A Cook's Tale
Mirror of "The King's Two Bodies"
Forgive me. I’ve decided it is in my best interest to upload the mirror image of Chapter 6 “The King’s Two Bodies” out of chronological order. This is Chapter 4 “A Cook’s Tale.”
Again, the bold signifies a split in section.
This is the fourth chapter of Views from Vauxhall.
I do hope you enjoy. Cheers.
A Cook’s Tale
A slow drift, a steady advance, a saunter about the road or balance on uneven sidewalk over Collins his Creek sealed.
Branchsprawl, swaying ceiling, a green-gold shimmer. A humid drape over blocks.
Brewton, not the first but likely the oldest remaining on the perpetually shadowed way. Here Baptist Town: Mills-made sanctuary to hold dispute of ceremony by water, rival obelisk towering. Brace of pistols, bullets two, horrendous comedy ending for lovelorn doctor. Dubose—many keen to take his place. Conotocaurius—spent a night burning. Vegetable rot gone for Briggs—what creature they eat is mystery. Meander, north and sway, before house of murmuring confrontation—cast iron man forged his fate, Perilaus enemy of his former and present self. Peer up a latitude oddly named—can’t bring a cart through there, so much deliberation and countenance of the syllogism settled it. Farewell, Theodosia. Turn and take a narrower way. In this heat relief is needed. Sway shadow aplenty. Breeze-course to filter the piled abodes. And more so of all streets north of the old gate, those once walled, it opens up, crosses river rock, curves at the threshold. Day or night, dusk or dawn, never unsightly. Though less agreeable blots have grown in time they fail to overwhelm the materia of Church Street.
Roseate chamber, diadem prepotent, where those sea-tossed parishioners who fled with pneumatic presence under the sails of the insolent Coligny come gather. To the memory of Vallière and all those who fell on the feast day and all those who perished in the many decades following: you had it, but Paris is worth a re-presenting. Neufchâtel and Velangen piloted but Anglican usurped—quand nous sommes au pouvoir, nous la leur refusons. The culmination of a misguided exodus into a fouler land. All keels were steered by that imposing spire, you could not expect to enter here without following it. Serrurier to Smith. Fitting in many more ways than one. Ponder as you pass if we are all pre-destined to fall under this desert.
There was a wind sweeping down the neck, and there was a spark on the northwest corner of Church and Broad. Sound no alarm, make no haste. Sigh your relief, history does not repeat. It was only our cook.
He had walked a long way, from just beyond Line Street, to his favorite café. He had stopped to light a cigarette. It was his first consecutive day off work in months. He did not want to smoke before his meal, but the walk and the previous night’s events required it.
The back of his loose shirt was sticking. In the nearly two years he lived here, no matter how many mornings, afternoons, and evenings spent pacing about, he could never acquire a tolerance. The relentless damp a daily nuisance.
He reserved his place outside by setting his cigarette on the edge of a table. He could finish it while his food was prepared.
This café was a place he had come to enjoy of late. Once or twice a week he came before his shift since it was not far from where he worked. There was only outdoor seating, a few tables arranged in a small courtyard and three others spilling onto the sidewalk. Indoors there were shelves lined with canned goods, bags of sweets, and bottles of wine—the liquor license remained elusive, so one needed to carry out. There was a counter with croissants, quiches, and pastries stashed within on the other side of the glass. On top were heartier selections: a baguette with the owner’s choice of meat, cheese, and condiment was a fixture; there was a revolving option that could one day be a hot dog with elaborate fixings of Swiss, radish, and arugula; or, on another day, a tart. But always there, and his preference, was the croque monsier.
It was in his mind an ideal establishment. A limited selection, a small area to maintain, and all in a popular city. He could see himself opening one such place in thirty years. Maybe twenty. Maybe back in Charlotte, that banker town. Perhaps it would have finally reached the end of its expansion by then, he thought.
