The Chef's Story

"I do appreciate your stopping by to see me," the most famous chef in the world said to the most beautiful girl his appreciative eyes had ever seen. He sat in his wheelchair in a shaded corner of his garden in the south of France while his sister strolled nearby, snipping off faded roses.

Normally, the 87-year-old man didn't receive visitors. But, a few minutes before, he'd glanced out a window and seen a fantastically pretty girl come to his door. He heard her tell his sister that she was an American and was both a student of food and a tremendous admirer of the greatest chef in the world and wanted only a brief interview with him. His sister said he never saw anyone and was about to shut the door when he wheeled himself up beside her and invited the girl in.

Now they were out in the garden. "Are you, perhaps, a star of the cinema?" (continued on page 134)The Chef's Story(continued from page 131) the old man asked her and admired her hair and her face and her eyes and her lips and her 19-year-old body, with its firm breasts and long, tanned legs.

She blushed and said she wasn't. She told him she was studying cooking in Paris at the Cordon Bleu but was now on vacation. She said that her mother was a food editor and that she, too, planned a career of writing about food.

As she chattered on melodiously, the chef tried to think of which beautiful girl she reminded him. Was it that dancer from Brussels for whom he had created Sauce Nanette? Was it the blonde Danish enchantress in whose honor he had invented Pêches Alexandra? Or was it the married soprano with whom he'd had the most secret of affairs and whose dish had to be named simply Bombe Mysteérieuse?

The most beautiful one of them all said she hoped to write a little article about her visit today with the greatest chef in the world. If the piece were interesting enough, it would be her entree into the food-writing world.

The old man sighed, sincerely unhappy. "Oh, dear. I do wish I could help you. But I have written four cookbooks, in which I gave away every one of my recipes and all my cooking secrets. Also, I've written two volumes of memoirs, into which I threw every story, every anecdote, everything of the slightest interest that happened to me when I was in charge of great kitchens, in Paris and London and New York. So I'm afraid there is nothing left of interest that I can give you for your article."

The girl smiled. "They say at the Cordon Bleu that your great creations as a chef were always inspired by beautiful women whom you loved. Is this true?"

The old man laughed and thought of Omelette Marcia and Quenelles Marguerite and Stuffed Duckling Patricia and Roast Pheasant à la Marie Louise.

"I deny this," he said. "These women have children and grandchildren. I refuse to give you permission to write about this aspect of my life."

"Very well," the girl said. "But surely I can write about you as you are now, in this lovely house and garden."

"No!" the chef said severely. "I will not be written about as I am now. I refuse to be described as a half-paralyzed, withered old man in a wheelchair, forbidden by his doctor to eat anything more than pap and pabulum."

"All right. I won't write about you at all."

The old man seemed to shrink in his chair. "You won't write about me at all?"

The sister walked over and said, "I'm afraid it's time for my brother's afternoon nap."

The girl rose and took his hand. "It was a great honor to meet you. Thank you, and goodbye."

As the most beautiful one of them all turned to leave, the old man said suddenly, "No. Wait. Come back. Sit down." She did. "I have just remembered something. A little story about myself, which you can use in your article about me. I have never told it before, because--well, for one thing, it's rather a shocking story and I am still ashamed of my part in it."

"What story is this?" his sister asked curiously.

"You will remember it. You were there at the time."

• • •

I was only 17, but I'd already been working in kitchens for five years and I was then the assistant sauce chef in a famous restaurant in a little town called Choron, which is a short distance from Lyons. Our cuisine was so very good that great people came from all over to partake of it.

Even at 17, I was a fine sauce chef. My Hollandaise and my Béarnaise and my Périgueux were nearly as perfect as those of my immediate superior, the head sauce chef, who, however, at that time had taken a mad fancy to a Turkish belly dancer and followed her up to Paris. In his absence, I was in charge. Think of it! A lad my age making sauces for dukes and princes and millionaires!

At that time, I had no great ambitions. I knew that in time I would work my way up to head chef of a local restaurant like this one. That seemed a perfectly good life to me; I didn't wish for anything further.

