you’ve actually hired this man? When?”
“Yesterday,” Andrew lied. There was no such man, although there might be someday soon. It was only half a lie. “He’s given notice, but he has to stick it out for two more weeks at the pastry shop. The honor of the French, you know. Then he’ll be here. I’m hustling to get the restaurant in order. They’re installing the equipment that you helped buy, in fact. But it’s still an expensive thing—hiring chefs, buying this and that, stocking the shelves. These foreign chefs want fresh materials. It’s not just a matter of hauling a truckload of canned goods back from the market. I’ve got three different suppliers on the hook—two of them importers. Pickett is drawing up a menu. We’d be grateful to you—Aunt—if you’d give it a look-over when we’ve got it roughed out.”
“I should be glad to,” she said. “It wouldn’t be excessive to say that I’ve had some experience along those lines.”
“I’m certain you have.” Andrew sighed. “I’m afraid the menu won’t be—what?—as
nice
, maybe, as you’re accustomed to.” He cleared his throat. “As I said, the expenses of a hired chef and all …”
She squinted at him. “How much do you want?”
“No, no. That isn’t it at all. Dr. Garibaldi tells me that you’ve got a delicate constitution. That’s all. Under the circumstances a foreign chef isn’t a luxury, is it? That’s what I said to Rose.”
“How much do you want?”
Andrew shook his head, half-sadly, and, hating himself, patted her on the shoulder. “Well,” he said, “not to put too fine a point on it, there’s wages for the man in advance for a month and the price of copper mixing bowls and pots and pans. He won’t have anything less. And he insists on an espresso maker. You won’t argue with that, I’d bet. Would you like a cup now, in fact?”
“Have you already bought it? The espresso maker? I thought you were asking for money for it. Now it’s suddenly in use.”
“No, no, no.” Andrew laughed and slapped his knee theatrically. “I’ve got a small one—one cup at a time. And a milk steamer. For the restaurant we would need something sizeable. I was just thinking that a big cup might go right along with another of these chocolates. Since you press me, though, let’s call it … two thousand. At month’s end I should have a good bit of it back. Rose says we’re almost ready for boarders—by the end of the week, she thinks. I’ve drawn up a placard, and there’s a man coming round to hang it out front, facing the boulevard.” All the talk about getting the money back was perfunctory. Aunt Naomi had never asked for it back, which made Andrew feel guilty, and so he was doubly scrupulous about offering to give it back, even if that were impossible.
Aunt Naomi nodded tiredly and mechanically, and gestured Andrew out of the room.
“I’ll just brew up that coffee,” he said, and went away whistling, down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen. He loved meddling with coffee machinery—grinders, steamers, even thermometers if he were doing the job right. He poured beans into the hand grinder on the wall, cranked the setting to super fine, and smashed out nearly a half-cup of powdered coffee, which he heaped into the coffee trap in the stove-top espresso maker. In minutes, thick, black liquid, dark as sewer sludge but smelling wonderful, was bubbling up out of the depths of the pot, and his milk steamer hissed through the pressure-release hole. He steamed a third of a mug of milk, topped it off with coffee, and then, before dumping in two teaspoons of sugar, he poured the leftover coffee across the copper bottom of a pan in the sink, tilting it this way and that to cover the entire pan bottom. In twenty minutes the copper would shine like a new penny.
Aunt Naomi handed him a check when he set the mug down next to the chocolates. He could tell that she’d been shoving the truffles down while he’d
“Yesterday,” Andrew lied. There was no such man, although there might be someday soon. It was only half a lie. “He’s given notice, but he has to stick it out for two more weeks at the pastry shop. The honor of the French, you know. Then he’ll be here. I’m hustling to get the restaurant in order. They’re installing the equipment that you helped buy, in fact. But it’s still an expensive thing—hiring chefs, buying this and that, stocking the shelves. These foreign chefs want fresh materials. It’s not just a matter of hauling a truckload of canned goods back from the market. I’ve got three different suppliers on the hook—two of them importers. Pickett is drawing up a menu. We’d be grateful to you—Aunt—if you’d give it a look-over when we’ve got it roughed out.”
“I should be glad to,” she said. “It wouldn’t be excessive to say that I’ve had some experience along those lines.”
“I’m certain you have.” Andrew sighed. “I’m afraid the menu won’t be—what?—as
nice
, maybe, as you’re accustomed to.” He cleared his throat. “As I said, the expenses of a hired chef and all …”
She squinted at him. “How much do you want?”
“No, no. That isn’t it at all. Dr. Garibaldi tells me that you’ve got a delicate constitution. That’s all. Under the circumstances a foreign chef isn’t a luxury, is it? That’s what I said to Rose.”
“How much do you want?”
Andrew shook his head, half-sadly, and, hating himself, patted her on the shoulder. “Well,” he said, “not to put too fine a point on it, there’s wages for the man in advance for a month and the price of copper mixing bowls and pots and pans. He won’t have anything less. And he insists on an espresso maker. You won’t argue with that, I’d bet. Would you like a cup now, in fact?”
“Have you already bought it? The espresso maker? I thought you were asking for money for it. Now it’s suddenly in use.”
“No, no, no.” Andrew laughed and slapped his knee theatrically. “I’ve got a small one—one cup at a time. And a milk steamer. For the restaurant we would need something sizeable. I was just thinking that a big cup might go right along with another of these chocolates. Since you press me, though, let’s call it … two thousand. At month’s end I should have a good bit of it back. Rose says we’re almost ready for boarders—by the end of the week, she thinks. I’ve drawn up a placard, and there’s a man coming round to hang it out front, facing the boulevard.” All the talk about getting the money back was perfunctory. Aunt Naomi had never asked for it back, which made Andrew feel guilty, and so he was doubly scrupulous about offering to give it back, even if that were impossible.
Aunt Naomi nodded tiredly and mechanically, and gestured Andrew out of the room.
“I’ll just brew up that coffee,” he said, and went away whistling, down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen. He loved meddling with coffee machinery—grinders, steamers, even thermometers if he were doing the job right. He poured beans into the hand grinder on the wall, cranked the setting to super fine, and smashed out nearly a half-cup of powdered coffee, which he heaped into the coffee trap in the stove-top espresso maker. In minutes, thick, black liquid, dark as sewer sludge but smelling wonderful, was bubbling up out of the depths of the pot, and his milk steamer hissed through the pressure-release hole. He steamed a third of a mug of milk, topped it off with coffee, and then, before dumping in two teaspoons of sugar, he poured the leftover coffee across the copper bottom of a pan in the sink, tilting it this way and that to cover the entire pan bottom. In twenty minutes the copper would shine like a new penny.
Aunt Naomi handed him a check when he set the mug down next to the chocolates. He could tell that she’d been shoving the truffles down while he’d
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