The Cook

by Harry Kressing

  Harold replied that he had enjoyed it very much. “I’ve also learned a lot. I never realized there was so much to cooking.”

  Conrad nodded understandingly. “You should look at some of my books on wild-bird cooking, and you’ll see how many things we did wrong—necessarily, I might add: the facilities weren’t ideal, and the number of short cuts we took—all to the detriment of the dish.”

  Harold looked a little surprised at this—whether at Conrad’s invitation or at his strictures it was not possible to say—and after a slight hesitation replied that he couldn’t imagine what else could have been done to the red-birds or how they could have been improved, but a few days later he referred to Conrad’s remarks and Conrad again suggested that he take a look at the books.

  “Do you want me to get them for you?” Conrad asked, as Harold looked a little shy, “or do you want to get them yourself?”

  Harold replied that if Conrad didn’t mind he would go up and look himself . . .

  “Oh, it has pictures!” Ester exclaimed happily.

  At her request Conrad had given her the book on cat food.

  After flipping through it and looking at all the pictures, she glanced at some of the suggested dishes. “Can you make any of these?”

  Conrad said he could.

  “Do you like kitties?”

  Conrad replied that he used to have many.

  “More than three?” Ester asked, incredulous.

  “More than three,” Conrad conceded.

  “Oh, how marvelous!—I hate dogs,” she added.

  At last Ester pointed to a picture showing three kittens tumbling over themselves in eagerness to dispatch a dish of reddish-looking fish floating in green sauce.

  “Next week,” Conrad promised.

  Conrad spent all of Sunday afternoon and evening at the Shepard’s Inn drinking and listening to the gossip of the workingmen and servants who gathered there for the same purpose. Until quite recently most of these people would have gone to Ben’s or the White Door or one of the other taverns. But word soon spread that whenever Conrad was at Shepard’s, free hors-d’oeuvres and canapés were available. He prepared the tid-bits himself in the small kitchen in the rear of the inn. Also, Conrad was very liberal with his money; he would stand many rounds of beer and never ask for any in return. Word of this also spread, attracting customers.

  There was a large table in a far corner, and this soon became known as Conrad’s table. The customers who dropped in were made to feel free to pull up a chair and join him there, or leave him—as they chose.

  Nell had been reduced to his willing but nervous slave. She did everything he said as fast as she could: if his beer was warm, she took it back; if it was flat, she took it back; if more plates were needed, she ran to the kitchen; if something was wanted from a shop, she screamed at Gimpy to fetch it; if Conrad left a message for someone, it was delivered; if someone left a package for Conrad, it was put on ice; if his table needed cleaning, she cleaned it, etc., etc. And it was always: “Yes, Mr. Conrad,” or “No, Mr. Conrad,” or “I’m sorry, Mr. Conrad.”

  Nell also related to Conrad any gossip which she thought he had missed and which might be of interest to him; and it was from her that he first heard that Ester Hill was seeing a boy in Highlands. “His family’s none too good,” Nell whispered, “and that’s why Ester Hill is keeping it a secret.” The boy’s name was Lance Brown.

  Conrad also learned from Nell that Brogg had been saying some very bad things about “that new cook at the Hills’.”

  And from some of the others Conrad heard that Mr. Hill had been proclaiming that he had the best cook this side of the City: “My fellow is really a magician with food.”

  Mr. Hill had added that he never felt better in his life and that he had actually taken off a little weight, though he was eating everything he wanted to.

  12

  Most of the people who came to Shepard’s had heard of Conrad’s Tuesday dinners at the Prominence Inn. They knew that he reserved the private dining room for the occasion, that Charles cooked him special foods, that he ate all by himself and that he dressed formally. No one knew what to make of this, of course, but they opined that it surely must be expensive.

  That was Maxfield’s comment too.

  He was fixing pre-dinner drinks. It had been the first time in three days that he had felt well enough to perform that duty.

  “I hear you have rather expensive tastes,” he murmured.

  Conrad, who was putting up some preserves, looked up from the row of glistening jars that filled his worktable. “Meaning, I suppose, that I don’t like to eat slop with pigs on my day off . . .”

