The Cook (8 page)

20

Harold had read Conrad’s books on wild birds and then, very diffidently, he asked Conrad if he would teach him how to prepare grouse. Conrad said he would, but the matter wasn’t mentioned again till one day Conrad said he was going to fix grouse for the family and reminded Harold of his request. Thus, Harold got his first formal cooking lesson.

Harold was extremely pleased. He asked many intelligent questions and did everything Conrad told him. Conrad was an excellent teacher, and in effect, Harold prepared the grouse while Conrad supervised.

During occasional respites from the actual work their talk wandered to diverse subjects. They talked about Daphne losing weight, and about Ester gaining weight—the latter circumstance, though evident to all even before the scale had been installed, was never alluded to by Mrs. Hill. Perhaps it didn’t disturb her, or perhaps she thought it would upset Conrad if she mentioned it, as if it were the sole black mark on his otherwise perfect record. Or so Conrad had thought. But Harold offered another interpretation.

“I suppose you know,” he said, in a slightly confidential voice, “that Ester has a boy friend—Lance Brown. The rumors of it are all over Cobb.”

Conrad said he had heard.

“Well, Mother has heard it too, and she and Ester had quite a row; Father doesn’t know yet. But Mother can’t do anything with Ester—she continues to see him. There’s nothing really wrong with the boy. It’s just that he has a bad reputation, and his family . . .”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Conrad helped him out.

Harold went on after a slight pause, “This may sound crazy, but I think Mother hopes that if Ester gets too fat—well, that Lance Brown will give her up. Rather,” he explained in some embarrassment, “like Daphne’s case . . .”

As Harold continued to look perturbed, Conrad told him he had better stir his sauce, and be sure to scrape the bottom of the pan very hard: “It’s those little brown-black particles adhering to the bottom that really matter,” he explained; “without them the sauce would be nothing.”

Harold stirred vigorously.

“And how is your weight coming?” Conrad asked idly as he went about the business of preparing Daphne’s dinner, which was always different from the family’s.

“If I ate lunch,” Harold said, “I would probably gain.”

Conrad laughed. “Harold, that’s not the reason you don’t eat lunch. You can’t stand the food at the Prominence Inn any more, and you think I have enough work as it is without fixing a special lunch for you.”

Harold looked up from his stirring and nodded.

Conrad laughed again. “But you know, Harold, Charles is really a very good cook. It’s the people he cooks for—they’re used to eating that kind of food.”

“I don’t know, Conrad. Some of that stuff Charles turns out for lunch—”

“Yes, but that’s lunch for everybody else. He must cook that way for them. But he doesn’t cook that way for me.—Listen, to prove my point: would you care to have dinner there with me when Charles cooks something special? Then you will see what I mean.”

Harold looked at Conrad in wonderment. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But I’ve heard the way you dine,” Harold demurred. “They say course after course . . . unheard-of dishes . . . and all sorts of wines and liqueurs—with extraordinary china and silver you’ve had specially sent from the City . . .”

“They exaggerate. I have a friend there who has allowed me their use.”

“And all the waiters hovering around you . . .”

“Only four.”

“And they say the food alone costs a fortune—”

Conrad laughed. “Not true, Harold. You’ve heard rumors, just rumors—it’s really all rather simple. But the food is good.”

It was Harold’s turn to laugh. “I’m still not convinced! When I hear how you eat there, I always tell myself that you do all the cooking yourself and then have Charles and the waiters serve you your own food. Or perhaps you let Charles warm up a few things. Anyway, Conrad, my palate isn’t refined enough for such dining. I fear the food would be wasted on me.”

“Nonsense. Your palate is quite subtle. And if it’s not discriminating enough, there’s only one way to improve it—taste.”

Harold still protested that the food would be wasted on him, but after a little more persuasion he at last agreed, and the Tuesday following the next was decided upon.

