crackers from the kitchen and to make some toast—he had brought along some good paté.
“It’s brisk out tonight,” he went on, slapping his hands together. “And it’s not much warmer in here. Would anyone like some hot buttered rum?” It sounded as if the idea had just occurred to him. “Luckily I brought along plenty of butter,” he laughed when a general smacking of lips and greedy growls of pleasure sounded down the bar. “Gimpy, get the rum bottle!”
It didn’t take long for Shepard’s to get warm, what with the hot drinks and the coal fire, which until Conrad came had been no more than a symbol of possible heat; at his command Nell had heaped it high with fresh coal. “And see that you keep it that way,” he told her. “I’m used to a hot kitchen. If I were a butcher I might be used to a cold storeroom. But this isn’t a place for storing meat.—Now, first we’ll have some hot rum, and then we’ll have some hot beer drinks . . . Gimpy, did you get the spices I asked for yesterday?”
Spirits rose, and the volume of talk and laughter increased with every fresh round of drinks. More people came, and by midnight the place was packed. Some of the newcomers reported that most of the other taverns were deserted. Shepard’s had stolen all of the business. Even the White Door, they said, was empty; and when Conrad heard this he said to the group assembled at his table, “The White Door? Isn’t that where Brogg holds court—hangs out, I mean?”
At the mention of Brogg, the men at the table suddenly became quiet.
Conrad smiled from one to the other. “Did I say a bad word?”
One of the men nodded. “Brogg’s a bad word, all right. He’s bad medicine.”
Conrad raised his glass. “Here’s to Brogg!” He drank off his beer. Two or three of the men sipped theirs, but that was all. “Nell!” Conrad shouted. “More drinks!”
When the drinks came, he said, “Well, I don’t know if Brogg is bad medicine, but I do know he’s a bad cook!” His voice rose. There was laughter and sarcasm in it. The men at the bar stopped their talking and turned around. The other tables grew silent.
“Brogg is a bad—wretched cook! For years now he has been cooking for the Vales. During that time the Vales have grown weak and sickly. Their daughter has blown up to the size of a house. Such is the effect of eating Brogg’s food. But things are changing, and they will continue to change.” He paused and tossed off his beer. Then he called for another round for the entire house. Murmurs of thanks greeted this.
Conrad stood up, thrusting his hands into his back pockets.
“Now,” he continued, his tall black figure dominating the room, “Brogg no longer cooks for Daphne Vale. I cook for her. Has he told you this? I send over every meal to her, because she refuses to eat his cooking. She says Brogg can’t cook. He can’t even cook his own so-called specialties. I cook all of these specialties for her, and I cook them better. Daphne Vale says Brogg’s food makes her sick—I’m sure it does—and he has been forbidden to cook for her any more. All Brogg does now for Daphne Vale is warm up the food I send over. I have reduced the great Brogg to a mere warmer-upper—a warmer-upper of the food Conrad cooks!”
Murmurs of surprise rippled down the bar and over the tables.
“Moreover, the Hills no longer eat at the Vales’. They can’t stand Brogg’s cooking. A week ago I sent some game over to the Vales’ for Brogg to cook when the Hills dined there. But Brogg ruined it and the Hills said, ‘Never again.’ They said the birds were inedible. They said Brogg had done no more with the birds than render them warm and soft—that was what he called cooking! Warm and soft!”
Some of the people began to repeat the words “warm and soft,” and others mouthed “warmer-upper” . . .
“And Mr. and Mrs. Vale,” Conrad pursued, “used to eat at the Hill mansion once a week. Now they eat there
“It’s brisk out tonight,” he went on, slapping his hands together. “And it’s not much warmer in here. Would anyone like some hot buttered rum?” It sounded as if the idea had just occurred to him. “Luckily I brought along plenty of butter,” he laughed when a general smacking of lips and greedy growls of pleasure sounded down the bar. “Gimpy, get the rum bottle!”
It didn’t take long for Shepard’s to get warm, what with the hot drinks and the coal fire, which until Conrad came had been no more than a symbol of possible heat; at his command Nell had heaped it high with fresh coal. “And see that you keep it that way,” he told her. “I’m used to a hot kitchen. If I were a butcher I might be used to a cold storeroom. But this isn’t a place for storing meat.—Now, first we’ll have some hot rum, and then we’ll have some hot beer drinks . . . Gimpy, did you get the spices I asked for yesterday?”
Spirits rose, and the volume of talk and laughter increased with every fresh round of drinks. More people came, and by midnight the place was packed. Some of the newcomers reported that most of the other taverns were deserted. Shepard’s had stolen all of the business. Even the White Door, they said, was empty; and when Conrad heard this he said to the group assembled at his table, “The White Door? Isn’t that where Brogg holds court—hangs out, I mean?”
At the mention of Brogg, the men at the table suddenly became quiet.
Conrad smiled from one to the other. “Did I say a bad word?”
One of the men nodded. “Brogg’s a bad word, all right. He’s bad medicine.”
Conrad raised his glass. “Here’s to Brogg!” He drank off his beer. Two or three of the men sipped theirs, but that was all. “Nell!” Conrad shouted. “More drinks!”
When the drinks came, he said, “Well, I don’t know if Brogg is bad medicine, but I do know he’s a bad cook!” His voice rose. There was laughter and sarcasm in it. The men at the bar stopped their talking and turned around. The other tables grew silent.
“Brogg is a bad—wretched cook! For years now he has been cooking for the Vales. During that time the Vales have grown weak and sickly. Their daughter has blown up to the size of a house. Such is the effect of eating Brogg’s food. But things are changing, and they will continue to change.” He paused and tossed off his beer. Then he called for another round for the entire house. Murmurs of thanks greeted this.
Conrad stood up, thrusting his hands into his back pockets.
“Now,” he continued, his tall black figure dominating the room, “Brogg no longer cooks for Daphne Vale. I cook for her. Has he told you this? I send over every meal to her, because she refuses to eat his cooking. She says Brogg can’t cook. He can’t even cook his own so-called specialties. I cook all of these specialties for her, and I cook them better. Daphne Vale says Brogg’s food makes her sick—I’m sure it does—and he has been forbidden to cook for her any more. All Brogg does now for Daphne Vale is warm up the food I send over. I have reduced the great Brogg to a mere warmer-upper—a warmer-upper of the food Conrad cooks!”
Murmurs of surprise rippled down the bar and over the tables.
“Moreover, the Hills no longer eat at the Vales’. They can’t stand Brogg’s cooking. A week ago I sent some game over to the Vales’ for Brogg to cook when the Hills dined there. But Brogg ruined it and the Hills said, ‘Never again.’ They said the birds were inedible. They said Brogg had done no more with the birds than render them warm and soft—that was what he called cooking! Warm and soft!”
Some of the people began to repeat the words “warm and soft,” and others mouthed “warmer-upper” . . .
“And Mr. and Mrs. Vale,” Conrad pursued, “used to eat at the Hill mansion once a week. Now they eat there
Similar Books
