The preparations for the
Annual Nocturna Founders Dinner
Had been hectic.
Fortunately,
The final course
Of a memorable
And chaotic evening
Had now been delivered.
Allowing the club’s
Head Chef
To make his way
Out to the canal dock,
Pull up a wooden crate,
Stoke his
Churchwarden pipe,
Close his eyes,
And enjoy
A well-earned
Moment of solitude
And reflect on the day’s events.
It started early
That morning.
Cedric Wintervale himself
Made his way
Through the rain
To collect the ingredients.
Visiting various
Market stalls,
Dimly lit storefronts,
Without any signage,
Selling obscure spices,
Exotic fruits
And vegetables,
Emporiums
That remain invisible
To regular city dwellers.
He had purchased
Three varieties of mushroom,
A crate of Black pears,
Six enormous fennel bulbs,
A sack of purple potatoes,
Two dozen moon oysters,
A pheasant
of questionable temperament,
And something
Wrapped in brown paper
Which the merchant
Refused to identify.
“What is it?”
Cedric had asked.
“An ingredient.”
“Obviously.”
“A very good ingredient.”
“What is it?”
The merchant had leaned closer.
“Best not to ask.”
Cedric had considered
The package.
Then the merchant.
Then the package again.
“Does it require refrigeration?”
“No.”
“Does it bite?”
“Not if cooked properly.”
Cedric had sighed.
“How much?”
By seven o’clock,
The kitchen was already alive.
Copper pans
Hung above the ranges.
Knives flashed.
Water boiled.
Doors opened.
Doors slammed.
Someone shouted.
Someone else
Shouted louder.
And somewhere
Behind the pantry,
Something rolled
Off a shelf
And smashed.
Cedric entered without hurry.
He removed his raincoat.
Hung it neatly.
Adjusted his cuffs.
And surveyed
His brigade.
“Good morning.”
Nobody answered.
Cedric waited.
“Good morning.”
A chorus finally replied.
“Good morning, Chef.”
He looked at the kitchen clock.
“We have eleven hours until service.”
A groan moved through the brigade.
Cedric smiled.
“And therefore, plenty of time.”
His second-in-command
Was Lucien Bellweather,
Sous-Chef de Partie.
A tall, narrow man
With enormous sideburns,
A perpetually worried expression,
And a pocket watch
Which he consulted
Every thirty seconds.
Lucien possessed
A remarkable ability
To remember
Every dish,
Every garnish,
Every cooking time,
And every mistake
Anyone had made
Since 1874.
He approached Cedric with his clipboard.
“Chef.”
“Lucien.”
“We have a problem.”
“We generally do.”
“The pigeon.”
Cedric paused.
“What about the pigeon?”
“It has escaped.”
Cedric considered this.
“From where?”
“The cold room.”
“Why was there a pigeon in the cold room?”
Lucien consulted his notes.
“I believe that is the second problem.”
Cedric nodded.
“Find it.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“And Lucien?”
“Chef?”
“Don’t put it on the menu.”
At the far end of the kitchen,
The Saucier was Bartholomew Snipe.
A magnificent man
With a walrus moustache,
A stained white jacket,
And the unsettling habit
Of tasting sauces
With his finger.
He prepared stocks
With the solemnity
Of an alchemist.
He could identify
A missing ingredient
By smell alone.
He could also identify
A dishonest stock.
“Too much thyme.”
He would say.
“How do you know?”
“The thyme has confessed.”
Nobody argued with Bartholomew.
Especially not the sauces.
The Grillardin
Was Hector Brasswood.
Broad-shouldered,
Red-faced,
And permanently
Covered in flour,
Despite never
Having been assigned
To pastry.
He specialised in roasting,
Braised meats,
Frying,
And generally
Making enormous pieces
Of meat look considerably
More expensive
Than they actually were.
His great pride
Was the Founders’ Roast.
A magnificent herb-crusted saddle
Of venison,
Slowly braised in black ale,
With juniper,
Cloves,
And a reduction of something
Cedric had purchased that morning.
The Poissonnier
Was Miss Prudence Pike.
Cousin of the performing Pike Sisters.
She was small,
Severe,
And possessed
The coldest stare
In the entire brigade.
No one knew
Whether she was
Naturally intimidating
Or had simply
Been disappointed
By too many fish.
She prepared
The Moon Oysters,
River trout,
Smoked eel,
And a magnificent
Silver-scaled fish
Which had arrived that morning
Still looking
Deeply offended.
Prudence held it up.
“It dislikes me.”
Cedric glanced over.
“It is a fish.”
“It knows.”
