The Cook

by Harry Kressing

  Conrad cut him short: “What did Mrs. Hill say about my accounts?”

  “I didn’t show them to her. I decided to wait until you have been here two weeks. That way the picture will be more reliable.—But let me warn you, Brogg is a bad man to have for an enemy . . .”

  “Do you know,” Conrad broke in again, “there is not a complete set of china or glassware in this house? I’ve seen Betsy break seven plates, four glasses and two cups. Even Eggy hasn’t broken that many. Is it the butler’s or the housekeeper’s responsibility to see that a decent serving set exists? And I don’t mean perfect, just decent. It is impossible to entertain with our mutilated remains.”

  Slowly the old butler’s neck and face turned red. “Whoever’s responsibility it is,” he replied in a trembling voice, “it is not yours.”

  The two men glared at each other, and then Maxfield turned and stalked out, his lips still trembling.

  “Mind your ulcers,” Conrad called after him.

  After dinner Conrad was in the kitchen, shaping a crown roast for next day’s meal, when he heard a scratching at the door. He opened it, and a large cream-colored cat streaked in from the dining room and began sniffing around the legs of the worktable.

  Conrad was just contemplating chucking it out the back door when a quick rap sounded and Ester walked in, followed by her brother a few steps behind.

  “I was right,” she said; “there’s Queen Bee III.” She went over and picked up the cat. “Naughty, naughty kitty,” she intoned, stroking it.

  “I hope we haven’t disturbed you,” Harold apologized.

  Conrad resumed his labors.

  “You made those delicious mice, didn’t you?” Ester said, seeming to notice Conrad for the first time. It sounded as if she had eaten the mice herself. “Will you make some more—this Sunday?”

  “No.”

  Ester frowned. “No?” she repeated.

  “I’m going to make some birds.”

  “Oh!”

  For a moment Ester looked puzzled, and then: “Did you hear that, kitty? You’re going to have some nice birds this Sunday.”

  Ester looked at Conrad again. “Do you know anything about feeding cats?”

  “Ester,” Harold exclaimed, “of course he does! He has a whole book on cat food.”

  “You have? Well, some day when I have time, you’ll have to tell me all about it.—Come on, kitty. It’s time we went to bed . . .”

  Very diffidently Harold asked whether he might stay a few minutes and watch Conrad work. Conrad replied that he was nearly through, and as he put the finishing touches on the crown he explained what he was doing. Harold was most interested.

  At last Conrad put the roast away, and then Harold said he had something he wanted to ask him: a week from Saturday the employees at the mill were going on their annual red-bird hunt. In the evening they would have an outdoor feast. Charles, the cook they had hired for the past few years, had recently been made chef at the Prominence Inn and could not be spared. Brogg had been telling everybody that he would be the cook on red-bird night—that the Hills would be forced to come to him. But Brogg always got into fights when he drank—and so, would Conrad be willing to take Charles’s place? He would be recompensed handsomely.

  Conrad said he had no objections. “How do the men like their red-birds?”

  Harold described, vaguely, how the birds were usually prepared, but said Conrad would have a free hand.

  “I will be in complete charge of all preparations?”

  “Yes.”

  The following Tuesday Conrad went to his room at the Shepard’s Inn. The boxes from the city had arrived and his clothes were hanging neatly in the closet.

  “I hope you appreciate what I did for you,” Nell said when he went downstairs for a beer.

  Conrad replied that she hadn’t done anything for him. “You just pursued your self-interest. What I appreciate is your ability to recognize it.—I suppose you know this Saturday is red-bird night for the Hill employees?”

  “What of it?”

  “They drink a lot of beer, don’t they?”

  “That means nothing to me,” Nell replied, making a sour face and producing in the process another chin or two from her ample neck. “Charles orders all the beer from the Prominence Inn—and gets a cut too, I’m sure.”

  Conrad waited till she had finished grumbling, and then told her that news must travel slow. “I’m the cook for red-bird night, and I’m doing all the ordering.”