My head chef was a wildly temperamental old man of integrity and skill. Over him ranked the restaurant's owner and proprietor, le patron, who was almost as temperamental as his chef.

In that restaurant we had one continuing problem, in the person of a regular customer. His name was Maugron and he was rich and important in the community. But he was a frightful fellow--a goujat, a lout. He'd come in about once a week, bringing one or more disreputable women with him, and he would be loud and obnoxious and he would throw his weight about and make scenes. My sister worked in the restaurant, too--in charge of coats and wraps. She was young and pretty and this monster Maugron would try to flirt with her, but of course she refused even to return his smiles.

Le patron wished somehow to get rid of this man, but he didn't have the courage to order him out forever until he had done something inexcusable, which Maugron never quite did. Being young and devilish, I once suggested that the simplest way to get rid of Maugron would be to cook a series of not-so-good meals for him. But the chef said he would die rather than cook a bad meal and le patron said he would rather be drawn and quartered before he deliberately let a second-rate dinner enter his dining room.

One evening, however, I was busy with my sauces when le patron came into the kitchen in a rage and shouted at the chef, "I have had it! Maugron is here again, and he's been drinking, and he has three terrible women with him, and he's celebrating some big business deal, and he's flown into a fury because asparagus is not in season, and the fact that we have no pheasant has thrown him into a frenzy. He is being completely unreasonable!"

My chef was infected by le patron's anger and he shouted, "Throw him out! Toss the bastard out of here! Tell him I refuse to cook for him! Put the responsibility on me!"

Le patron said sadly, "I can't. I know I should have ordered him out years ago. But since I didn't do it then, I can't do it now. Besides, Maugron hasn't really done anything yet except order a large dinner for four." Le patron paused, fearing the chef's reaction, and then said, "In addition, Maugron feels so self-important tonight that he wishes a new sauce to be created for him, to be served with the broiled filets mignons he has ordered."

"A new sauce!?" the chef screamed. "A new sauce!? May I ask what is the matter with the hundred and ten steak sauces that I and this young man can make for him?" The chef grabbed an enormous chopping knife. "I will take care of this monstrous man myself!" he shouted.

It took the combined strength of both le patron and me to restrain and disarm the chef. Now, as he breathed heavily and muttered, "A new sauce, enh?" it was le patron's turn to lose his temper.

"I will not have this! I am trying to run a restaurant, not a lunatic asylum! I have enough problems out there"--he pointed to the dining-room door--"without having an idiot going crazy in here!"

"An idiot, am I?" the chef shouted.

I stepped between them and said, "I'd like to make a suggestion to you gentlemen. Or, rather, two suggestions. The first is that I add a little curry powder and mustard and tomato paste to a Sauce Bearnaise. We will call it Sauce Maugron. A new creation. It will not be a bad steak sauce and Maugron will be pleased with it."

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"I do not wish him to be pleased with it!" le patron said. "I would like this man out of my restaurant for all time!"

"You have not yet heard my second suggestion."

"Which is what?" the chef asked.

"Let me create for Maugron the most terrible sauce ever made. He will--"

"No!" the chef shouted. "I will not allow such a sauce out of my kitchen!"

"Oh, be silent!" le patron shouted. Of me, he asked, "He will... what?"

"He will be so repelled by Sauce Maugron that he will fly into a rage and scream that he has been deliberately insulted, and he will say that he'll never come here to eat again and you will be rid of him forever."

"No!" the chef cried. "I won't allow this! It will demean us as chefs!"

"Be quiet!" le patron said to the chef. "I am in charge of this restaurant. This is purely the business of this young man and myself! Go away!"

The chef stalked off and le patron said confidentially to me, "Yes. Do it! Make this sauce! I will take full responsibility! I will stand behind you! Do it! However, put nothing in this sauce that is foul or rotten. I don't wish the man in a hospital, filing a lawsuit against me. Now--what kind of sauce do you intend to make?"

