “I have immediate seating in the Chanteclair Room.”
    â€œWonderful,” Ava said. “And can we possibly get one of those little tables next to the glass wall overlooking the garden?” She batted her eyes for extra effect.
    â€œCertainly, madame.” He led them into a cheerful room with light green trellises adorning the walls and ceilings, then pulled out green cane chairs with coral seats and backs. Ava seated herself with one hand delicately outstretched as if she were a newly crowned queen.
    A waiter dressed in black and white brightened by a pink sateen bow tie hurried over to their table. He presented them with an enormous wine menu.
    â€œPerhaps you’d like to start with a bottle of wine?” the waiter asked. Brennan’s was rumored to have a wine cellar containing fifty thousand bottles and it looked like every one of them must be listed.
    â€œI’m thinking champagne,” Carmela mused. She looked across the table at Ava. “What about you?”
    â€œLike I’d ever say no to champagne?” Ava scanned the bubbly section. “What looks good? Besides everything.”
    â€œThe last time I was here with Babcock, he ordered the Billecart-Salmon Brut Réserve.”
    â€œSounds spendy.”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œSo that’s what we should have.”
    â€œVery good, ladies,” said the waiter.
    Carmela wasted no time in scanning the brunch menu. It was glorious, of course. Fried oysters, eggs Sardou, vanilla-scented French toast, and another half dozen of Brennan’s famous brunch entrées.
    â€œI wonder how Martin Lash would have reviewed this place?” Ava asked.
    â€œPlease,” Carmela said. “Brennan’s is a New Orleans institution. Right up there with Commander’s Palace and Antoine’s. If Lash ever dared write a snarky review he probably would have gotten himself lynched.”
    â€œAs opposed to just stabbed. And by the way, what is Babcock doing about that? He certainly was in a sour mood last night.”
    Carmela’s lips pulled tight.
    â€œOh no, has our own Dudley Do-Right been treating you badly?”
    â€œMore like just ignoring me.”
    â€œBecause he’s so preoccupied,” Ava said.
    â€œI suppose,” Carmela said.
    â€œAnd because he’s fiercely jealous of Quigg.”
    â€œI really wish you wouldn’t say that.”
    â€œBut it’s true.” Ava smiled as the waiter brought their champagne, popped the cork, and deftly poured out two glasses. “So,” she said when he was gone, “what’s up? You look like a woman with a deep, dark secret.”
    â€œSecret?” Carmela said, her voice going slightly shrill.
    â€œAh, so I was right.”
    Carmela took a fortifying sip of champagne. “I suppose I
do
have something to tell you.”
    â€œI knew it.”
    â€œBut you can’t blab it to