The Entremetier
Was Ambrose Figg,
A cheerful little man
With round spectacles,
A bald head,
And a waistcoat
Containing enough pencils
To stock a stationery shop.
He managed
The vegetables,
Potatoes,
Egg dishes,
And every other item
Which occupied
The uncertain territory
Between side dish
And culinary necessity.
His speciality
Was buttered purple potatoes
With roasted garlic,
Sage,
And smoked salt.
He was extremely proud
Of them.
No one else
Was permitted
To touch them.
Especially Hector.
“Why?”
Hector once asked.
“Because you burn them.”
“I do not.”
“You set fire to a potato.”
“Once.”
“Three times.”
Below Ambrose was the Potager,
Edwin Mottle.
Edwin was thin,
Quiet,
And permanently
Wrapped in a scarf.
Nobody had ever
Seen him without it.
He prepared soups.
Only soups.
And he took them
Very seriously.
His Founders’ Dinner creation
Was a velvety
Chestnut and mushroom soup,
Finished with cream,
Wild thyme,
And a drizzle
Of black truffle oil.
Edwin tasted it.
Paused.
Tasted it again.
Then whispered,
“Perfect.”
Ambrose looked over.
“Chef hasn’t tasted it.”
Edwin shrugged.
“Chef will agree.”
Cedric passed behind them.
He tasted the soup.
He nodded.
“Perfect.”
Edwin smiled.
The Garde-Manger
Was Miss Octavia Crimp.
She was elegant,
Immaculate,
And terrifyingly organised.
Her station contained
Twenty-seven labelled bowls,
Six silver trays,
Three chopping boards,
And one cucumber
Which nobody was permitted
To move.
She prepared
The cold courses,
Charcuterie,
Salads,
Jellies,
Terrines,
And hors d’oeuvres.
For the Founders’ Dinner,
She had created
A magnificent aspic
Containing quail,
Herbs,
Pickled pear,
And tiny flowers
From the Nocturna gardens.
Madame Tsukishiro
Had supplied the flowers.
Then came the Pâtissier.
Alphonse Pemberwick.
Nobody knew why he wore
A black velvet bowler hat
In the kitchen.
Nobody dared ask.
He was a small,
Round man,
With enormous
White eyebrows
And the delicate hands
Of a watchmaker.
He produced bread,
Pastries,
Tarts,
Meringues,
Chocolate,
And desserts
That appeared to violate
Several known laws of physics.
His final course
Was to be The Midnight Garden.
A black chocolate
And blackberry gâteau,
With sugared violets,
Silver pear,
Vanilla cream,
And a thin glass-like dome
Of caramel.
Designed to resemble
The roof of Nocturna’s conservatory.
Alphonse looked at it.
“Beautiful.”
Cedric looked at it.
“Is it fragile?”
Alphonse nodded.
“Very.”
“Then don’t drop it.”
“I never do.”
From behind them,
Something crashed.
Alphonse closed his eyes.
“That wasn’t mine.”
Finally,
There were the Plongeurs.
The kitchen porters.
The scullions.
The people upon whom
Every grand dinner
Ultimately depended.
They were led by Mrs. Agnes Brindle,
A formidable widow
Who could carry
Three stockpots at once
And had once
Thrown a copper pan
At Hector Brasswood
From twelve feet away.
She missed.
Deliberately.
Hector knew this.
Nobody discussed it.
Her assistant,
Percival “Pip” Rook,
Nephew of attendant Gideon Rook,
Was seventeen,
Permanently damp,
And seemed to possess
An almost supernatural ability
To appear exactly where
Something needed moving.
“Plates!”
Pip would shout.
“Here!”
“Pots!”
“Here!”
“Chef!”
“Here!”
Cedric looked at him.
“I didn’t call you.”
“No, Chef.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I thought you might.”
Cedric nodded.
“Excellent instinct.”
By four o’clock,
The kitchen had become
A battlefield.
Stocks simmered.
Meats roasted.
Vegetables steamed.
Pastry rose.
Fish were filleted.
Sauces reduced.
And the pigeon
Was finally discovered
Inside the linen cupboard.
Lucien stood holding it.
The pigeon stared at Cedric.
Cedric stared at the pigeon.
“Is it ours?”
“No, Chef.”
“Whose is it?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then release it.”
Lucien hesitated.
“Where?”
Cedric looked toward the open window.
“Anywhere but here.”
At six thirty,
The first bells rang.
Guests began arriving.
The Founders’ Dinner was ready.
Almost.
Cedric stood in the centre
Of the kitchen.
He listened.
A strange silence had settled.
The sort of silence
That precedes disaster.
Then Prudence shouted.
“CHEF!”