  Maxfield sniffed. “If you call eating with people of your own station—”

  “Just fix the drinks,” Conrad snapped; “that’s what they’re paying you for.”

  Maxfield spun around, livid.

  “I’ll thank you to remember I’m your superior,” he spluttered. “I won’t have you talk to me that way.”

  In his agitation he knocked over one of the glasses, spilling liquor on the floor.

  Conrad laughed derisively. “What are you going to do about it? Sick butlers aren’t at a premium. Neither are butlers who fake sickness. Either way you cut it, you’re out.—Eggy! Clean up this mess—old Maxfield here is getting as clumsy as Betsy.”

  Maxfield started to reply, but as usual he suddenly felt too weak to fight Conrad. Besides, he was only just recovering from his sickness. He had been laid up for three days, supposedly with a severe stomach disorder. He took to his bed the afternoon Mrs. Hill told Conrad he should submit his accounts directly to her. Naturally, she had informed Maxfield of this change, and when Mrs. Wigton knocked timidly on the kitchen door and reported that Maxfield was very sick and would not be eating with her that night, Conrad retorted that Maxfield was merely sulking because he felt his authority had been undermined. “It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Wigton. He’ll be up and around once he gets used to it.”

  Mrs. Wigton said she didn’t know what he was referring to.

  “The accounts—that’s all it is. I submit them directly to Mrs. Hill now. Maxfield has been cut out.”

  Mrs. Wigton was duly shocked and had left without saying a word.

  “. . . and Harold rather liked fixing the drinks,” Conrad now continued to Maxfield. “Your services weren’t missed in the least.”

  Maxfield replied quietly, “I shall speak to Mrs. Hill about this at the earliest opportunity. Your behavior is insupportable.”

  Conrad laughed again, holding a glass of clear red liquid up to the light. “Please do. Never bottle up your resentment. It will only give you ulcers—although you might have better luck if you speak to Mr. Hill; remember the accounts! And if you do speak to Mr. Hill, convey the cook’s thanks for his raise in salary—it was more than double the contractual figure, and three months earlier than stipulated. Or hasn’t anyone bothered to tell you?”

  Conrad watched Maxfield’s eyes widen in astonishment.

  When Daphne came with Mr. and Mrs. Vale, Conrad fixed her Brogg’s speciality, which he had given her parents previously and over which they had raved so. This had been agreed on in advance with Mrs. Hill. “You can bring it out for her too, Conrad. The poor girl always seems to be depressed—a little extra fuss over her might raise her spirits.” For the others he cooked something they had never had before.

  The Vales were just an ordinary-looking couple, rather up in years and down in health, and it was hard to believe that the large blob of a girl sitting between Harold and Mrs. Hill was their daughter. She seemed to be twice their size, and without any signs of resemblance. That she was depressed, as Mrs. Hill had said, was obvious.

  Conrad served her with decorous flamboyance and then withdrew, and when Betsy came back in the kitchen she said she was glad that Conrad had served Daphne Vale. “She looks like a pig. I don’t like to serve her. And she never says anything—I never heard her say a word. She just sits.
Sometimes she doesn’t even eat.”

  Betsy continued to grumble as she came and went, bringing in and returning dishes.

  “. . . and she never laughs. She’s disgusting . . . But I bet they don’t talk about losing weight tonight, not with Daphne Vale sitting there.—Who is losing weight, and how much. That’s all they talk about these days. And food—they don’t talk about anything interesting any more. They just talk about food . . . They used to talk about things in town, and people. I used to hear about friends of mine who work for other families they know, and I used to tell them what I heard at table . . . And they used to talk about business, about cutting down trees and digging out stone—and Mr. Vale would talk about how he’d have to raise someone’s rent, or who wasn’t paying the rent on time . . . But they just talk about food now—and about who is losing weight. I couldn’t care less . . .”

  When Betsy came back after serving the dessert, she said that Mrs. Hill had asked her to inquire whether the dish Miss Vale had was “rich.” Betsy snickered. “By that she means ‘fattening.’ ”

  Betsy delivered Conrad’s answer, and returned looking a little surprised.

