The Cook by Harry Kressing Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    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