The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  “Amanda!” her mistress snapped. “That is not how we treat our esteemed customers!” She grabbed the knife from the girl and plucked the slice of cheese off it, handing it to Hercules herself, leaning forward as she did so that he might get a better look at her powdered cleavage.

  “Ma’am, ain’t he a slave?” the girl mumbled loud enough for them all to hear.

  The cheesemonger looked sharply at Amanda. “Go turn those cheeses over,” she said, indicating the other side of the stall. “Now!” she snapped when the girl continued to stand staring at him.

  “Master Hercules—apologies,” the lady said, simpering.

  Hercules’s bemused look now became a full smile. “Not at all, Mrs. Radcliffe. Not at all.” He delicately plucked the cheese from her fingers and took a small bite.

  “Delightful!” he said, looking openly at her breasts. “As your wares always are.” He smiled again.

  Beside him, Margaret stared agog, but Nate resolutely stared straight ahead. Clever boy.

  “I’ll take two pounds of that cheddar, Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Hercules, while drawing a kerchief from his pocket and delicately wiping his mouth. Being the General’s cook always had certain advantages.

  Once they had their cheese, they stopped to collect tea and then some sweetmeats at the confectioners. As they made their way to the north end of the market at Fourth Street, people stopped to talk to him while others whispered as he passed. Hercules reveled in it. Each look and murmur, each greeting was filling the well of his soul, replacing the dry dullness of the many months at Mount Vernon. Margaret scurried beside him, her face growing redder at all the attention, but Nate continued staring straight ahead. This amused Hercules, who sailed on imperiously while the basket-laden pair struggled to keep up in his wake.

  Outside the market the early winter wind had taken on a bite, blowing into the trio as they started up High Street. Hercules walked on in his shirtsleeves and apron as if it were a summer day, past Mr. Franklin’s print shop and post office and the Indian Queen tavern, where loud conversation crashed out the door in waves. He paused about a block from Sixth Street, where the President’s House stood on the corner.

  “Set those down a moment,” he said, gesturing for them to step closer into the sidewalk.

  Hercules reached into his purse and pulled out a small paper package. Pulling open the string, he held it out to them.

  “Go on, have one each. The others are for the rest in the kitchen,” he said.

  Six glistening sugarplums—pink, purple, and yellow—sat on the paper. Margaret’s eyes grew wide. She reached her hand forward and then hesitated.

  “Go on then,” Hercules rumbled impatiently. Margaret snatched up a pink one and took a bite. “Oh!” she exclaimed, mouth full. “Thank you, sir!” she said, bobbing.

  Nate chose a yellow one and took a slow bite. He seemed to be thinking hard each time his teeth came together.

  “That’s right, son, think about what you are tasting,” Hercules said.

  “Sugar, of course …” said Nate. “Anise …”

  Hercules nodded.

  “Something else …”

  “Take your time. Think.”

  Margaret swallowed what was in her mouth and watched the exchange. Nate took another bite.

  “Cinnamon?” he asked, looking at Hercules for approval.

  Hercules crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.

  “Nutmeg?”

  Hercules shook his head again.

  Nate took another bite. “It tastes—like mint leaf somehow but then again—”

  “Cardamom,” Hercules said. “A seed from the East. I’ll show it to you when we return. Now finish your treat.”

  Nate smiled happily and began nibbling again. Margaret looked at the confection in her hand and took a smaller bite. Hercules could see her mind working, brows knitting together until she gave up and nibbled the rest down.

  After they finished, Hercules jutted his chin toward their baskets and they hurried to take them up. He strode ahead of them, tapping his cane on the ground at regular paces as he went. Out of the corner of the eye, he spotted the hatless man leaning back into the shadows of the Messrs. Miller and Cline’s shop across High Street. His chestnut hair escaped its braid in wild waves and he hunched down in his old paint-spattered coat. He looked like a madman. Hercules had seen the man there when they’d left for the market hours ago. It was the third time in as many days that he’d noticed him hanging around the shops across the way.