It was probably Harold’s appreciation of Conrad’s confidence that prompted him, later the same evening, to invite Conrad for a visit to the Prominence. The two of them were doing a little cleaning up in the kitchen—Harold’s grouse dinner had been a great success; he had, however, made Conrad promise to tell no one of his hand in it—and the talk had turned to kitchens: Conrad said some kitchens were pleasant to cook in, and others impossible, for various reasons. Some were too big, others too cramped. Some too light, others too dark. Others were poorly ventilated. Still others were laid out abominably: sinks here, stoves there, racks there, coolers here, cupboards there, workplaces there—all in one perverse composition.

Harold was listening attentively, a very pleased look on his face because of his success with the grouse.

“I’ve only been in one other kitchen besides this one,” Harold said; “the one at the Prominence. It’s enormous; I would never have imagined such a kitchen existed. And it’s so elaborate—I suppose by any standards.”

Conrad stopped what he was doing, and his large black eyes were suddenly bright with interest. Perhaps it was this sudden attention which caused Harold to break off.

“I don’t suppose I should be telling
you
about kitchens,” he apologized awkwardly. “You know more about them than I ever will . . .”

“On the contrary,” Conrad assured him. “Tell me more. Tell me all about it.” And he sat down on his stool and folded his arms, prepared to listen.

But Harold just grew more confused. “I really don’t know how to describe it. It’s extremely big, and full of all sorts of copper things—sinks, drainboards, pots and pans . . .” He broke off, and as Conrad waited for him to resume his description, a light began to shine in Harold’s sensitive eyes. “I tell you what, Conrad!” he exclaimed. “I have an idea: why don’t we go up there? Rather than have me describe it—which I can’t do anyway—I’ll take you up there for a visit. You can look at the kitchen and see for yourself. And while we’re there I’ll show you the entire place. I’m sure you’d like it—it’s something right out of the past. It’s unbelievable . . . there are rooms enough for hundreds of people—which probably explains the size of the kitchen: it’s big enough to prepare food for a small army—even when I think of the stories I’ve read about the way the old landed gentry used to eat . . . hundreds of years ago . . .”

But even while Harold was talking so enthusiastically, Conrad began shaking his head. Possibly Harold at first thought Conrad was shaking his head in disbelief, but as Conrad continued the negative movements, Harold at last realized his words were not getting a favorable reception.

“No,” Conrad told him, “I do not want to pay a visit to the Prominence. No visit, Harold . . .”

The night was cold and clear. The snow was about a foot deep.

Conrad walked around the side of the house, the three dogs following him.

In the cold clear moonlight the Prominence rose command-ingly from the plateau. It was a thing out of the past.

No, he repeated to himself as he stared at the looming Prominence, he did not wish to pay a visit to its kitchen.

Never, he thought. He shivered in the cold, and with one last look at the ancient structure he turned toward his room.

21

Late one night Conrad wrote a letter to a gentleman in the City—a well-known gentleman; one of the persons, in fact, who had given him a character reference for his present employment—a man whom Mr. Hill, when he saw the signature, had said he himself would feel honored to know. Well, he was going to be given his chance, because Conrad was writing to confirm a date he had suggested for dinner in Cobb, at the Prominence Inn. Naturally the day would be Tuesday. Harold would be there and so would Mr. Hill, as Harold’s guest. Harold had invited him. It had come about in this way:

Harold dined with Conrad on the Tuesday they had appointed, and he was so overwhelmed by the setting in the private dining room and by the transformation of Conrad that he scarcely said a word throughout the entire dinner.

Conrad—or “Mr. Conrad,” as Charles and the waiters called him—did all the talking, from the moment Harold walked into the dining room and received a welcome from what was evidently a king sitting at the head of a long, candle-lit table.

Checking a movement to bow, Harold sat down.

The food was excellent. Conrad explained the history, so far as it was known, of all the dishes: their antiquity, their place of origin, their creators and whom they were created for. He also had what was evidently a bottomless fund of anecdotes concerning the dishes: the failures, the successes, the reactions they inspired in people first savoring them. Dish after dish came, and Conrad would ask Harold if he was interested in learning any of their secrets. Harold’s eyes lit up with eagerness greater than mere curiosity, and Conrad proceeded to detail for him the exact preparations and techniques involved. Moreover, he said that if Harold was interested, he could teach him how to make every dish they were having.