  “I actually heard Miss Vale speak; she asked Mrs. Hill whether she might get the recipe from you since the dish was not rich.”

  Conrad asked whether Betsy had been sent to ask him for the recipe.

  A slightly cunning smile turned up the corners of the maid’s broad mouth. “I think Miss Vale expected Mrs. Hill to have me ask you for it; that’s why she spoke up while I was there. But Mrs. Hill didn’t do any such thing. ‘I will discuss the matter with Conrad,’ was all she would say.”

  “Very wise of her; find out whether Maxfield is well enough to eat with Mrs. Wigton.—Eggy,” he continued, turning to the boy, who was clearing off the scraps from the plates, “see if Rudolph is sober enough to eat.”

  “She enjoyed her dinner immensely,” Mrs. Hill said. “She even asked her mother whether they planned to come over next Friday—so naturally, I invited her too, though the poor girl should know that she’s always welcome. After all, she stays here for two months every winter. But I could see she would feel better if I made the invitation specific.—She said she would like to eat the same dinner all over,” added Mrs. Hill as she sipped a cup of coffee. She was sitting on Conrad’s stool, leaning back against the cupboard.

  “Well, that’s easy enough to arrange,” Conrad said. “I don’t mean that I should send the recipe to Brogg. First of all, he wouldn’t appreciate it. Second, he wouldn’t, and couldn’t, do it exactly the way it must be done; and third, I have little desire to share the secret of the dish—no more than I imagine you would care to have every cook in town capable of reproducing the specialities of your table. There’s something extremely pleasant in knowing that no one outside your own dining room is eating precisely what you are eating that evening. It unites those at table in a unique, shared experience, which is also quite delightful—don’t you agree?”

  Mrs. Hill smiled and said she quite agreed. She added that the Vales, especially Mrs. Vale, had already asked her for the recipe of practically every dish Conrad had prepared for them. “And more than once. But I always say I will have to talk to you—and then I never mention it again.”

  “And so,” Conrad pursued, “why don’t I make the dish here and have it sent over to Miss Vale? That would solve everything.”

  “Send it over?” Mrs. Hill repeated. Obviously the possibility had not occurred to her. “But could you do that?”

  “Why not? We have plenty of containers.”

  “But wouldn’t it get cold, for one thing?”

  “Not if Rudolph went straight over and didn’t stop for a drink on the way.”

  Mrs. Hill smiled. “His drinking is getting out of hand, isn’t it?”

  “Just a little.”

  Mrs. Hill began to get that dreamy look. “It’s been a long time,” she murmured, “since the Hill mansion sent dinners to the Vales, or vice versa. It was done in the past, so I’ve been told, when living and dining were in the grand manner. It might be nice to revive the custom.”

  Mr. Hill always took lunch at the Prominence Inn, but one evening when Conrad was drinking at Shepard’s he heard that Mr. Hill had become tired of the inn lunches because his cook had spoiled him. Now he demanded good food all the time. Indeed, he was thinking of giving up lunch altogether.

  The next time Mrs. Hill came into the kitchen, Conrad said, “I could also have Mr. Hill’s lunch sent to the mill every day. That way he would not have to distress himself with the efforts of the Prominence Inn.”

  Mrs. Hill beamed. “Conrad, you’re a mind reader! Only this morning Benjamin said he would never go to the inn again for lunch. That’s why he ate so many hors-d’oeuvres this evening: the poor man had starved himself from breakfast!”

  When Conrad told Betsy to ask Mr. Hill if he would like lunch sent to him at the mill and if so at what time, the questions brought Mr. Hill to the kitchen.

  Mr. Hill was profuse in his appreciation.

  “I just can’t bear to eat that food at the Prominence Inn any more,” he apologized. “You’ve ruined that place for me. Now I really know what good cooking is . . .”

  He added, “And you know, Conrad, I’m losing a little weight . . .”

  13

  Conrad sent over the dish Daphne had liked so much to the Vale mansion. He gave Rudolph special instructions.