  When that had soaked in he asked for another stein—and neglected to put any money on the bar.

  “I’m expecting a friend,” Conrad said, “and we are going to discuss the ordering of beer. He will tell me where I can get the best bargain.”

  At this Nell looked distressed. She said she would sell him the beer very cheap, and she named the price per keg. Conrad laughed at the figure.

  Long before Paul arrived Nell had agreed to Conrad’s terms, which included a month’s free rent.

  Conrad bought Paul a beer and explained why he had left the message at Ben’s: on his day off he always planned to dine in town, at the Prominence Inn, and he wanted Paul to make certain arrangements for him. He would have to talk to the head waiter and to the cook—did he know Charles?

  “I’ve known him for years,” Paul answered. “He recommended me for the present job I have with the Renfrews. He’s a very good cook, second only to Brogg.”

  “If you take a recipe to him, will he follow the directions to the letter?”

  Paul wrinkled his snub nose. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, but I suppose if you pay him he will.”

  “I’ll pay him. Do they have private dining rooms there?”

  “They have one, but I don’t think anyone ever uses it.”

  Paul’s wonderment continued to grow as Conrad explained what he wanted him to do.

  After about an hour—with a small packet of Conrad’s money in his pocket, some very specific instructions in his head, and several carefully detailed recipes in his hand—Paul stood up. It was getting late. “The Renfrews have only a maid and I have to do the shopping myself.”

  Conrad suggested they start shopping together. “I will show you how to get your accounts down.”

  Paul looked pleased. He said Mrs. Renfrew had already told him he was spending too much. “She’s worse than Mrs. Hill. But from the things I’ve heard the shopkeepers say about you, I don’t suppose you’ve had a run-in with her over the accounts.”

  Conrad admitted that was true. “Quite the contrary. And by the way, she no longer does the accounts on Sunday. She sleeps, as does the rest of the family. Only Ester stays awake, playing with the cats.”

  As Paul left, his expression said plainly that wonders would never cease.

  Conrad stayed at the Shepard’s Inn, drinking until late at night.

  He had brought with him a jar of tangy paté, and had set it on the bar with some crackers.

  “That’s not for you,” he told Nell, who was looking greedily at the paté. “It’s for the customers—if any come in here . . . I’m expecting two friends.”

  Conrad drank by himself until the fishermen arrived.

  “Drinks, Nell!” he called. “And put this package on ice . . .”

  And after Conrad had bought the men a few more rounds: “Do you do any hunting?” he asked. “Or do you know anyone who does? I need some birds . . .”

  10

  All day long the open land beyond the mill rang with the firing of guns, and the shouts and laughter of men drinking and having a good time. The shooting was excellent, and in a steady stream the men repaired to the cooking camp at the edge of the wood, exchanging their bags of red-birds for more beer, and then returning to the shoot. The men declared the beer had never been more plentiful.

  Toward the end of the day the trips back to the camp became more frequent; though fewer birds were brought in, more beer was taken out . . .

  Conrad and his staff worked without le
t-up. They kept the beer exceedingly cold, and new kegs were always tapped and ready. The birds were also attended to immediately. There were vats of boiling water with great fires beneath them, and plenty of cut wood to keep them going. The birds were plunged into the water, then plucked and seared and made ready for cleaning. After that they became Conrad’s responsibility.

  It was tradition on red-bird night that a member of the Hill family help feed the men. Harold, of course, had volunteered, and Conrad worked him every bit as hard as he worked Eggy and Rudolph, possibly harder. “One learns from work,” Conrad would say as Harold began to draw another dozen birds.

  Harold was too busy to answer.

  He carefully saved the tiny hearts and livers, which Conrad mixed with berries for the stuffing. The men had never had stuffed birds before. They were also surprised to see Conrad wrap them with strips of salt pork. Prepared thus, the birds were set in a deep tray half full of wine and meat broth, to marinate until the men were all through shooting. Then the trays had only to be slipped into the huge outdoor oven. A small fire had been kept going beneath it since mid-afternoon, so it would not take long to stoke it to high heat.

