The Cook by Harry Kressing

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