Harold stopped eating for a moment. “If I’m interested . . .” he murmured, as if his interest could but be taken for granted. “Of course I’m interested . . .”

Conrad laughed pleasantly, and said well then, he would be able to prepare a dinner like that before he knew it—and the young man murmured his thanks . . .

Harold ate until he was stuffed, but good as the dishes were he could not possibly eat all that was set before him, and he watched with unbelieving eyes while Conrad ate and ate, possibly four times the amount he had consumed, yet with no appearance of becoming the least bit satiated.

And when they had at last finished, Conrad said, “I won’t invite you at this moment to dine with me next week, Harold. I fear you are too full, and you probably feel certain you will never eat again. That feeling will pass, of course. When it does, then I will issue the invitation.”

Harold dined the following Tuesday with Conrad, and every Tuesday of the next month. During the week he would spend as much time in the kitchen as possible, watching Conrad and listening to him explain various culinary procedures. Whenever Conrad entrusted him to perform some minor operation, he bent all of his effort and attention to it. He was also reading more of Conrad’s books, carrying them surreptitiously to the mill in the morning.

One Tuesday night, when they had finished eating and were sipping their final liqueur, Conrad—following a momentary lull in his flow of talk—casually mentioned he was thinking of having a friend down from the City to dine with them.

“He’s a close friend of mine,” he continued; “we have shared many excellent repasts. Mr. Bayard is a fine gourmet and a charming companion at the dinner table.”

Harold, who was just raising the needle-stemmed liqueur glass to his lips, replaced it with great care on the table.

“
The
Mr. Bayard?” he asked quietly and with great respect.

“Yes. We’ve known each other a very long time; in fact, he gave me a character reference when I came to Cobb. He thought it very amusing that
he
should be giving
me
a character reference!” Conrad laughed gaily at this. “Perhaps your father would like to meet Mr. Bayard?”

Harold was still unable to adjust to the familiar interjection of such a great name into the conversation, much less to the assertion that such a figure would soon descend into their midst for a dinner, and it was several seconds before he was able to nod a mute assent.

“Well, if you think he would,” Conrad went on; “invite him. He will be your guest. You and I will be sort of joint hosts for the occasion; I will confirm the date.”

Harold was still reacting inwardly to Conrad’s mention of his friend and could do little more than express his thanks; but the next morning he came into the kitchen before he left for the mill and told Conrad of the effect his offer had had on his father.

“Father wouldn’t believe me!” he laughed. “He thought I was just joking. And then, after I had convinced him I was serious, he began to raise objections: he wasn’t used to dining with such people. He was just a simple man, born and raised in Cobb, and wouldn’t know how to behave in the presence of such a figure from the City . . . and more of the same. But I told him not to worry . . . that it would be a very pleasant and simple dinner. Nothing more—” Harold laughed mischievously. “Conrad, I wouldn’t dare tell him what it will really be like. If he knew how elaborate your dining room is . . . he thinks it’s just the way it was when he was last there, years ago—”

Before Harold left the kitchen he took three cook books out of one of the cupboards. “I’m comparing them as I go along,” he said, “just as you told me to.”

That morning was an awkward time for Mr. Hill. He lingered over breakfast so long—drinking extra cups of coffee and nibbling at the little tid-bits Conrad sent Betsy in with every so often—that it was soon too near the lunch hour to leave for the mill. No doubt he had stayed on deliberately: he would have to say something to Conrad sooner or later, and he might just as well get it over with. His opportunity came at lunch, when Conrad decided to serve, along with Betsy.

Mr. and Mrs. Hill and Daphne were seated in a semicircle at the table. Ester wasn’t there.

