Vermilion ~ Twenty-Five: Cook

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The head cook of the castle kitchen had been expecting a visit from Master Vermilion at some point during the evening, but not so close to service. Service had, in essence, already started when he chose to grace the kitchen with his presence, and the cook was so unprepared for his entrance that she had to keep assembling the next round of canapés while he was speaking with her.

‘I won’t keep you long,’ he promised, usually the precursor to a long visit, but Master Vermilion could usually be trusted. ‘I only wanted to wish you all well for the evening.’

‘Well, thank you, Master Candlewood,’ she said, pausing a moment to give him a smile as she assembled the salmon flakes on their cucumber rounds. ‘I only wish I could spare you a moment longer.’

‘No, please, it’s on my account that you’re being set to all this work, and I thank you all deeply for it. Incidentally,’ he added, far too casually, ‘I notice you have a blossoming young love in your scullery.’

The cook glanced up once more back to her scullery. The boy she had seen talking with her scullery girl at luncheon that day was with her again. The girl was still doing her work, though, and it wasn’t for her to chase the visiting servants of their guests. She had quite enough of her own staff to wrangle down here.

‘I’d noticed,’ she acknowledged, keeping her disapproval from her words and just focusing on getting the sprig of dill to look just right.

The young master shrugged and fed his hands into his pockets. ‘It was my thought to give the girl a few hours off this week. I think I have the perfect candidates to take her load for a couple of hours. The boy is only here this week, after all.’

‘If you think it wise, sir,’ she replied absently. ‘As long as my dishes get washed, I don’t mind what they do with their time.’

‘Settled, then. My thanks, once again.’

She spared him one more glance and a smile before he snatched one of the rounds of cucumber and salmon flakes.

The cook could only raise an eyebrow at him and keep a lid on her irritation. They were going upstairs for him and his guests as soon as the wait staff returned with their empty trays, anyway, and he was the castle’s heir. She could hardly raise her voice at him.

He nodded his appreciation as he chewed on the morsel. ‘Magnificent cream,’ he drawled. ‘My apologies, but they truly are too good to resist. I’d best be up, then. Thank you for all your hard work, to you and all the kitchen staff. You are true artists.’

The cook gave him a more genuine smile at that praise. ‘Well, thank you, Master Candlewood.’

He gave her a polite nod that was halfway to being a bow and strode back out of the kitchens.

With the only foreseen interruption of the evening gone, the cook felt her shoulders relax just for a moment. The stresses of the kitchen were far more her domain.

She finished garnishing the last of the cucumber and salmon rounds and called one of her kitchen hands over to arrange them on the silver tray set aside for them, just as the first of the wait staff returned with the first empty tray.

Moments before the last tray came back down, a knock at the back door revealed two of the children from the bakery, both grinning and panting, each carrying a huge wooden box filled with rolls and steaming fresh loaves for the evening.

‘Perfect,’ the cook said with a relieved grin. So much of being a cook, she firmly believed, was not so much being able to cook, but being able to have everything ready when it was required. She handed the children the set-aside coin for the bread, and another copper for each of them and their family members, ‘For having it ready to within heartbeats of the master needing it.’

The children grinned, thanked the cook with a bow, and ran back home.

‘Is it true, Cook?’

She looked up from selecting the best of the rolls. The scullery girl had abandoned her duties and now stood wringing her hands in front of her.

‘Is what true? Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I just had to know,’ she said with an apologetic bow. ‘Are you giving me the day off?’

The cook barked a laugh that briefly drew the attention of the nearby kitchen staff. ‘Not the day, no! But you’ll have Master Vermilion to thank for a few hours off this week. So you’d best put in some backbreaking work to make it up.’

The girl beamed and bowed as deeply as a lord deserved. ‘Thank you, Cook, oh, thank you so very much!’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure. Now, off with you!’

‘They’re moving through,’ one of the wait staff called, snapping the cook back to attention.