  As Hercules watched, the man leaned forward out of the shadows and squinted his eyes to better see them. Drawing a small pad and pencil out of his pocket, he scribbled madly, glancing at them and back down at the paper as he did, following them with his eyes until they slipped through the door in the garden wall. It made Hercules uneasy.

  As the others walked toward the kitchen, Hercules pulled the wooden door behind him, staring through the grate at the man until he had committed him to memory.

  CHAPTER 2

  “REVEREND ALLEN MEANS TO MAKE HIS church today!” Oney rushed into the kitchen and panted the words out. She held one of the First Lady’s shawls. “Jane, boil me some water, will you?” she said to a scullery maid peeling vegetables at the other end of the long table. “I need to wash out the perfume oil Mrs. Washington spilled on this before it sets into the weave. Ask the laundress for some lye soap too.”

  Hercules set down the knife he was using to cut paper-thin slices of the smoked ham sent up from Mount Vernon. The First Lady was serving it as a cold plate this evening at her weekly Friday night soiree for the women of Philadelphia society. Mount Vernon ham was a particular favorite of the president, who always dropped in on the evenings with a gaggle of ladies, who invariably gave him plenty of attention—the admiration of the finer sex was the one kind of social event Washington enjoyed.

  “Oney Judge, you are not the master of this kitchen,” Hercules growled. “And I’ll thank you not to charge in here and order people around. You know good enough where the pots are and the well pump, and the lye too, for that matter. See to your water yourself.”

  Oney went to fetch a small iron pot, glaring at Hercules as she passed, although he had gone back to slicing the ham as though nothing had happened. She filled the pot with water from the pump that stood by the stone sink near the window, then set it among the coals on the hearth.

  While she waited for the water to boil, she went to the laundry house and came back holding a small cake of lye soap and a long wooden fork. When the water boiled, she grabbed a cloth and carefully hoisted the small pot onto the worktable near Hercules and slowly lowered the shawl inside.

  Hercules silently watched Oney lift the shawl out, soap it well, and drop it back into the pot.

  “What exactly are you doing, Oney Judge?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “How is it that you don’t have the good sense to do that in the laundry room and not here where I’m preparing food?”

  Oney flopped into a chair.

  “’Course I do,” she said. “But I also have the sense to know that all of you in here will sure want to know about Reverend Allen’s church. I reckon Fanny don’t care much about it either way seeing as how she only gets paid on how much washing she gets done and not for listening to stories.”

  Hercules made a sound like a grunt, then took the platter of meats to the larder and placed it on a wooden bench and covered it with a clean linen cloth. When he returned he picked up the ham bone and scraped it down with his knife. He put the bone in a large footed kettle that was simmering gently in the fire, then went to the other side of the kitchen.

  “Well, go on, then,” he said, coming back with three eggs in a bowl.

  “Richmond, bring me a half cup of sugar, two cups Indian meal, and a nutmeg with my grater,” he called over his shoulder to his son, who sat husking dried corn by the open kitchen door. “You, Margaret, I need a molded crock—the one with the corn stalks on it.”

  Ma
rgaret nervously leapt up when she heard her name, knocking over the low stool she had been sitting on, shelling peas. Beside her, Jane—the youngest and lowest ranking of the hired scullery maids—snickered. She came with her mother Mathilda on Fridays when soiree preparation required more hands. Hercules didn’t care for either of them because they didn’t seem to understand how things were in this house. He knew they saucily called him “General Kitchen” behind his back.

  “Something amusing, Lady Jane?” Hercules said sharply, staring at the bony girl hunched over the wide pan of peas.

  Now it was Jane’s turn to jump. “No,” she mumbled.

  “What was that then?” Hercules said, louder this time, his voice ominous enough to cause Mathilda to look up from the corner table where she was kneading bread and for Mr. Julien, the hired French cook, to pause and glance over from where he was shucking oysters.

