(With gratitude to Ann Clark.)
THERE ARE FEW THINGS WORSE for dedicated professionals than enduring their own uselessness. Well, perhaps one or two …
Prosatio Silban looked out through his galleywagon’s open doors and contemplated the heavy rain falling on Pormaris’ near-empty marketplace. Every summer tells the same story, he thought. The Season of Huddling drives away from the Commonwell’s markets everyone other than storm-braving scurriers – meaning anyone who would or even could take the time to patronize my portable business. Why do I bother to set out my menu-board? I need steady work, not dashed expectations.
In years past, the Cook For Any Price had managed to put aside ample funds for these rainy days.
In years past, the Cook For Any Price had managed to put aside ample funds for these rainy days. But this year had been more harsh than most. The inclement weather was partly to blame. A larger piece of it, however, was plain bad luck: a missed engagement here, a slow week there, added up to a money-jar containing more space than silver. O Hopmon the All-Haggler, Lord of the Ever-Full Purse, he implored silently. Have I failed You somehow? Have You no more blessings for me?
At that moment, a man appeared. He was dressed in an expensive-looking rubberized poncho, and wide-brimmed hat, both of which dripped as he consulted the cook’s menu board. Seeing Prosatio Silban’s hopeful gaze, he broke into a friendly smile.
“Master Cook!” he exclaimed with sincere warmth. “I am Sir Barbino Shezar. And I would have a word.”
“Of course,” replied the cook-errant. “With what may I please you?”
“With hearing my proposition. May I come up?”
“Please.”
Sir Barbino ascended the galleywagon’s three steps and grasped the cook’s outstretched hand. “What I propose may or may not be to your liking,” he said. “First, I must ask – how do you these days, in an economic sense?”
“I will be honest with you,” Prosatio Silban replied. “I have seen better days, and also years, and must soon resort to plundering my pantry for to keep myself alive. Why, may I ask, do you ask?”
“To the point: Have you ever considered working as a house-chef?”
“I have not, but at the moment, the offer is tempting,” Prosatio Silban said. “Exactly what are your terms?”
“A compensated two-week trial, during which you will become familiar with my household and its staff. After that, should matters so dictate, we can sign a fair contract. What say you?”
The cook pondered. This may mean the end of my freewheeling itinerancy, he thought, but perchance the start of a fresh life-chapter. On the one hand, I might miss the autonomy of the open road; on the other, I would be able to know from where my own next meal was coming.
“I accept,” he said. “Where, when, and how shall we begin?”
“I accept,” he said. “Where, when, and how shall we begin?”
* * *
The attentive staff – all wearing polite smiles above clean white uniforms and aprons – chorused “Hello, Master Cook!” upon his entry. Each represented a component of Sir Barbino’s well-lubricated culinary machine: two assistant cooks, a scullery-man, pantry supervisor, dairy mistress, poultry-keeper, butcher, and kitchen secretary. The spotless, flagstone-floored kitchen was as vast as Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon was cozy. Its walls were festooned with cookware and knives of all descriptions, and three ovens and two stoves lent the room a warm radiance. The scullery was likewise generous, as were the near-overflowing pantry and buttery. Two adjacent wooden doors led to the chicken coop and slaughterhouse.
I could get lost in here, Prosatio Silban thought, and not in a bad way.
“This will be your domain,” Sir Darpino said. “I am not one for interfering with a man’s creative livelihood, so you would be free to improvise, to experiment, to cook whatever you wish thrice-daily for me and mine. All I ask is that it be delicious.”
“I may assure you of that,” Prosatio Silban said. “One can work wonders in such lavish surroundings. Now. Although the sun is hidden, the time is now a measured hour before its full height. May I begin my trial with an appropriate lunch?”
“I was hoping you would say that. There will be five of us, counting my wife and three children. I must warn you, though, that the children are somewhat challenging to please. They range in years from nine to four, with all the tastes peculiar to those ages.”
Prosatio Silban grinned. “Allow me to allay your concerns,” he said. “I shall make pungentine-and-tomato salads for you and your madam, and blended berry-and-groundnut sandwiches for the children. Will that please you?”
“Very much so,” said his employer. “I can’t wait to see – and taste – what you’ll be serving next.”
* * *
Two weeks, thirty-six meals, and an indeterminate number of child-snacks later, Prosatio Silban hummed a tuneless melody as he put the finishing touches on the family’s breakfast (mushroom-stuffed egg-pockets and spelt toast for Sir and Madam Barbino, and nutted porridge for their children) and sent it to the dining room. I suppose I’ll have to sell the galleywagon, he thought. Or perhaps I could put it in storage – I can now afford to! – but what will become of Onward? So many details!
He dusted his hands together as Sir Barbino approached.
He dusted his hands together as Sir Barbino approached. “You have done well,” his employer said. “This is yours.”
The cook accepted the proffered coin purse, which jingled as it changed hands. “Thank you,” he said.
“You have earned it. We have never supped so well as we have these past twelve days. And now …”
Sir Barbino presented a thick sheaf of rag-paper, each page bearing minuscule and numbered lines of script. “Here is your contract,” he said. “It is comprehensive, and spells out to the letter your duties and responsibilities. Take your time with it, but please complete it by tomorrow morning when your official employment begins.”
“Excuse me,” said the incredulous cook. “You wish for me to fill out this entire document? Are you serious?”
“Quite serious. It is important to set out everything just so, with no complicated contradictions. That way both parties can be aware of the expectations that bind them.”
“But is it necessary to be so particular? Work times to the minute? Rest times to the second? Hypothetical contingencies? Unlikely possibilities? If I may say, it seems more than a little ponderous.”
“That is what your predecessor said. In fact, that is one reason why he left.”
“I can understand that. I thank you for your kindness and your coin, for which I am very grateful, but I too must decline this position. You have paid me enough to survive for the rest of the season, and I would rather take my chances with whatever Hopmon will dispose.”
Sir Barbino frowned. “You will not reconsider my offer?”
“Actually,” Prosatio Silban said, “I just did.”
(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. And if you want them all (so far) in one easy-to-read package, here’s the e-book!)