Authors: Kathleen Knowles
Davey and Kerry were ecstatic. Jim glared at them, and they hid their smiles and went back to work. They hoped that Chef would test the demi-glace soon. They were rewarded later in the afternoon when they heard Chef shout at the top of his lungs, “JEEEEEEEM!”
Jim came running and pulled up anxiously beside the stove where his sauce was cooking.
Chef didn’t say a word, but he held out a spoon to him. Jim tasted the sauce and his face screwed up as he struggled not to spit it right back out in Chef’s face.
“I…” He stuttered and looked entirely discomfited. It was a sight to behold.
“You! You
espèce de merde
!” Chef shouted. “This is ruined. You have destroyed me. Go! Out of my sight.”
“But—”
“Now!” Chef bellowed.
On the other side of the kitchen, Davey and Kerry kept their mouths shut and their faces straight.
Kerry had obtained a jar of the hottest Mexican chili peppers available and dumped them into the demi-glace pot the night before. By morning, all had been well simmered and rendered the precious demi-glace an inedible, nausea-inducing mess.
Chef Henri called his cooks together. “It is fortunate I am able to cope with this disaster. I will instruct the hotel to reprint the menu today. We will have the salmon soufflé and,
Davide
, you will make four coq au vin
.
Sammy will grill the steak
poivre.
I will personally cook the sole
meunière
.
Le Président will have a feast such as he would never get in Delmonico’s—a great feast without
le boeuf. Oui.
It will be unprecedented. Now,
vite,
nous allons!
We have much to do and little time.”
Kerry and Davey cheerfully went back to cooking. Kerry helped Davey with his coq au vin
and prepared some of the sauces Chef designed, including the meunière
.
It was another traditional sauce, like the demi-glace, though not nearly as complex, as it was based on simple brown butter, oil, and lemon. Chef Henri entrusted its preparation to Kerry, who in her short employment as a cook had shown herself reliable and competent. The cooks worked all night and all the next day to accomplish Chef’s wishes and did it happily. Jim was no more. Fini
.
President McKinley and the other distinguished guests, it was seen, did not miss their roast beef. The newspaper
Call Bulletin
printed the story along with the menu the next day and heaped praise upon the Palace Hotel and its restaurant staff. After the great presidential banquet, the Palace was famous for its fish and chicken dishes. It became a tradition for all the special banquets to serve fish and fowl. Davey was made sou
s
-chef. Chef told Kerry he could not, in good conscience, elevate her to such a position. She was naturally still too inexperienced, he reasoned, and no woman would ever be able to fulfill that responsibility.
Kerry wiped a bit of sweat from her face and took another look at the cassoulet
she was preparing.
What is Beth doing now? Giving an injection, writing a letter for some lonely soldier, or arguing with one of the military officers?
Kerry had stood with her at the
Golden Gate
dock at the Ferry Building, and Beth had given her an ambiguous little hug and whispered, “I shall be home before you know it. I’ll write when I can.” At the top of the gangplank, she stopped and waved. Her smile was quick and friendly.
She was already thinking ahead to her future patients. Always it was her work
.
Kerry sighed and said under her breath, “It’s certain she’s not thinking of me.” She stirred the vegetables more briskly than necessary and watched the prep boy out of the corner of her eye. The cassoulet
was a savory stew of ham, pork, and white beans. It was a deceptively simple dish since it didn’t have many ingredients. Chef had instructed Kerry meticulously on its seasoning. Kerry would always prefer to cook fish and other seafood, but she was keen to get ahead and impress Chef so she worked hard on the cassoulet
.
Cooking was her only source of pleasure now that Beth was gone.
She’d had several letters from Beth. They were short, cheerful, and full of news of her work. They were, Kerry knew, exactly like Beth herself. She had written,
Dearest Kerry
and
I miss you very much.
Those words, while pleasing, were to Kerry’s mind indicative of friendship and nothing more. And she so desperately wanted more.