  “Begging your pardon, t’were nothing,” she answered him sullenly, looking down at the peas she continued to shell, sliding her thumb down the length of the split dry pod. The kitchen was so silent the chink of each pea hitting the tin pan echoed loudly.

  Hercules let his eyes sweep around the rest of the staff in the kitchen, challenging anyone to step out of line. Jane looked over at her mother, whose eyes warned her to mind her tone. Here in this kitchen Hercules was master. It wasn’t for them to question the manner in which the president or Mrs. Washington kept their house. Hercules saw Julien, in his corner, shake his head. He’d often told Hercules how odd he found Americans with their talk of liberty and freedom and yet they continued on with this business of holding slaves.

  “Chef,” Julien said. “Would you taste this sauce before I pour it over the oysters?”

  Hercules knew that Julien didn’t really need his opinion—the man had worked in some of the finest houses in Paris. As his eyes met Julien’s, a small smile of appreciation played at the corners of his mouth. It was the Frenchman’s way of showing the little slattern her place. It had been Julien who, in the French manner, insisted on calling him Chef. Hercules was indebted to him for that. Julien was the first white man who treated him like a true equal. The Frenchman was inspired by James Hemings, Mr. Jefferson’s cook, who was also called Chef, having been educated to cook in Paris.

  “Certainly, Mr. Julien,” said Hercules, going to the Frenchman’s corner. “Although I know that your taste is far superior to mine.”

  He leaned over and dipped his pinky into the thick white sauce in a small iron pot that Julien had brought over from the hearth. He thought a minute.

  “A bit more salt, I would say—but only a bit,” he said.

  Julien smiled and said, “Just so, Chef. Just so,” and added a pinch of salt to the sauce from the box on the table and stirred it vigorously.

  “Now then,” said Hercules to Oney, as he returned to his own table where Richmond had set down the dry goods before returning to husking the corn. “What is this about Reverend Allen and his church?”

  “Not just Allen, but them who has started the Free African Society are going to make a real and proper church for black folk,” she began while peering into the pot and giving the shawl a swish with the stick. “They’re moving that old abandoned blacksmith shop from the prison yard down to some property that Mr. Allen owns at the end of Sixth Street.”

  “Huh,” Hercules replied, looking down at the bowl into which he was cracking the eggs with one hand. “You said today. Are they moving the building today?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you—they doing it now!” Oney sat up, excited. “If you had stepped outside this morning you’d have heard the noise clear to here.” She lowered her voice to a whisper that only Hercules could hear. “I managed to get away from Lady Washington for a moment and nip out to see the men lifting the building onto some rolling logs. Mr. Dexter is there to lead the horses.”

  The free coachman, Oronoko Dexter, was one of the most trusted horsemen in the city. Along with Absalom Jones and Reverend Allen, he had started the Free African Society to help those who were recently liberated. Hercules had seen his share of these newly freed Negroes around town, wandering like specters unable to fend for themselves without the master’s yoke around their necks. They reminded Hercules of a dog that had been tied too long in one place—even when the rope was cut, the dog didn’t know better than to stay put.

  Hercules glanced toward the kitchen door where Nate had stepped around Richmond, carrying the last small potatoes and carrots from the garden, and hesitated a moment before forcing himself to turn toward his son.

  “Fetch some milk from the larder and scald it in a small pan, Richmond.”

  While Richmond rushed to do the task, Nate scrubbed the vegetables before peeling them with sure, careful strokes. Hercules caught Richmond scowling in Nate’s direction while he aggressively stirred the heating milk so a little slopped over the edge of the pan. If the other boy marked the look, he didn’t show it. Richmond was forever jealous of the interest his father took in Nate—Hercules knew that—but Nate had abilities where Richmond did not.

  Still, Hercules was bound and determined to get his son to learn. If he didn’t, where would the boy wind up? Back in the fields for sure. The kitchen, hot as it usually was, was far better than working morning to night bending, picking, plowing so the dirt worked its way deep into your skin and even your palms became dusky brown like the rest of you. And all the while an overseer was eager to use the whip to skin your flesh right off no matter what the General said because the General wasn’t there to see it, was he?

