The ABC Affair 2019- C is for Crawfish.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

The sights, sounds and scents of Mardi Gras filled the streets of New Orleans and with Napoleon and Illya
having time to kill, that gave them the opportunity to enjoy themselves, for once.

Their assignment had finished up early; it was one that was non-eventful. No injuries were incurred by either man, which in and of itself was a rarity.

Neither of them was needed back in New York just yet, so the Old Man gave them a few days off on the Command’s dime to just relax, and as he put it…’not to get into trouble.’ There was a method to his madness thought, as he knew he would need them well rested for another assignment that was coming down the pike.

Napoleon had just replenished his stolen cash along with a new wallet made of alligator hide...luckily the identification in the stolen wallet contained a false ID and nothing to do with the U.N.C.L.E. The most important thing was his cash and luckily he was able to have money wired from his bank in New York City, unbeknownst to his partner.

Solo figured he needed it for whatever amusements he’d encounter while in the Big Easy and decided he could repay Illya the money he owed him when they got back to headquarters.

Napoleon being the networker he was, made a connection with one of the local debutantes and that got he and Illya an invitation to the Krewe of Rex ball, only the most prestigious one in town.

Costumes were optional, but masks weren’t. Given it as a ball, tuxedos were in order.  Napoleon managed to add a purple sash to his black tux, replete with purple cumberbund. His face mask was sequined in a harlequin pattern with the colors of Rex and that was green, gold and purple. On his head was a matching harlequin’s hat.

Those were signature colors in the Rex Krewe’s first  parade in 1872, when a newly installed ‘King of the Carnival’ broadcast in advance that balconies should be decorated with those colors.  It was suggested by historians that Rex’s choice of that particular combination may have had something to do with the conventions of heraldry. It became their permanent colors.

Illya was dressed in a black tuxedo but his shirt, and cumberbund were black as well. His blond hair was covered by a black turban, and a small black sequined mask covered the upper half of his face. All in all, the Russian looked quite mysterious. That was nothing new in a way.

“Don’t you get tired of wearing everything black? Couldn’t you choose a more colorful addition to your tux? And what’s with the black shirt?”

“I like black.”

Those three words quickly put an end to Solo’s questioning as there was no arguing with the Russian when he’d made up his mind about something.

Upon arriving at a classic southern mansion located just outside the city, they presented their invitations at the door; once inside they were met by Miss Charlotte Beauchamp, the debutant who’d gotten the invitations for them.

She and Napoleon had a nice lunch together earlier in the day and his gentlemanly demeanor impressed her so much that she invited him to be her escort at the ball.

He enjoyed her company as she was a beautiful and intelligent Louisiana belle, she was only eighteen, but that didn’t matter...she was old enough to make her own decisions.

Charlotte was dressed in a pale yellow gown with a hoop skirt, making her look all the Southern belle that she was. She opened a white lace hand fan with a deft flick of her wrist, demurely fanning herself with a shy smile as she greeted them.

“Miss Charlotte, I am captivated by your beauty.” He took her white gloved hand and kissed it.

“Why Napoleon I declare you are so gallant, and that’s Queen Charlotte, as I am to be been crowned Queen of the ball...and that makes you the Queen’s consort for the evening.”

Her voice oozed with a breathless southern charm.

“How could I resist, your Highness.” Napoleon bowed.

“And is this the friend you spoke of Napoleon?”

“Yes, where are my manners. Your Highness, this is Count Illya Kuryakin.”

Illya clicked his heels, and gave a quick bow at the waist.

“Land sakes, a genuine Count?”

“I am noble in name only such as yourself. Russian revolution saw to end such rank in my country,” Kuryakin’s accent immediately thickened.

“I must say the way you are dressed gives you quite the seductive appearance. I declare, the ladies of my court are just going to eat you up, Sugar!”

Illya merely nodded his head. He was reluctant to go to this ball and now his hesitancy was reaffirmed. Illya Kuryakin had no wish to be fawned upon and accosted by a bunch of underage debutants.

“Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have more guests to greet.” Charlotte whisked away with the ruffles of her skirt creating an interesting sound.

“Why did you introduce me as Count Kuryakin?” Illya hissed. “You know that is privileged information! I told you it in confidence.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it and besides what’s wrong with being the center of attention by a lot of beautiful women. Just go with it, and have some fun for cripes sake.”