Kerry wrote back to Beth in a similar vein, for the most part, and detailed the daily trivia of the restaurant. On her last letter, the one she had posted the day before, she thought for a very long time about what she wanted to say and what she felt she could or should say.
My Dear Beth,
It has been now two months since we last saw each other, and my sadness at your absence grows no less. It does, in fact, become worse over time. My days are truly without color and joy. As for my nights, I sleep poorly in spite of my fatigue. I worry for your safety and trust you are not being too overworked. You, who are so faithful and diligent, I know would scarcely ever refuse to perform a task set before you. As your letters describe, the tasks can be immense. I long for your safe return and for the time we can once again drive the promenade in Golden Gate Park or visit the Baths for a swim.
Kerry
There was more, so much more she wanted to say but, just like when she was in Beth’s presence, Kerry was unable to speak from her heart. She wasn’t ready to commit the truth to paper and have to wonder how Beth would receive her thoughts when she was still so far away.
As though she isn’t essentially far away when she’s here. Now geography matches reality.
Kerry was more despondent than ever. She shook her head as though that would clear her unhappy musings and turned her attention back to the cooking tasks at hand. It was nearly time for luncheon service to start, and she would need to be alert.
About two thirty p.m., the orders were slowing down and Kerry was able once again to stop for a breath. She leaned against the prep table and swallowed some water. Behind her she heard her name called. It was Lambert, one of the older waiters, and he’d always made it clear to her how terrible it was that she, a mere woman, should be cooking in the august kitchen of the Palace Hotel. “Miss O’Shea. A customer wishes to speak to the chef.”
“I’m not the chef, Lambert,” Kerrie said. She looked around for Chef Henri or for Davey but didn’t see them. She sighed. She supposed she would have to go. Lambert added, “Table twelve, Ladies Grill.”
As Kerry approached the table, she saw that the single occupant was a very young woman with curly blond hair who, upon seeing Kerry approach, smiled in a slightly ingratiating but vacuous fashion. Kerry stopped by the table, but before she could say anything, the young lady spoke.
“I want to compliment you in person, Chef, on the excellent cassoulet
.
”
Kerry was taken aback to be addressed as Chef, but she decided to have some fun on her own. The young lady had just mangled the pronunciation of cassoulet
.
Kerry controlled her smile and said in a low voice,
“Merci, mademoiselle.”
“Oh, goodness! You’re French.”
Kerry nearly rolled her eyes. The Palace Hotel had the most famous French restaurant in the United States after Delmonico’s. This was a well-known fact. It shouldn’t be a surprise the chef would be French too.
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
Kerry’s knowledge of French outside of French cooking terms was limited and would be quickly exhausted. She said no more.
“What is your name?”
“Ker-rie.” Kerry gave her good Irish name a French twist and smiled brilliantly.
“I see. Well, I shan’t keep you. Thank you again for the delicious cassoulet
.
”
Kerry bowed graciously and went back to the kitchen in a better mood. It wasn’t much, but it was at least gratifying to have someone compliment her cooking. It also gave her a lift because it was clear the young lady didn’t notice she was a woman. She was always thrilled to be mistaken for a young man.
“Omelet for Room 319, and she wishes Chef Ker-rie to bring it to her in person.” Davey hung up the house phone after he had shouted his news loud enough for the entire kitchen to hear. “Ooo-la-la!” he added mischievously.
Kerry glared at Davey, even though she knew he was only teasing her in the usual way. Since Jim’s departure, Kerry was treated exactly like all the other cooks. She had achieved a degree of acceptance from her peers, and she prided herself on taking as good as she could give.
Kerry frowned but said nothing. She recalled the curly haired, slightly vacuous young lady who had complimented her the day before. She cooked the omelet and prepared the service cart to the catcalls of the other cooks.