  No. He had to do everything he could to keep his son in this house.

  Hercules grated some nutmeg into the eggs, added the sugar, then mixed it powerfully with a birch whisk. “How far have they got?” he said to Oney.

  “It’s taking a long time, to be sure,” she said. “I’d be surprised if they make it before sundown.”

  “Hmmm.”

  They worked in silence for a few minutes, Hercules whipping his concoction until it started to swell and take on a paler yellow hue. Richmond approached with a long-handled metal pitcher in which he had heated the milk.

  “Pour the milk in by small measures,” he directed the boy. “Make the stream thin as you can, thin as a needle.”

  Richmond gripped the pitcher handle with both hands and began to turn the pitcher forward. His hands shook.

  “Steady, son,” said Hercules, laying a hand on Richmond’s shoulder. “Don’t grip so hard. You’re not pulling back an ox by the horns. Watch.”

  Hercules moved his hand to Richmond’s wrist and gently angled it forward to pour a thin stream of the hot milk into the bowl while he continued to whisk his eggs. “Now, you continue like that until I say stop.”

  Richmond tried to slowly pour, but then he faltered. Hot milk slopped over the pan and splashed into the bowl, sending its contents flying high.

  “Take care!” exploded Hercules, grabbing Richmond’s wrist and forcing it back. Richmond looked at his father, stricken, then his face contorted with anger. He moved forward again with the pitcher, but Hercules put his hand up.

  “Leave it,” he said harshly.

  “I can do it now,” said the boy, trying to raise the pitcher again.

  “No, you won’t,” said his father. “You’ve ruined it. Just go and get me more eggs.”

  Richmond slammed the pan down and stormed off. Everyone looked down at their tasks as he came back from the larder, thrusting the eggs out at his father.

  Hercules gave him a hard stare before taking the eggs and once again began whipping them with nutmeg.

  “Go heat me more milk,” he said.

  When the milk was ready, Richmond again stepped forward, ready to pour.

  “Set it down there,” Hercules said without looking up. “Nate, come here, please.”

  His son didn’t move as the other boy moved forward. Hercules had to swallow his exasperation. “Go on and finish husking that corn,” he told Richmond. “You
can start grinding it after you’ve picked out all the kernels.”

  Richmond opened his mouth to argue, but Hercules ignored him and turned to Nate.

  “Now, son,” he said. “I want you to pour that milk slowly and carefully into this bowl while I whisk. Did you see how I did it before?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nate, glancing at Richmond’s back as he stormed away.

  “Let’s go then,” said Hercules, taking up his whisk.

  Nate held the handle of the pitcher and took a deep breath before lifting it to pour out the milk. He angled the pot so slightly that hardly any milk came out.

  “A little more, boy, you’re doing fine,” said Hercules. “Just be easy.”

  Nate angled the pitcher a little more. Everyone in the kitchen stopped mid-chore to watch as Hercules moved his whisk so fast it was just a blur.

  “Good,” Hercules finally said, and Nate eased up the pitcher. “Give the rest of that to Mr. Julien for his potato cake and then boil those potatoes you peeled for him too. Mind you salt the water properly, Nate.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nate said, returning to Hercules’s side.

  “How salty then?” asked Hercules as he opened the crock containing the cornmeal and peered inside.

  “Salty like the sea—Chef,” said the boy, looking at him nervously. A small smile that started at the bow of Hercules’s lips flowed out to the corners of his mouth.

  “Just so—salty like the sea. Very good, son.”

  Hercules took up a scoop and started to dip into the bowl of meal that Richmond had brought earlier, then barked, “Richmond! This is corn flour—I wanted meal!” The boy immediately set his corn aside and stood up to head back into the larder. “No,” said Hercules, not trying to hide his exasperation. “Margaret will do it.”

  Margaret rose quickly and set her pan of peas on her stool.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, heading toward the larder. She tried to catch Nate’s eye when she came out with the cornmeal, but he was busy with the potatoes.