Solo watched his partner purse his lips and waited for the sarcastic remark that usually followed, but this time it didn’t.

Illya walked away into the crowds filling the ballroom, heading straight to the bar. After downing a several drinks he asked a few ladies to dance but listening to their air headed chatter made him decide he’d had enough.

Napoleon was busy playing the part of the Queen’s consort and Illya had no doubt the American was in his glory.

Kuryakin managed to get near his partner, whispering to him that he was leaving with the excuse that he had a headache, and shrugged his shoulders as Solo gave him the stinkeye.

Illya returned to their hotel room, changing into a pair jeans and a black sweatshirt and as he headed back out into the streets still crowded with revelers.

There was the scent of seafood in the air, and he followed his nose until it brought him to a small corner restaurant. The sign outside said “Mama’s Place.” Once inside he found the intriguing scent; sitting on a stainless steel table was a big pot filled with what looked like steamed baby lobsters.

“Here for de buffet cher?” A heavy set colored woman smiled at him. She was wearing a white apron over her red flowered dress and a bright yellow bandana wrapped around her head.

“What are those?” He pointed to the pot.

“Dey crawfish bebe and good eatin’ ‘specially in étouffée.”

“And what is that may I ask?”

“You not heard of etouffee bebe? Well h’yah, let me get you some some! You in fo a treat. Sit, make yo’sef comfy. You look like you need some fattnen up!” The woman let out a great belly laugh.

She disappeared into the kitchen and brought him an immense white bowl of what he presumed was this etouffee.

Staring at it for a second, Illya breathed in the delicious scents emanating from the bowl.

“Dis be étouffée. Is crawfish in Cajun sauce, on-yons, celery, bell peppas and tomatoes mixed with rice. Now dig in cher! Plenty where dat come from.”

There was no argument from the Russian when it came to eating. Illya demolished it, relishing every mouthful. Before he took his last bite his jovial hostess reappeared, setting a tray overflowing with crawfish and lemon slices in front of him.

“Here we do dis first.” She spread newspapers over the table. “Eat ‘em jus’ like you do dem lobsters up north. Cept you twist and pull da heads off first.  Den you peel away the shell like you do wid a shrimp, and et voilà, you ready to eat cher!”

After finishing off the crawfish, even Illya with his boundless appetite had to admit he was full. He washed it down with a large pilsner glass of Dixie beer, made by a local New Orleans brewery he was told was founded in 1907.
“Thank you Miss...” he smiled at the the jovial woman as he paid his bill, which came to all of four dollars.
“Cher, people call me Mama Jo.”
“Mama Jo that was possibly the best meal I have had since arriving in New Orleans.”
“Das good cher. You come back again y’hear, and bring yo friends!”

Illya headed straight back to the hotel as he was ready to sleep after his big meal. When he opened the door he saw Napoleon dressed in his pajama sitting on his bed holding an ice pack on his left cheekbone.
“What happened? I did not expect to see you until morning.”
“Seems Miss Charlotte took offense at me asking her to spend the night with me. She clouted me with her silk purse which was apparently filled with a few rolls of quarters...quite a deadly weapon I might add. I was escorted from the ball by several muscular members of the Krewe and tossed out on my ummm, dignity.”

“You were lucky that is all that happened to you. Now let me see your face.”
Illya examined the injury, determining nothing was broken. After applying an antiseptic to a small cut, he covered it with a bandaid.

“You make a good nurse tovarisch, thanks. So what did you do after you left. You did say you had a headache…”

“I went to get something to eat, which helped my headache, other than that there was nothing eventful.  Now I am ready to go to bed.”

Illya went into the bathroom, washed up and changed into his pajamas and quietly climbed into his bed. Napoleon was still awake, and picking up his communicator he called headquarters.

“Heather?”

“Hi Napoleon, how’s New Orleans?”

“Lonely.”

“You’ve got to be kidding? I would think you’d be having the time of your life, especially since it’s on company time.”

“Yes one would think, but I’m in fact looking forward to getting back to New York. Are you up to some dinner and dancing, among other things?”

“With you handsome, anytime.”

Illya, laying in his bed, couldn’t help but roll his eyes...

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Glad you enjoyed this! When looking at that tray that tray of crawfish, it makes me feel full as well. That's a lot of work.