Kerry walked across the vast Garden Court, dodging between the carriages, which gathered to drop off their passengers. She could have collared a waiter to take care of delivery but figured she should make the customer happy, and since the customer had requested delivery by Kerry, she’d do what needed to be done. On her way upstairs, she admired the elevator. It was so large and so ornate, it was said that one could serve tea for four in it. She believed it.
She knocked briskly on the door and shouted, “Room service” and, when she heard a soft “Come in,” entered the room and wheeled the cart toward the table.
“Mademoiselle, your omelet.” She turned and saw the girl sitting in bed with an expectant expression.
“Chef. I do appreciate you bringing my breakfast in person. Could you perhaps stay and talk to me while I eat it?”
Kerry was astonished, mostly at the forwardness of the question but also at the small thought growing in her mind. It couldn’t be
.
“I can’t. I’m needed in the kitchen just now,” she said.
“You aren’t French!” the girl exclaimed indignantly. “I should hardly think that chefs in the Palace Hotel believe it will foster good relations with the customers if they misrepresent themselves.”
Kerry took a breath to quell her anger and ensure that what she said came out without an edge attached to it. “Ah, no. Please accept my apology for my small subterfuge. I’m not French, it’s true. I am, however, a French chef.” Kerry expected the difference between “cook” and “chef” wasn’t an entirely necessary distinction to make for this girl, who didn’t seem overly endowed with intelligence, although she was very pretty.
“I see, that much at least is true.” She lowered her eyelashes and peered out from underneath them coquettishly. “I can expect then that you have prepared a superior omelet?”
“I can only pray that my efforts meet mademoiselle’s approval.” Kerry was enjoying herself now. An attractive young woman was flirting with her. “However, mademoiselle
hasn’t told me her name.”
“It’s Letty Stevenson.” She put out a small hand and Kerry nearly kissed it but decided she need not overuse the French pose, so she shook it instead, but they both left their hands clasped for just a little longer than usual. “Well, then, in spite of the fact that you are
not
French and have tried to fool me into thinking you are, I’m disposed to forgive you.” She tilted her head. “If you aren’t too busy, would you stay and visit with me while I eat it?”
The question astonished Kerry, and she was more than ready to agree, but she couldn’t abandon her post in the kitchen as the luncheon service was due to start in a few minutes.
“No, I regret to say I must return immediately to the kitchen.” Part of her wondered why this girl would be so foolish as to not understand that, as a cook, she had her responsibilities. Kerry concluded that regular employment wasn’t something Letty Stevenson had to bother herself about.
“Well, then, could you return later? Perhaps after lunch?” Letty raised her eyebrows suggestively.
Kerry couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing nor what she sensed was behind Letty’s question.
She can’t be seeming to want what she seems to want. This can’t be what I think it is. She may not be a particularly virtuous girl but she isn’t a…
Kerry wasn’t sure what was the word for it, for herself, for what she fervently hoped Beth to be. A woman like many of the girls she’d grown up with in the dives and deadfalls of the Barbary Coast. A woman who preferred women. This girl surely couldn’t be
. She has no idea what she’s playing at. She wants attention and distraction, no more. Of course—she believes I’m a man.
“I’m free at three o’clock,” Kerry said, to her great surprise.
“You have no other engagements then?” Letty asked, and her tone was hopeful.
“No. I don’t.” Kerry knew she would only return home and perhaps take a carriage ride to Golden Gate Park and think back on the months with Beth when they went there together every Sunday and talked.
“It’s settled, then,” Letty said with finality.
Kerry nodded and left. She was occupied with luncheon service for the next several hours. Still, she mused, Is this girl inviting my attention because she believes me to be male? Is that what she’s actually doing, or is she just a little lonely and wants conversation? That seems more likely. I’m not certain what I would do. I’m pining for Beth, who may never return my affections. If she does, then I shouldn’t be considering a dalliance with another woman. That wouldn’t do. But what if she doesn’t, which seems more likely…