  Eating-time was set for about an hour after sundown.

  The great fire beneath the oven, and the lesser fires which ringed the dining area and obscured the black forest and hills, consumed wood almost as fast as Rudolph supplied it. Frantically he ran back and forth, his bright red livery making him look rather like a moving torch. Then at one point he stumbled and pitched full-length, scattering an armload of wood among the feet of a tableful of diners.

  “Too much beer!” laughed one of the men, kicking some of the small logs toward Rudolph.

  Rudolph got up and brushed off his uniform.

  “He’s been drinking all day!” laughed another man.

  “He’s drunk more than anyone!” cried a third.

  Rudolph recovered all of the wood, and then looked stupidly at the last man who had addressed him.

  “I have not,” he mumbled. And then, after a moment: “Conrad has. He has drunk the most. I’ve seen him.”

  The man started to laugh and say something, but Rudolph added, “Conrad can drink more than anyone. He can even drink more than you, Heavy.”

  Rudolph turned and flung the wood on the fire.

  “Hey, what did you say?” demanded Heavy. “What did you say . . . ?”

  And that’s how the match came about.

  On red-bird night an eating contest was traditional. But for several years this tradition had not been observed for the simple reason that there was no competition: one man, Heavy, had demonstrated time and time again that he could eat twice as many red-birds as any other man.

  But Rudolph’s words suggested a contest, or perhaps only a good joke.

  Heavy and a delegation of men approached Conrad and told him about the tradition. They repeated what they’d heard and inquired whether his capacity extended equally to solid food.

  “I have a good appetite,” Conrad laughed.

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed the men, nudging Heavy and winking at him.

  But then Conrad added that it was an insult to good food to engage in deliberate gluttony.

  However, more and more men began to clamor for a contest and they wouldn’t let Conrad out of it.

  After all the others had eaten, Conrad and Heavy sat down at opposite ends of a long table. In front of each was an entire tray of birds, and beside it, an empty tray for bones. Steins of cold beer were on their right.

  “Eggy,” Conrad said, “I want you to keep my stein full.”

  Heavy slapped his stomach and gave the same order to Eggy, remarking jovially that he was even more thirsty than hungry.

  The maximum time allowed for eating a bird was agreed on, and the match began midst the laughter and shouting of the men who had gathered round the table. Some of them had done a little betting and they encouraged their favorite.

  Harold stood behind Conrad, smiling and tired.

  At a nearby table two men worked carefully on the prize.

  Rudolph, more and more drunk, lurched dutifully from fire to fire.

  The match was really over when each man had eaten half his tray of birds and Conrad told Harold to put two more trays in the oven.

  Heavy looked across at him, stupefied. One tray was his limit and the standing record for the contest.

  By the time they started on their last row of birds the outcome had become obvious to all. Heavy was stuffing himself, forcing the birds down. His fat face was beginning to look apoplectic, whereas Conrad was laughing and talking, eating leisurely and delighting in every mouthful.

  The ring of men drew closer . . .

  At last there was only one bird left on each tray. Heavy picked his up and looked at it. He started to open his mouth. But then he had to close it to keep from gagging.

  He tossed the bird on the tray of bones beside him.

  A murmur rose from the men.

  Conrad laughed and sank his teeth into the breast of his last red-bird.

  Everyone began shouting and clapping him on the back.

  “The winner! The winner!” they cried. “Conrad’s the winner!”

  Conrad nodded in acknowledgment, slowly masticating his mouthful of red-bird breast.

  And then there were shouts of “The prize! The prize!”

  Two men came forward, bearing on a tray a wreath of red-bird feathers.

  Conrad removed his chef’s hat, and the men solemnly placed the wreath of victory on his head.