"I don't know yet, sir," I said. "How much time do I have?"

"Maugron has ordered soup and then escargots and then the steaks. Fifteen minutes."

Le patron walked off, leaving me alone with my problem. For five years, I'd been learning how to make my sauces better and better. Now I'd given myself the task of concocting a sauce so terrible that it would disgust anyone who tasted it. How to begin? I didn't know at first. However, during my learning years, I had made many mistakes. Now I decided to capitalize on them.

I took some good olive oil and poured far too much of it into a saucepan on my fire and then I took four cloves of garlic and cut them up coarsely and threw the bits into the smoking oil and let them burn. There is nothing that will ruin any sauce more than the flavor of burnt garlic--unless it is the bitter taste of scorched onion. So I tossed in a sliced onion, too, and when these had turned black, I threw in a chopped tomato. I realized that my sauce needed some body, so I added a cup of ordinary brown sauce and a few tablespoons of flour, which I let cook into lumps. While this mess was bubbling away, I looked about for other ingredients and found and added quite a bit of curry powder and some cinnamon and just a touch of ginger. I then poured in half a cup of port and added three egg yolks beaten into a cup of heavy cream. I turned up my flame and the whole began to curdle terribly.

While this obnoxious mixture was boiling and reducing itself, my chef wandered over and looked and sniffed and held his nose and exclaimed, "Oh, my dear God! Oh, how low can a chef sink?"

"I am merely carrying out the orders of le patron."

"Well," the chef said, "I hope you will at least have the decency to strain this mess."

"Oh, certainly," I said. "I intend to strain out the tomato skins and some of the larger curds and lumps of flour."

"Oh, my dear Lord, but this is terrible!" The chef covered his face as he walked away. "Terrible!"

Le patron walked in and up to me and asked, "How is the Sauce Maugron coming?"

"Well," I said, "I feel that it still needs something." I walked over to the dessert center and got a half cup of caramel sauce and, while coming back with it, I passed the salad counter and got a quarter cup of pickle relish, and these went into the sauce.

Watching and smelling, le patron looked a trifle sick. "Had you thought of maraschino cherries?"

"Oh, of course," I said. "But they go in last, as a kind of garniture, along with the anchovies and the chives."

"I just had a thought," le patron said. "What if Maugron becomes so drunk that he doesn't notice?"

"Trust me," I said. "Not a chance. This sauce would disgust a man three days dead."

"When will it be ready? The steaks are under the broiler."

"In one minute." I stirred my sauce once or twice and let the olive oil rise to the top, and then strained the sauce through a coarse sieve into a large silver sauceboat and garnished it with chopped maraschinos and anchovy fillets and finely minced chives. Putting the sauceboat onto a silver platter, I walked over and presented it to my chef. "Here you are. Sauce Maugron. The most terrible sauce ever created by the hand of man."

"I refuse even to look at it!" the chef said, turning away.

"I will take it," said le patron. "And I congratulate you, young man. Any good chef can make a good sauce. It takes a genius to make one as obnoxious as this. I will serve it myself. And remember--I will stand behind you, no matter what."

A waiter took the steaks into the dining room. Le patron followed, proudly bearing the sauce. I hurried to peer through the door. Being just as curious as I, the chef came and joined me. We saw the waiter cross to the far side of the dining room, where Maugron sat with his women, and we watched as the waiter put the steaks onto dinner plates. Now le patron advanced and bowed, and while we were too far away to hear, we knew what le patron must be saying as he ladled generous spoonfuls of Sauce Maugron over the steaks and served the women and then Maugron. The chef and I held our breath as he cut into his filet and took a bite of the sauce-drenched meat. He frowned, puzzled, and then reached for a spoon and took a taste buds began to react in repulsion and he rose to his feet and threw down his napkin. His face turned red as he shouted at le patron. He pointed to the kitchen and made gestures indicating the whole establishment, and then, after shaking his fist at le patron, he stalked out. His three women followed, snatching their wraps from my sister as they marched out the door.