It was where he was born and raised, his parents having moved there for work. He wasn’t one for college and instead moved downtown with some friends. They all waited tables, lived in an apartment complex newly raised. He got along with the guys in the back of the house and, after some prompting and deciding this end was the better, he enrolled in culinary classes. For six years he worked at one place, three on the line, before deciding a change of scenery was needed. He went West to Asheville. By then he had dreams of running his own place and making a name—he believed this required moving. After three years in the Blue Ridge mountains, however, he encountered no breaks. Though he became more involved in the creation of menus, though he learned the intricacies of running a kitchen, though he earned a good reputation in the town, though his name was floated to proprietors and investors, none came knocking. This was how it worked, he told himself. He had exhausted all the small town could give him. There was no further he could go there.
Another place, one place a little bigger.
Charleston was just the city, he decided. There he could showcase his range, he could make his own impression within view of all those who mattered. More connections, better recommendations, more publicity, better opportunities. This would be his last city before New York.
His order had been the same for about a month. This streak was interrupted only for a goat cheese and spinach croissant—he thought it too soon for a lunch sandwich that day. The woman behind the counter exchanged pleasantries with him before grabbing a pre-made sandwich from behind the glass. He asked for it to-go—he didn’t like making her serve him on a plate, making extra dishes. A bottle of water completed his order. He paid and tipped well. She went into the back to heat up his food. He walked back out, sat down, and resumed smoking. She delivered the sandwich a few minutes later.
The bread was of good quality; the ham, good; the Swiss cheese was a fine complement. What was most enticing, what kept bringing him back, was the Béchamel sauce laced with truffles.
Of all the sauces mères, this bears the most fruit, so much so that one may be forgiven the mistake of thinking it is the only sauce known to man. What makes it such is the simplicity: butter, flour, and milk. Just make sure the butter is sufficient, lest you fail to cook out that most disagreeable of tastes. She has her sisters Brun, Blanche, Tomatée, and Hollandaise—each with their own fine qualities and variations. But Béchamel is plainer, less stunning, a canvas to be rendered into a rich and textured lather. It can be infused with bulbs or speckled with nutmeg; you could find hints of veal or throw in a cheese of your choice; put in a handful of morels, put it through a sieve, and put them in again. Or sprinkle in those timeless diamonds, lull your senses and then enflame—make no exception with tinned shadows, but we sad souls on this side of Creation must. These are her greatest finery: slip in the truffes when it’s ready. It is not too rich to tire the palate nor stomach. It is smooth and decided in taste. Not too thick, not too thin. It does not overwhelm the others but serves with all the rest. It is even enjoyable when eaten at a table on the sidewalk during a hot, humid day.
“Jonathan! How have you been?”
He was quite sure he had never seen this man standing at the gate of the courtyard with a smile ear to ear before. No name came to mind when his eyes met his nor after he took his whole appearance in. All he knew was that this man was certain of who he was.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not Jonathan.”
A short laugh, a look of being played, “really?”
“Yeah.”
The man stood in disbelief.
“I’m so sorry—you look a lot like someone I grew up with.”
“No worries.”
With his head hanging down, the gentleman proceeded inside to place his order. Our cook went back to eating his sandwich.
It never took more than a few bites to finish, but its contents filled him. The heavy ingredients, though small in portion, sufficed for his light daily diet.
Upon the last bite, our cook finished the only plans he had that day. He sat for a minute pondering his next move. He decided another cigarette would inspire him.
It was one of those rare moments, where the breeze subsides and no traffic passes. There was no conversation about, only light footsteps of a man in a suit walking to his office on Broad. The palmettos did not shake, did not scratch. It was quiet on that old street, perfectly still.
“Hey, I’m sorry again about that,” the gentleman said to our cook, “you look just like him, it’s funny,” he scanned him, “down even to the tattoos. Or at least the pattern, so to speak.”
“Don’t worry about it. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
He carried his boxed lunch off south to Broad. He turned at the corner.
The ash grew long. One arm was propped on the back of the chair, the other laid across the table. His legs were spread wide with his left stretched resting on the heel and the right foot flat.
A roach scurried aimlessly from a bush near him—a strange sight at that hour. He watched. It crawled slowly—then stopped—it sped up—then stopped.
Too close.
He lifted his foot like a piston before slowly, ever so gradually, lowering it with a hungover concentration over the top of the bug. He gave it a twist into the concrete.
He took one last drag before tossing it into the street—his whim the measure of all things. He leaned back in his chair, then muttered as he stared blankly across the scene, “what to do, what to do—what…to…do…”