ratatouille, if they have no dairy herds in Mexico?”
As he suspected, such questions precipitated an excruciatingly minute account of the preparations (in order to get the true French flavor of butter, Don Prospero maintained a small herd of Guernseys under constant guard by three vaqueros), which left January in less and less doubt that any portion of the feast could have been poisoned, either in the kitchen or between the kitchen and the
sala
where it was served.
“Don Prospero is a maestro where food is concerned,” effused Guillenormand. “A true connoisseur! Since I have come into this country—I, a student of the great Carème himself!—I have seen such liberties taken with cuisine that it would reduce you to tears, M’sieu, yes, tears!
Okra
in the place of good honest French aubergines!
Beans
served with
poulet à la Reine
! Chocolate in the sauces—faugh! Tortillas—even at the tables of wealthy men, M’sieu,
tortillas
in the place of bread! It would turn an honest Christian’s stomach! Don Prospero is the only man who understands! It is not ready,” the chef added as the wan and wilted Doña Filomena appeared in the kitchen doorway.
By this time January was sitting backwards on a rush-bottomed chair just inside the doorway, while Guillenormand whipped up sugared icings for breakfast pastries and checked the slow steaming of the milk heating for chocolate and
café au lait.
Though the kitchen was of the ramshackle construction of every Mexican
cucina
January had seen so far—he could see daylight between the thatch—it was scrupulously clean, the surfaces around the wide hearth and the bank of stewholes tiled and scrubbed, the pans stacked on shelves, and every utensil laid out exactly where the cook could reach them on starched, embroidered white cloths. Knife-box, spice-boxes, sugar-safe, and coffee-tin all had locks; there were at least four French-style water-filters ranged along a high shelf, their big pottery jars glazed bright blue and yellow, like flowers. The sand-box was huge; January reflected that Don Prospero must bring in sand for scrubbing pots by the ton.
Did he import that, too, from France?
Doña Filomena vanished like a startled blackbird. Guillenormand went back to stirring the cocoa, which presumably had been Valentina’s duenna’s goal.
“Do you have trouble with theft?” asked January with a glance through the kitchen door at the women. “With this many servants coming and going . . .”
“M’sieu, you do not know! I cannot tell you of my sufferings!” Which meant, of course, that the cook could and would, and January put on his most interested expression and leaned forward.
“People in and out of here all the time—Wipe your feet before you come in from the yard, you ignorant donkey!” Guillenormand whirled from the stewhole where he worked, and the unfortunate kitchen-boy shied as if he’d been shot at. “You would think it a backstreet
pulqueria
! And what
indios
want with butter, or white sugar, or white flour, I cannot imagine, but you may believe I keep a close eye on everything that comes in or goes out! Indeed, when there is a great feast, as there was last night, I will order Hinojo to walk with each course across to the
sala
to make sure that those lazy vaqueros who hang about all evening in the courtyard do not pinch the sugar, which they love like children. I am not finished, Madame, and I will send Joaquin to you when I am!”
It was Señora Lorcha in the doorway this time. She put her hands on her hips and snapped, “And how much longer is my daughter to wait for her cocoa, while you stand gossiping with this . . . this upstart
negro,
eh?” She barely threw January a glance. “You think because Don Prospero is a gourmand who fancies he’s too good to live like other people on tortillas and beans that you can dictate to the members of his household?”
“And are you, Madame, accustomed to living upon tortillas and beans?” inquired the cook
As he suspected, such questions precipitated an excruciatingly minute account of the preparations (in order to get the true French flavor of butter, Don Prospero maintained a small herd of Guernseys under constant guard by three vaqueros), which left January in less and less doubt that any portion of the feast could have been poisoned, either in the kitchen or between the kitchen and the
sala
where it was served.
“Don Prospero is a maestro where food is concerned,” effused Guillenormand. “A true connoisseur! Since I have come into this country—I, a student of the great Carème himself!—I have seen such liberties taken with cuisine that it would reduce you to tears, M’sieu, yes, tears!
Okra
in the place of good honest French aubergines!
Beans
served with
poulet à la Reine
! Chocolate in the sauces—faugh! Tortillas—even at the tables of wealthy men, M’sieu,
tortillas
in the place of bread! It would turn an honest Christian’s stomach! Don Prospero is the only man who understands! It is not ready,” the chef added as the wan and wilted Doña Filomena appeared in the kitchen doorway.
By this time January was sitting backwards on a rush-bottomed chair just inside the doorway, while Guillenormand whipped up sugared icings for breakfast pastries and checked the slow steaming of the milk heating for chocolate and
café au lait.
Though the kitchen was of the ramshackle construction of every Mexican
cucina
January had seen so far—he could see daylight between the thatch—it was scrupulously clean, the surfaces around the wide hearth and the bank of stewholes tiled and scrubbed, the pans stacked on shelves, and every utensil laid out exactly where the cook could reach them on starched, embroidered white cloths. Knife-box, spice-boxes, sugar-safe, and coffee-tin all had locks; there were at least four French-style water-filters ranged along a high shelf, their big pottery jars glazed bright blue and yellow, like flowers. The sand-box was huge; January reflected that Don Prospero must bring in sand for scrubbing pots by the ton.
Did he import that, too, from France?
Doña Filomena vanished like a startled blackbird. Guillenormand went back to stirring the cocoa, which presumably had been Valentina’s duenna’s goal.
“Do you have trouble with theft?” asked January with a glance through the kitchen door at the women. “With this many servants coming and going . . .”
“M’sieu, you do not know! I cannot tell you of my sufferings!” Which meant, of course, that the cook could and would, and January put on his most interested expression and leaned forward.
“People in and out of here all the time—Wipe your feet before you come in from the yard, you ignorant donkey!” Guillenormand whirled from the stewhole where he worked, and the unfortunate kitchen-boy shied as if he’d been shot at. “You would think it a backstreet
pulqueria
! And what
indios
want with butter, or white sugar, or white flour, I cannot imagine, but you may believe I keep a close eye on everything that comes in or goes out! Indeed, when there is a great feast, as there was last night, I will order Hinojo to walk with each course across to the
sala
to make sure that those lazy vaqueros who hang about all evening in the courtyard do not pinch the sugar, which they love like children. I am not finished, Madame, and I will send Joaquin to you when I am!”
It was Señora Lorcha in the doorway this time. She put her hands on her hips and snapped, “And how much longer is my daughter to wait for her cocoa, while you stand gossiping with this . . . this upstart
negro,
eh?” She barely threw January a glance. “You think because Don Prospero is a gourmand who fancies he’s too good to live like other people on tortillas and beans that you can dictate to the members of his household?”
“And are you, Madame, accustomed to living upon tortillas and beans?” inquired the cook
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