Conrad set Daphne’s special lunch in front of her, acknowledging with a curt nod the look of heartfelt appreciation in the stout girl’s eyes. He then turned to Mr. Hill, who kept his eyes fixed on his plate, saying nothing—which was unusual. When he stayed for lunch Mr. Hill would make some kind of joke about his presence, usually attributing it to the seductive quality of Conrad’s coffee and tid-bits. “The kitchen has become an alchemist’s shop,” he would laugh.

Conrad quietly gave the name of the soup they were having, and left.

When he returned the second time Mr. Hill still could not meet his eyes. Nor the third—Mr. Hill stared either straight before him or down at his plate.

But on Conrad’s fourth trip Mr. Hill, doubtless fortified in mind, body and soul by the delicious food he’d been eating, cleared his throat and said, “Harold tells me you’re having a friend down from the City . . .”

Conrad looked down at Mr. Hill.

“Yes. Mr. Bayard. We’re having dinner.”

“Yes. Harold said that was the gentleman.”

“If you would care to meet him . . .”

Mr. Hill waited in vain for Conrad to complete his sentence.

“Harold said . . .” Mr. Hill began, and then hesitated, still looking at Conrad, as if he were expecting him to repeat the invitation. But Conrad merely continued to look down at him in silence. If Mr. Hill had anything to say he would have to say it, and in the momentary silence the invitation to dine with Mr. Bayard and Conrad took on a different complexion: Mr. Hill would have to ask if he might join them.

“I should like to meet him,” Mr. Hill said at last, in a very friendly way.

Conrad nodded curtly.

“Good. Then we shall dine together.”

That afternoon, when Conrad went shopping, he gave the pro-visioner of canned goods a long list of things he wanted ordered from the City. Then he met Paul at Shepard’s and told him to find the fishermen: “The Vales are coming over, and I want Harold to practice a sauce.”

Harold was sitting in a chair, an open cook book in his lap.

Conrad was lying stretched out on his bed. His tall chef’s hat was still on, half crushed beneath his head.

“Now listen carefully,” Conrad began. “It’s all in the blending . . .”

For half an hour Conrad explained the preparation of the sauce while Harold listened with an aspect of complete absorption, his brow slightly furrowed and his gaze completely steady. It was an expression which no one else had ever seen him assume, and which would have surprised him had he been able to observe it. But it only came over his face when Conrad was talking about cooking, when he was doing something in the kitchen to assist Conrad, and when he was reading the cook books. On all other occasions he wore the same dreamy, sensitive expression which Conrad had noted upon first seeing him.

Harold asked a few questions after Conrad had finished, and then inquired as to what time Conrad thought he should begin.

“Right after lunch, no later. That way you will have time for three attempts, should something go wrong. Can you get away from the mill?”

“Yes, I’ll just leave. Father will have to stay. He won’t like it, I know; I suppose you’ve noticed that he doesn’t stay at the mill any more on Saturday afternoons?”

Conrad said he was aware of that: “Nor does he ever go on Sundays.”

“No, he doesn’t.—It’s funny,” Harold continued after a moment, his usual dreamy expression replacing his look of studied concentration, “very funny about Father. He used to love the mill. He used to love going there—not that he really had to. It’s so well organized that he has little more to do than watch it in operation. But it gave him something to do, something to build his day around. But he has been changing—just within the last few months. He no longer likes to go there. And sometimes he doesn’t get there until the afternoon. And then when he does get there I have the feeling that he would like to leave and come back here. I haven’t talked to him about it, but I think he would rather stay home all the time. You’ve noticed that he never goes out any more in the evening. And he used to dine out at least twice a week, either at the Vales’ or at the Prominence Inn . . .” Harold trailed off in an abstracted way.

From the way he was talking he did not seem worried about his father’s health or state of mind.

“I’m sure he’s in excellent health,” Conrad said, reading Harold’s thoughts.

“Oh, I’m sure he is too,” Harold agreed. “It’s just strange that—I wonder why the dogs are kicking up such a fuss?”

The sound of furious barking had suddenly erupted in the night.