The butler smiled understandingly. “The cook has always thrown them whatever scraps he thought they would eat but that has never made them like the cook any better. They’re strange beasts.”
Conrad said people simply didn’t know how to feed dogs.
“And the daughter, Ester,” he added; “Betsy says she has cats . . .”
Maxfield nodded. “Given to her by her godmother, Mrs. Vale.”
When Conrad had returned from shopping he put some of the bones and scraps and other odds and ends in a large pot and let the mess boil while he started preparations for dinner.
Just as the sun was setting he saw the dogs in the back sniffing around the refuse containers, and threw them some of the bones he had cooked. A paste-like substance had been left in the pot, and from that he had made a few dozen round balls. As the dogs worried the bones, snarling both at each other and at Conrad, who had sat down on the back steps, he rolled three or four of the balls toward them. At first they must have thought he was playing, because they ignored the balls completely. But then their noses corrected this impression, and they retrieved the balls and ate them. Then Conrad rolled a few more, and they left the bones and ran after the balls, still snarling. Conrad continued to roll the balls until they had eaten them all.
The next afternoon the dogs reappeared about the same time, and Conrad went out again with the bones and the balls, only this time the dogs retrieved the balls as soon as he started rolling them.
This performance was repeated on successive days until the dogs no longer snarled as they went after the balls.
Soon it became a game, and the dogs learned to catch the balls in the air.
Then one afternoon Conrad had Eggy throw them some of the balls, though Eggy was terrified of the dogs.
But after a few days it became a game for Eggy; Conrad would only throw one ball to each dog and Eggy would throw the rest.
7
And while Conrad was taming the dogs, he was also becoming acquainted with their master:
“. . . it smelled so good I just had to come in. I was walking around the back . . .”
Conrad looked up from his labors to see a tall, broad-shouldered young man standing by the back door.
“I’m Harold . . .”
As they shook hands Harold asked him what he was fixing for dinner.
“I’m marinating a roast,” Conrad replied, “but what I believe you smell is the dog food cooking.”
Harold’s eyes widened. “Really?” He peered into the pot, and then laughed pleasantly. “I rather envy the dogs.”
Harold’s manner was very easy. Remarking that he would only disturb Conrad for a few minutes, he sat down on the high stool by the sink—Eggy’s stool. Conrad noted a slightly dreamy look in the young man’s eyes. Other than that, he was very good-looking—strong features, high forehead, thick blond hair. And when he took out his pipe and lit it, Conrad saw that he had long, sensitive fingers.
Conrad continued with his work, and Harold watched him without saying anything.
At last Harold stood up: “Maxfield spoke to me about your bed. The men are working on the new one now. It’s seven feet long—they may have to move it into your room in sections.”
Conrad thanked him, and added that he was getting tired of sleeping on the floor.
Harold had imagined that Conrad slept in the bed somehow, and when Conrad told him this he was visibly taken aback. He promised that the bed would be delivered the very next day.
He was true to his word.
After the workmen had installed the bed, Harold lingered in the room: Conrad was starting to open two large packing crates which had arrived that morning.
The crates revealed an incredible collection of books, all sizes and ages. Many were in foreign languages, and as Harold helped Conrad unpack them his curiosity grew.
“They’re all cook books,” Conrad explained.
Harold looked dumbfounded.
Conrad said he read cook books all the time, especially at night.
Besides the books there were dozens of folders jammed with cut-out recipes.
Examining the books, Harold noticed all kinds of marginal notations in them. Conrad told him they were his notes—emendations, additions, cross-references to his other books, etc. Somewhat in awe Harold asked if he had ever compiled a cook book himself, and Conrad showed him stacks of loose-leaf notebooks full of close-written, cryptic formulae—special recipes and methods of his own conceiving.