"The Sauce Maugron did its work," I said to the chef. "We will never see the man again."

"Just the same," the chef said, "to think that such a monstrosity could come out of my kitchen! Oh, terrible! Terrible!"

The chef and I went back to our ranges. In a moment, le patron came into the kitchen and up to me. He was not smiling. "You are discharged," he said. "You must leave the premises at once! I also suggest you leave town."

My mouth fell open. "Discharged?! Leave town?! I don't understand! But...why?"

"Because," le patron said, "I have just learned that the business deal Maugron was celebrating was the purchase, this very afternoon, of every building in our town square, which, of course, includes this one. So he is now my new landlord and he has threatened to quintuple my rent if the person responsible for this outrage to mankind called Sauce Maugron is not fired on the spot."

"But"--I protested--"but you said you would stand behind me!"

"I will," said le patron. "I will stand behind you until you are off my premises. You have disgraced your profession and should be ashamed of yourself. Go! Out! Go!"

"And good riddance!" I heard the chef say as I slunk out the rear door, never to return.

• • •

When the old man in the wheelchair didn't continue, the girl said, "And that's the end of your story? Oh, how sad! Oh, what a heartbreaking story!"

The old man smiled. "Well, no, it's not quite the end. And it's really not a sad story. You see, if I had not been fired, I would have spent my life as merely a good chef in a small restaurant. As it was, I had to leave town and I went to Nice and got a post in the kitchen of a fine hotel, and later I went to Paris and worked under the great Escoffier himself, and as I learned more and more, I rose higher and higher in rank and finally became a master chef, in charge of some of the world's greatest kitchens. But none of that would have happened if I had not made the Sauce Maugron and been fired. That is why it is really not a sad story."

"I think it's a wonderful story!" the girl said, laughing. "With a marvelously happy ending! I'll write it just as well as I can. I've a feeling it'll make all the difference between my success or failure as a beginning food writer! Oh, thank you!" She came and took the old man's hand and kissed it. "Thank you so much! And goodbye!"

After she had shown the girl to the garden gate, the sister came back to the old man and began to wheel him up the path toward his house and his nap.

"Never in my life have I heard such a packet of lies," she said.

The old man looked bewildered. "Lies? What lies?"

"To begin with, Maugron was too drunk even to taste the sauce. But he was delighted and overwhelmed by having a new sauce named in his honor and he sent his compliments to the chef, tossed around a small fortune in tips and staggered out, supported by his women."

"Dear me," the old man said. "Was that what really happened?"

"Of course that was what happened! And then, you surely remember, catastrophe struck! Maugron was so proud of being immortalized by a sauce that he kept boasting of it to his low-class drinking companions. And these wine swillers, these odious gluttons, began flocking to the restaurant and banging on the tables and demanding steaks with Sauce Maugron at the top of their voices."

"They did? How unfortunate."

"Certainly you recall how these frightful louts drove away the discriminating clients! How le patron took to drink in utter despair? How the chef achieved almost a total breakdown and would burst into tears at the thought of poaching an egg?"

"Goodness me!" the old man exclaimed. "What a terrible, unhappy, unsatisfactory tale. I much prefer my memory of the events."

The sister continued relentlessly, "And the real reason le patron fired you was so he could pretend to everyone that with you, the secret of Sauce Maugron had departed his restaurant forever. It was not--as was generally believed--merely because you had seduced le patron's daughter."

"How wicked of me," the old man said with an innocent smile. "Ah, well--at my age, the memory begins to tell one the most fascinating lies. Perhaps even at your age."

"Nonsense. Your memory has not failed one bit. But neither has mine. The story you told the girl was almost a complete invention, and you know it."

"Well," the great chef admitted grudgingly, "perhaps I did change a few of the ingredients and add a little garniture here and there and rectify the seasoning, so to speak. But ... my story is far more usable for this young lady. And ... so? I spent most of my life creating dishes for beautiful women. Can I not end it by creating a greatly needed little story for the most beautiful one of them all?"