  “Do not go to the kitchen door,” Conrad told him. “There is a side door. Use it. Ask for Louise if she doesn’t answer herself. She is Miss Vale’s personal maid. Give these instructions to her.” He handed Rudolph a folded sheet of paper. “Put it some place where you won’t lose it. Tell Louise to take the carton to Miss Vale’s room. It is her dinner, the one she requested from the Hills’ cook. On no account is Louise to go to the kitchen with it—do you understand?”

  Rudolph, standing stiffly in his bright-red livery, nodded dumbly.

  “And do not linger on the way—not for a drink or for anything. I will find out, and if you do, I will put poison in your food and your skin will turn as red as your uniform and as hot as red coals—do you understand?”

  Again Rudolph nodded.

  “If you do as I tell you, I will make you a special dessert tonight, with black molasses—a whole plateful.” Conrad demonstrated in the air the size of the plate he had in mind.

  Rudolph grinned from ear to ear. Black molasses was his favorite sweet. “A whole plateful?” he repeated stupidly.

  “Yes, a whole plateful. You didn’t know there was that much black molasses in the entire world, did you?”

  Rudolph shook his head, still grinning.

  “Well, there is. Now get going.”

  Louise returned the plate and containers to Conrad personally. She wanted to tell him how much her mistress appreciated the dinner.

  Conrad handed her a cup of coffee.

  “Does Miss Vale have any other favorite dishes?”

  “Oh, yes!” Louise rattled off several. “But I don’t think they’re good for her,” she added sadly. “I think they’re too rich.”

  “They won’t be the way I fix them.—Will Miss Vale be home tomorrow night?”

  Louise said she would be. “The poor girl doesn’t go out very often. She won’t even take walks with me any more. I try to encourage her but—well, Dr. Law says she’s given up hope. And he says he can’t help her if she won’t help herself. But she wasn’t that way before . . . oh, if only things were different, then maybe Harold Hill—.”

  “What about Brogg?” Conrad interrupted.

  Louise’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “What about him?”

  “Does he know I sent that dish to her last night?”

  “Certainly he does. I had the pleasure of telling him he needn’t fix anything for my mistress, since he always complains about the extra work of having to send things up to her room.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  The maid pursed he
r lips, and then her eyes began to fill with tears. “The man had the effrontery,” she answered quietly, “to say it was about time my mistress stopped eating. But then I told him he was mistaken; that the cook at the Hill mansion had sent a special dish over to her, at Miss Vale’s request. And you should have seen his face then!” The cloud lifted from Louise’s face as quickly as it had come. She looked triumphant. “His face turned black and he started to utter some terrible oath, but I put my fingers in my ears and walked out of the kitchen.”

  Conrad laughed. “Good for you, Louise. You can tell your mistress she’ll have something special tomorrow night. And she needn’t worry about its being rich.”

  The little woman’s eyes expressed her gratitude . . .

  *

  One morning Mr. Hill lingered over breakfast instead of repairing to the mill as soon as he’d finished.

  “Breakfast was so good,” he volunteered to Conrad, rather embarrassedly, “that I just didn’t feel like rushing off. I just felt like enjoying another cup of coffee . . .”

  Conrad replied that he could well understand it.

  “Would you care to try one of these?” Conrad handed him a small, delicately shaped biscuit. It was semisweet and thinly glazed with fresh butter. There was a small tray of them on the sideboard. “They’re especially fine with coffee around mid-morning.—I should like to prepare something special for tomorrow evening,” he went on, giving Mr. Hill another biscuit, “but there’s a slight problem: I would have to ask the family not to have any drinks before dinner. The true flavor of the dish is completely distorted by the slightest taint of alcohol.”

  Mr. Hill shrugged and reached for another biscuit. “That’s a very small price to pay for a delicious meal,” he allowed. “I’ve often thought that alcohol dulls the palate anyway . . .”

  That night Conrad went to the Shepard’s Inn. He had taken Rudolph with him, who in no time at all lay sodden in a corner, his red livery collecting all the dirt from the floor.