The books seemed to cover every subject. In addition to the general cook books there were speciality books—books on sauces, marinades, individual cuts of meat, different kinds of meat, game, fish, fowl, particular vegetables, eggs, cheeses, wine dishes, beer dishes, summer dishes, winter dishes, salads, casseroles, pies, cakes, puddings, icings. There were also books for special kinds of diets.
There was even a book on cat food.
Harold became more impressed by the minute.
“I didn’t know there were that many cook books in the world,” he marveled.
Conrad showed him a directory of book dealers who would search out any kind of cook book he ordered.
He also showed him an address book of establishments all over the world which handled specialty-food items. Beside each address there were examples of their inventory.
“One can send for all those things,” Conrad explained.
Harold was so intrigued by the new world he had discovered that he didn’t even notice Conrad leave . . .
After dinner that night Harold dropped by the kitchen to congratulate Conrad on the roast and the sauce he had served with it.
“I’ve never tasted anything like it,” he said.
And as he left: “You’ll need some book shelves in your room. I’ll get one of the men at the mill to start making them tomorrow.”
8
Not only Albert, the butcher, but also the fishmongers, the greengrocers and the old, bearded provisioner of canned goods discovered Conrad to be a sharp and imperious shopper. Of course his accounts reflected this, and when Maxfield went over them that first Sunday morning he was openly astounded.
“When does Mrs. Hill go over the accounts?” Conrad asked.
“This afternoon—Mrs. Hill, Mrs. Wigton and I.” The old butler sighed. “Sunday is not a day of rest around here, except for Ester. Mr. Hill and Harold go to the mill and examine those accounts. ‘Sunday afternoon,’ as Mr. and Mrs. Hill always say, ‘is accounting time.’ ”
“And Betsy and Rudolph?”
“They polish silver.”
“And Eggy?”
“Eggy is yours. The cook usually has him clean the stove.”
“The stove is already clean.—And the cook?”
Maxfield smiled wanly.
“Theoretically the cook is free Sunday afternoon. But he must be available—in case there are any questions about his accounts.”
Conrad, who had been busy stuffing a goose, looked around. “Must, did you say?”
Maxfield hesitated, and then admitted that perhaps should would be a better word.
“I suspect won’t would be the best,” Conrad rejoined, resuming his work on the stuffing. Before Maxfield could reply Betsy came in, looking put upon and muttering something about Miss Ester’s cats.
It was her duty to open the cans of cat food and empty the contents into three dishes, then take the dishes up to the cats in Ester’s room. It was the one complaint she had about her job.
“. . . those cats!” she grumbled, getting the cans from the bottom of the cupboard. “They’re fat and lazy, and their hair gets over everything. I don’t see why I have to feed them. I’d like to put them in a bag and put some rocks in the bag and tie up the end with some string and throw them in Blue Lake. That’s where they belong. They’re good for nothing. They don’t even play.”
The last time Conrad had gone shopping he had got some fish heads. He had made stock from these and mixed it with dough, which he then worked into small mic
e.
When Betsy had finished dumping the canned cat food into the dishes, Conrad pointed to several ramekins which contained the mice swimming in a light cream sauce, and told her they were also for the cats and that she should take them with her. Betsy was very surprised at the sight of the mice, and as if they were something for her to play with, she started to touch one. Conrad sharply ordered her to keep her fingers off.
“Are the cats supposed to eat them?” she inquired timidly, still staring at the little mice.
“Just carry them upstairs. If your mistress says anything, tell her they’re the cats’ special Sunday dinner.—On Sunday there is special food for all.”
After Betsy had left, Maxfield murmured that he doubted whether Miss Ester would let the cats eat what Conrad had made. “She never lets them eat anything from the kitchen.”
“She will make an exception this time,” Conrad said as he put the goose in the oven. “The cats will scratch her to shreds if she tries to take those mice away.”
Sunday dinner was served precisely at 1:45, with Conrad himself carrying the goose. Betsy followed him with the vegetables.