  Conrad thanked them and then said that a toast was in order: “To Heavy!” he cried, standing up. “To Heavy, a truly great eater! And a great drinker! For Heavy had eaten before he challenged me, while I was working all day without eating anything. And that hardly makes for an even contest. If it had been the other way around, if Heavy had been doing the cooking and I the shooting—who knows what the outcome would have been. Heavy might be toasting me!”

  All the men cheered at this.

  Heavy smiled at Conrad, very appreciative, and tried to join in the toast. But he couldn’t swallow any more beer. Someone laughed and said that if Heavy had done the cooking, the men would probably be shooting him now instead of toasting him.

  After that all the men drank a toast to Conrad.

  Conrad adjusted his red crown and then picked up the remains of his last bird.

  The men suddenly fell silent. Incredulous, they watched him as he carefully detached one of the legs.

  “Eggy!” Conrad called. “I need some more beer. And Harold—those birds must be done by now . . . Bring both trays. I’m hungry!”

  PART II

  11

  Mrs. Hill was perched on Conrad’s stool, sipping a cup of broth, as was now her custom when she came into the kitchen to chat with him.

  The relationship had grown steadily less formal, and sometimes Mrs. Hill sat in the kitchen for hours discussing matters and problems appertaining to the domain of food and domestic management. Maxfield resented this, and the first half-dozen times that he discovered Mrs. Hill in the kitchen talking to Conrad he sought to remain on some pretext, but Mrs. Hill had got rid of him, sending him on a duty to another part of the house, or with a message for Mrs. Wigton. Mrs. Wigton too felt she was being supplanted in Mrs. Hill’s counsels, though there was little she could do about it, since she wasn’t even allowed in the kitchen.

  “. . . Daphne is coming this Wednesday with Mr. and Mrs. Vale,” Mrs. Hill said, taking a sip of her broth. “She rarely leaves the house, poor girl, but her parents have raved so about your cooking, and they insist that she come.—You know, Conrad, after you fixed Brogg’s specialty for them Mrs. Vale hasn’t said one good word about him. She’s even said she would like to send him over to take lessons from you.”

  “I’m sure he’d appreciate that,” Conrad commented, “from what I’ve heard about Brogg.” He also had a cup of broth in his hand, though it wasn’t the same kind.

  “.
. . and when I told Mrs. Vale that I’d lost some weight since I’ve been eating your cooking—though I’ve actually been eating more, and everything that I want to—why, she actually began to blame Brogg for Daphne’s being so fat. I had to remind her that Daphne was overweight before they got Brogg; after all, Dr. Law had suggested that she look for another cook, and told her of someone who was very well thought of in Highlands. That’s when Mrs. Vale hired Brogg—though I will admit Daphne’s continued to put on weight since he’s been cooking for them, and maybe even at a faster rate. Poor girl, she’s so fat. If only . . .”

  She trailed off with a sigh, and her expression became remote, as if she could just picture a thin Daphne in a wedding gown, Harold by her side—if only . . .

  “. . . Maxfield is sick in bed. I’m going to fix the drinks tonight.” Harold walked over to the stove. “It smells good; may I ask what it is?”

  “It’s casserole of pheasant—the ones you shot the other day.”

  “But those were for you, Conrad,” Harold objected quietly.

  “There’ll be more than enough for all. The dish is very rich.”

  Harold smiled and shook his head. Once or twice a week since red-bird night Harold had brought Conrad several brace of birds to prepare for himself: “Anyone who loves wild birds as much as you do, Conrad . . .” he would say.

  And Conrad would take the birds: “Red-bird night revealed one of my weaknesses, Harold.”

  It had revealed more than that. Not only had Conrad proved that he could out-eat anyone and out-drink anyone, but also that he could cook red-birds better than anyone had ever cooked them before.

  He had also proved himself to be a prodigious and incredibly fast worker. Later that Saturday night, when Harold and he had finally got back to the Hill kitchen, Harold admitted he was on the verge of exhaustion, though he hadn’t done one-twentieth of the work Conrad had.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Conrad,” Harold said.

  Conrad smiled. “Did you enjoy the work?” he asked.