‘Right!’ she snapped over the chaos of the kitchen. ‘Pastries, here! Asparagus and beans! Is that hollandaise ready?’

‘Yes, Cook!’

‘Good, get it in the jugs. You, rolls in the bread baskets, go!’

The kitchen rolled on. Up went the creamy celeriac soup with roasted chestnuts and the sourdough bread loaves, the palette cleanser of tart citrus and champagne jelly, all of it carefully designed to celebrate the glorious autumn flavours that Candlewood was going to become famous for.

Master Vermilion had sat down with the cook months ago to organise this menu, using the very best of what their town had to offer and not daring to order anything at all from outside sources. It was then that he had confided his purpose for the evening, that he wanted to make it a regular event and bring more and more people to Candlewood, but the cook had seen something more in his eyes that day. He was proud of his town and its people, for certain, and nobody could deny how he loved to show it off to the world, but his attention to detail that day had spoken of a more personal touch.

The cook had said nothing then, not sure if her mind may have been playing tricks on her, but as the event planning had drawn ever onward, it became clear to the staff that there was definitely more to this celebration than a mere desire to show off.

She smiled and shook her head in memory of that day, watching as Master Vermilion’s agonised-over menu finally came to fruition. Upstairs, she knew, each course would be spoken of for at least half the time it was being eaten. Doubtless Mater Vermilion would be taking the corner of credit he was due with all his good graces, but would he be admitting yet that all this was for one person?

It occurred to her then that the castle would be meeting its heir’s new wife sometime this week, possibly even tonight. This meal was, in no small part, his offer for a courtship.

As the cleanser glasses were returned by the wait staff, the cook snatched a paper list from the hook by the grills. The filet mignons would be cooked over open fire tonight and, though it pained her to see it, there were a number of guests who preferred to cook their beef to the texture of boot leather. Rare was the only way to do a steak of such quality, as she saw it, maybe push it to medium-rare, but well-done was just killing the poor creature.

This had been the major point of contention for the menu. The cook had insisted that a fillet, of all cuts, could not be well done, or she might as well serve rump. Master Vermilion had insisted, just as strongly, that the guests were the ones to be eating the steaks at the end of it, and they were the ones who needed to be kept happy. Regardless, he added sympathetically, of the fact that they were indeed doing it wrong.

And thus, the list had been compiled, with the preferences gleaned from the servants of all the attending nobility.

The cook glared at the list for a moment. She was halfway tempted to throw the list on the coals and just cook them how they should be cooked. She respected the young heir too much to put something on the plate she wasn’t proud of, and yet he had asked this specifically of her.

With a sigh, she placed the first four, well-done steaks onto the grill, hands on her hips as she glared accusingly at them. Then she sighed and shook her head. It wasn’t the cow’s fault.

Several minutes later, the medium-well steaks went on, then into more familiar territory with the medium. Finally it was time to turn the well-dones.

‘Poor cow,’ she murmured. ‘I hope you weren’t the filets we pilfered from the poor farmer and his kids.’ She shook her head and called out again to her staff. ‘Veggies out of the oven now, and get the greens steaming! Salads should be getting dressing, plates out of the oven and ready by me. Now, get to it!’

‘Yes, cook!’ came the chorused reply.

She quickly flicked the rare steaks onto the grill, more than half the guests, she was glad to note, and started turning the first of them the moment she had placed the last on. She flicked her paper over to show the seating plan upstairs, each chair labelled with how they liked their steak done, then began setting the filets onto their plates.

‘Sauces in jugs, greens in tureens, go!’

‘Yes, cook!’

The wait staff were already lined up beside her, openly salivating over the lines of steak. They did smell magnificent, she admitted with a smug smile to herself.

‘Starting with Lady Candlewood,’ she instructed, pointing at her table map and running her finger around. ‘Thank you, ladies and gents, off you go! Just dessert and cheese after this, people! Perfection is a way of life, not a destination, keep it up!’

‘Yes, cook!’