Sighs of appreciation rose from the family and they also looked pleased with the vision of their cook, all in white and more than seven feet tall in his chef’s hat. Out of the corner of his eye Conrad saw Ester. She was blond and beautiful. But he didn’t look directly at her, so he couldn’t tell whether she had sighed at the sight of the glistening brown goose with its colorful garnishings.
Conrad had learned from Maxfield that Mr. Hill did not carve well and did not relish the chore; therefore he had started the carving himself. But he had done this so carefully and with such a thin knife that the slicing could not be detected unless one got very close to the goose and looked for it.
Conrad set the goose in front of Mr. Hill, who sat at the head of the table, and then stood beside him and folded his arms. Dramatically he waited till everyone had looked at the goose for about half a minute, and then he murmured to Mr. Hill that with his permission he would begin the carving. Mr. Hill, a trifle awed at the sight of the beautiful and succulent-looking bird, and doubtless a bit uneasy at the prospect of carving it—or mutilating it—quickly nodded assent. Conrad picked up the knife and with a flourish severed a marvelous slice of meat, and then a second. Mr. Hill observed him closely, trying to see how it was done. Conrad put the two slices on a plate, and while the eyes of the rest of the family followed the slices, Conrad took the knife and revealed to the surprised Mr. Hill that the difficult part of the carving had already been done.
Mr. Hill smiled as Conrad handed him the knife . . .
Conrad waited until Mr. Hill reached the stuffing.
“The stuffing,” he said, and all eyes turned to him at the sound of his voice, “is sausage and chestnut, though chestnuts, one is told, cannot be procured at this time of year. But the manageress of one of the greengroceries was persuaded to look.”
He paused, and Mrs. Hill laughed lightly.
“Conrad, word has already spread about how you browbeat the local shopkeepers. Indeed, I’ve had one or two complaints . . .” She sounded extremely pleased.
“And you will probably get more,” Conrad murmured. He continued, “It is a rich stuffing. Therefore the vegetables are quite plain. Except for the peas, I have prepared no sauces for them. The peas are in thin white sauce. As for the other vegetables, I would not advise putting any of the gravy on them. The gravy goes best on the meat itself, and perhaps a little on the stuffing.”
He added that a light dessert would follow, and then withdrew.
Conrad was eating some dumplings cooked in the goose fat when Maxfield came in. A peculiar expression was on the butler’s face, and his first words revealed that something out of the ordinary had transpired: Mrs. Hill had retired to her room and had postponed the accounts until the following day.
Moreover, Mr. Hill had not gone to the mill. Instead he had gone to his study, and he was now asleep in his chair with his feet cocked up on his desk.
And Master Harold was stretched out asleep on the divan in the living room.
Conrad pointed to the ravaged remains of the goose carcass, and said it wasn’t surprising they were asleep, since they had eaten so much.
“Only Ester seems to be awake,” Maxfield muttered, shaking his head in bewilderment, “and she usually sleeps Sunday afternoon.”
Conrad asked Maxfield how he had enjoyed his chicken. He apologized for not mentioning it, but it had been heavenly. It was the best chicken he had ever eaten, and it was sitting perfectly on his stomach. He added that Mrs. Wigton had requested him to convey her appreciation of the chops. She would have come herself but she was not sure of the reception she would get . . .
The old butler repeated his apologies for not telling Conrad how much he had enjoyed his dinner, “. . . but I was so surprised to see all of the family sleeping. I cannot recall such a thing ever happening before . . .”
Just then Betsy came in. “They didn’t even touch their cat food!” she exclaimed. “They just ate the little mice!”
Conrad had set Sunday afternoon aside to explore some of the lakes. Since the Vales were coming to dinner on Wednesday, he wished to have fish for them—after all, hadn’t he been told their cook was peerless in his preparation of fish? And therefore the Vales were doubtless connoisseurs of fish. A skillfully prepared fish should please them no end.
