Digging in to a donair -- and a sequel by donalee Moulton

  

I’m ushering in the new year by returning to my mysterious roots. My first novel, Hung Out to Die, features Riel Brava, attractive, razor-sharp, and ambitious. And that’s just on the surface. Dig beneath the surface and you find a man who grapples with fitting in, finding the right word, and fearing a misstep in a world where he doesn’t quite belong.

 Riel is a psychopath. (Not the killer kind. The other kind.)

 As CEO of the Canadian Cannabis Corp., Riel becomes embroiled in a murder investigation when the company’s comptroller apparently hangs himself. Emphasis on the word “apparently.” Unravelling the whodunit brings Detective Franklin (Lin) Raynes into Riel’s life. Raynes, in turn, introduces Riel to the donair.

 Donairs are commonplace in my neck of the Canadian woods. People love them. Or not. (I’m in the latter category.) Riel’s wife, Tiffany, is with me. She leans toward veganism and certainly away from spiced ground beef sliced off a rotating cone and smothered in a sweet, garlicky sauce.

So, as I begin to write the second Riel Brava mystery, I thought I’d share with you the scene from the first book that introduces Riel to the wonder that is the Nova Scotia donair.

 

 

Order the first Riel Brava mystery here.

Excerpt from Hung Out to Die -- without the sticky sauce

 

Raynes looks like he’s getting ready to leave. Looks can be deceiving. He lingers for a second. “Have you ever had a donair?”

Donairs are a Halifax specialty. Some residents contend this is Nova Scotia’s official food. Aficionados spend a great deal of time discussing the nuances of the dish, thin slices of spiced beef on a warm pita, sprinkled with diced onion and tomato, and swimming in a sweet, garlicky sauce. Or so I’ve been told. To answer Raynes’s question, “No, I’ve never had a donair.”

“Let’s go.” He pauses for a split second. “I won’t tell Tiffany.”

I’m in. We head to the Donair Queen in Elmsdale, a play, I assume, on the King of Donair in Halifax, where the dish is said to have originated.

I let Raynes order for me. “Two donairs,” he says.

Apparently, it’s not complicated.

The decor is fast food meets comfort food. You order cafeteria-style and either head out or grab a seat. Most people do the former. A few plastic chairs and tables are scattered at the back of the restaurant. Raynes and I stake out a table in the corner. Only one other person is eating inside.

For the next 15 minutes, Raynes and I concentrate on demolishing our donair. It’s not as easy as it sounds. The meat, toppings, and sauce are rammed into a loosely folded pita and blanketed with a small piece of tinfoil. No matter where you bite, something falls out or spills over from another place. I see why Raynes grabbed a large handful of napkins.

“What do you think?” Raynes asks when we’ve finally swallowed the last sloppy morsel.

“I think I’m in heaven. Let’s do this every week. And if Tiffany finds out, my marriage will be over.”