Cedric turned.
“The fish!”
“What about it?”
“The sauce!”
“What about it?”
“It has split!”
Every cook stopped.
Bartholomew rushed over.
He examined the sauce.
“Butter.”
Hector shouted.
“More cream.”
Ambrose shouted.
“Not cream!”
Alphonse shouted.
“Use a whisk!”
Lucien shouted.
“Service begins in nine minutes!”
Everyone shouted at once.
Cedric remained still.
He walked over.
Looked at the sauce.
Smelled it.
Tasted it.
Then placed
One hand
On Bartholomew’s shoulder.
“Stop.”
The kitchen went silent.
“Nobody add anything.”
Bartholomew blinked.
“Chef?”
“Nothing.”
Cedric removed the saucepan
From the flame.
He waited.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Then he took a clean pan.
Added a little
Of the reduced stock.
Then, very slowly,
Whisked the broken sauce
Back into it.
Drop by drop.
Patiently.
Deliberately.
The sauce changed.
It came together.
Smooth.
Glossy.
Perfect.
Prudence stared.
“How?”
Cedric shrugged.
“Butter is emotional.”
Nobody understood.
Nobody questioned it.
Then came the second catastrophe.
From pastry.
A terrible cracking sound.
Everyone turned.
Alphonse stood frozen.
The caramel dome
Had collapsed.
It lay across
The Midnight Garden
Like the ruins
Of a very expensive greenhouse.
“Chef.”
Cedric approached.
Alphonse looked devastated.
“I’ve ruined it.”
Cedric studied
The broken caramel.
Then looked
At the dessert.
Then smiled.
“Have you?”
Alphonse blinked.
Cedric took
Three shards.
Placed them
Around the gâteau.
“Call it architecture.”
Alphonse stared.
Then smiled.
“Architectural?”
“Victorian.”
Alphonse immediately understood.
Within minutes,
The broken dome had become
A magnificent
Ruined conservatory,
Complete with
Caramel arches,
Chocolate vines,
Sugared flowers,
And blackberry “ivy.”
It looked better than the original.
Alphonse bowed.
“Chef.”
“Yes?”
“You’re a genius.”
“No.”
Cedric returned to the pass.
“I’m patient.”
At seven o’clock,
The doors opened.
The first course
Went out.
Then the second.
Then the soup.
Then the fish.
Then the roast.
Then the vegetables.
Then the cold course.
Then the cheese.
Then the dessert.
One after another,
The plates crossed
The pass.
And vanished into Nocturna.
From somewhere
Beyond the kitchen doors
Came laughter.
Glasses clinked.
Music played.
Someone applauded.
Someone shouted,
“Wonderful!”
Hector looked pleased.
Prudence smiled.
Edwin quietly checked his soup.
Octavia adjusted a garnish.
Alphonse admired his ruined conservatory.
Lucien finally
Stopped looking at his watch.
And Agnes Brindle sat down
For precisely thirty seconds.
Then Pip shouted,
“Pots!”
She stood.
“Back to work.”
Eventually,
The final plate was carried away.
Cedric removed his apron.
The brigade had survived.
Barely.
He looked around his kitchen.
The copper shone.
The fires were low.
The stocks were finished.
The wine had run out.
The pigeon Had disappeared.
Nobody knew where.
Cedric sighed.
“Well done.”
Hector raised a wooden spoon.
“Chef.”
“Yes?”
“Did we lose any ingredients?”
Cedric thought.
“The mysterious package.”
Everyone looked at one another.
“Where did it go?”
Silence.
Then Pip raised one trembling hand.
“Chef?”
“Yes?”
“I may have put it in the pudding.”
Cedric stared at him.
The brigade froze.
“Which pudding?”
“The chocolate one.”
Cedric closed his eyes.
Slowly.
Then opened them.
“Bring me the recipe.”
Pip ran.
Alphonse followed.
Lucien followed Alphonse.
Hector followed Lucien.
Within seconds
The entire brigade
Had vanished.
Cedric remained alone.
He smiled.
Then laughed.
And eventually,
He made his way
Out to the canal dock,
Pulled up a wooden crate,
Stoked his churchwarden pipe,
Closed his eyes,
And listened
To the gentle movement
Of water against the timbers.
Behind him,
Far inside Nocturna,
Someone shouted:
“CHEF!”
Cedric opened one eye.
Another voice answered:
“Don’t bother him!”
Then came a crash.
A shout.
A laugh.
And finally,
The unmistakable sound
Of a saucepan being dropped.
Cedric took one long draw
From his pipe.
As sudden wings fluttered,
And a pigeon
Landed beside him.