With luck he might encounter some men who would do a little poaching . . .
9
On his day off Conrad met the fishermen in Ben’s tavern, as had been arranged. Money and fish changed hands, and the men told him that any time he wanted some fish he should just leave a message for them at Ben’s.
Conrad left and made the rounds of the other taverns, drinking a beer or two in each one.
There were five taverns in all, and Conrad decided the last one was most to his liking. It had a cellar drinking room, with old wooden tables and benches. There was a small kitchen in the rear. Upstairs a few rooms were to let.
The Shepard’s Inn was run by a stout middle-aged woman, indifferently assisted by a short, lame man who passed for her husband.
Both complained that business was bad.
Conrad asked to look at the rooms. He said he was the Hills’ cook and that he wanted a permanent room in town. The woman, Nell, said she knew who he was. Some of the shopkeepers had spoken of him. She implied that what they had said wasn’t exactly favorable. Then she told him the price.
Conrad said he would take a room on a permanent basis, but at a quarter of the rent she was asking.
“No,” the woman said, “I’ve heard of you. You’re not going to get me to give you anything free.”
Conrad pointed out that he wasn’t asking for the room free.
He ordered another beer.
“Will you drink here,” Nell asked finally, “when you come into town?”
Conrad said he would.
As he handed her the first week’s rent he told her some boxes would arrive shortly from the City, which should be put in his room. They contained mostly clothes. He would appreciate it if she would hang the clothes in the closet.
Nell folded her fat arms and leaned on the bar.
“The price of the room doesn’t include maid service. Perhaps if you’d pay a decent rent . . .”
Conrad finished his stein of beer without replying. But as he turned to leave: “I would have had another one,” he explained, fixing her with his black eyes, “or perhaps six more. It would cost you nothing to hang up my clothes. I can only conclude you’re a stupid woman.—And soon,” he continued, emphasizing each word, “people will come here because I come here. And when I stop coming here, they will stop coming here. And in case the significance eludes you: when that day comes you will beg me to stay in your room rent-free.”
“. . . I paid some men to poach it from the Vale lakes.”
Mrs. Hill’s eyes brightened with understanding. “Well, I
knew it must have been something like that. Mr. and Mrs. Vale simply could not understand it—they insisted the fish was out of season and not available at any price. And, Conrad, you should have seen their faces when they took the first mouthful! And the looks they exchanged . . .”
Mrs. Hill leaned back on Conrad’s stool and closed her eyes, reliving the delightful experience.
“You know,” she went on after a moment, “they think they have the best cook in the world. Only Brogg can prepare fish to suit them. But even though I could see it galled them, they had to admit they’d never eaten anything finer, and they’re both very finicky eaters—in delicate health, you know. So thin. They’ve been that way for years.”
Conrad said that if he were given a few days’ notice he believed he could get whatever fish the lakes had in them, and he asked if the Vales were especially fond of any dish.
Mrs. Hill nodded and said there were several, but one in particular, which she named and tried to describe. “They insist that only Brogg can make it.”
Conrad merely shrugged at that.
“I don’t know whether you know any of the family history,” Mrs. Hill continued in a slightly intimate voice, “but for years and years the Hills and Vales feuded. Over what, I’m not sure even they knew. But now we are more civilized and we only feud”—Mrs. Hill smiled as she said this—“over our cooks. And for some time now, ever since they lured Brogg away from the Morton family in Highlands, I fear they have been getting the better of the feud. Perhaps the tide of battle is about to change.”
The next day when Conrad went shopping he left two messages at Ben’s: one for Paul, the Hills’ previous cook, and one for the two fishermen, who later that evening appeared at the back door.
“Who were those men?” Maxfield asked when Conrad came back into the kitchen. “I heard what the Vales said last night at dinner,” he continued when Conrad ignored his question, “and if Brogg ever finds out that you hired poachers to get fish from his lakes . . .”
The Cook Page 3