Kiss Kiss (22 page)

With the kitchen to himself, Lexington straight away began experimenting
with dishes of his own invention. The old favourites no longer interested
him. He had a violent urge to create. There were hundreds of fresh ideas in
his head. “I will begin,” he said, “by devising a chestnut
soufflé.” He made it and served it up for supper that very night.
It was terrific. “You are a genius!” Aunt Glosspan cried, leaping
up from her chair and kissing him on both cheeks. “You will make
history!”
      
From then on, hardly a day went by without some new
delectable creation being set upon the table. There was Brazil-nut
soup, hominy cutlets, vegetable ragout, dandelion omelette,
cream-cheese fritters, stuffed-cabbage surprise, stewed foggage,
shallots
à la bonne femme
, beetroot mousse piquant, prunes
Stroganoff, Dutch rarebit, turnips on horseback, flaming
spruce-needle tarts, and many many other beautiful compositions.
Never before in her life, Aunt Glosspan declared,
had she tasted such food as this; and in the mornings, long
before lunch was due, she would go out on to the porch and
sit there in her rocking-chair, speculating about the coming
meal, licking her chops, sniffing the aromas that came wafting
out through the kitchen window.
      
“What’s that you’re making in there today, boy?” she would
call out.
      
“Try to guess, Aunt Glosspan.”
      
“Smells like a bit of salsify fritters to me,” she would say,
sniffing vigorously.
      
Then out he would come, this ten-year-old child, a little
grin of triumph on his face, and in his hands a big steaming
pot of the most heavenly stew made entirely of parsnips and
lovage.
      
“You know what you ought to do,” his aunt said to him,
gobbling the stew. “You ought to set yourself down this very
minute with paper and pencil and write a cooking-book.”
      
He looked at her across the table, chewing his parsnips
slowly.
      
“Why not?” she cried. “I’ve taught you how to write and I’ve
taught you how to cook and now all you’ve got to do is put
the two things together. You write a cooking-book, my
darling, and it’ll make you famous the whole world over.”
      
“All right,” he said. “I will.”
      
And that very day, Lexington began writing the first page
of that monumental work which was to occupy him for the
rest of his life. He called it
Eat Good and Healthy
.

Seven years later, by the time he was seventeen, he had
recorded over nine thousand different recipes, all of them
original, all of them delicious.
      
But now, suddenly, his labours were interrupted by the
tragic death of Aunt Glosspan. She was afflicted in the night
by a violent seizure, and Lexington, who had rushed into her
bedroom to see what all the noise was about, found her lying
on her bed yelling and cussing and twisting herself up into all
manner of complicated knots. Indeed, she was a terrible sight
to behold, and the agitated youth danced around her in his
pyjamas, wringing his hands, and wondering what on earth he
should do. Finally, in an effort to cool her down, he fetched a
bucket of water from the pond in the cow field and tipped it
over her head, but this only intensified the paroxysms, and the
old lady expired within the hour.
      
“This is really too bad,” the poor boy said, pinching her
several times to make sure that she was dead. “And how
sudden! How quick and sudden! Why only a few hours ago
she seemed in the very best of spirits. She even took three
large helpings of my most recent creation, devilled
mushroom-burgers, and told me how succulent it was.”
      
After weeping bitterly for several minutes, for he had loved
his aunt very much, he pulled himself together and carried her
outside and buried her behind the cowshed.
      
The next day, while tidying up her belongings, he came
across an envelope that was addressed to him in Aunt Glosspan’s
handwriting. He opened it and drew out two fifty-dollar
bills and a letter.
Darling boy
, the letter said.
I know that you
have never yet been down the mountain since you were
thirteen days old, but as soon as I die you must put on a pair
of shoes and a clean shirt and walk down to the village and
find the doctor. Ask the doctor to give you a death certificate
to prove that I am dead. Then take this certificate to my
lawyer, a man called Mr Samuel Zuckermann, who lives
in New York City and who has a copy of my will. Mr
Zuckermann will arrange everything. The cash in this
envelope is to pay the doctor for the certificate and to cover
the cost of your journey to New York. Mr Zuckermann
will give you more money when you get there, and it is
my earnest wish that you use it to further your researches
into culinary and vegetarian matters, and that you continue
to work upon that great book of yours until you are
satisfied that it is complete in every way. Your loving aunt—
Glosspan
.
      
Lexington, who had always done everything his aunt told
him, pocketed the money, put on a pair of shoes and a clean
shirt, and went down the mountain to the village where the
doctor lived.
      
“Old Glosspan?” the doctor said. “My God, is she dead?”
      
“Certainly she’s dead,” the youth answered. “If you will come
back home with me now I’ll dig her up and you can see for
yourself.”
      
“How deep did you bury her?” the doctor asked.
      
“Six or seven feet down, I should think.”
      
“And how long ago?”
      
“Oh, about eight hours.”
      
“Then she’s dead,” the doctor announced. “Here’s the
certificate.”

Our hero now sets out for the City of New York to find Mr
Samuel Zuckermann. He travelled on foot, and he slept under
hedges, and he lived on berries and wild herbs, and it took him
sixteen days to reach the metropolis.
      
“What a fabulous place this is!” he cried as he stood at the
corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, staring
around him. “There are no cows or chickens anywhere, and
none of the women looks in the least like Aunt Glosspan.”
      
As for Mr Samuel Zuckermann, he looked like nothing that
Lexington had ever seen before.
      
He was a small spongy man with livid jowls and a huge
magenta nose, and when he smiled, bits of gold flashed at you
marvellously from lots of different places inside his mouth. In
his luxurious office, he shook Lexington warmly by the hand
and congratulated him upon his aunt’s death.
      
“I suppose you knew that your dearly beloved guardian was
a woman of considerable wealth?” he said.
      
“You mean the cows and the chickens?”
      
“I mean half a million bucks,” Mr Zuckermann said.
      
“How much?”
      
“Half a million dollars, my boy. And she’s left it all to you.”
Mr Zuckermann leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands
over his spongy paunch. At the same time, he began secretly
working his right forefinger in through his waistcoat and
under his shirt so as to scratch the skin around the circumference
of his navel—a favourite exercise of his, and one that
gave him a peculiar pleasure. “Of course, I shall have to deduct
fifty per cent for my services,” he said, “but that still leaves you
with two hundred and fifty grand.”
      
“I am rich!” Lexington cried. “This is wonderful! How soon
can I have the money?”
      
“Well,” Mr Zuckermann said, “luckily for you, I happen to
be on rather cordial terms with the tax authorities around
here, and I am confident that I shall be able to persuade them
to waive all death duties and back taxes.”
      
“How kind you are,” murmured Lexington.
      
“I should naturally have to give somebody a small
honorarium.”
      
“Whatever you say, Mr Zuckermann.”
      
“I think a hundred thousand would be sufficient.”
      
“Good gracious, isn’t that rather excessive?”
      
“Never undertip a tax inspector or a policeman,” Mr
Zuckermann said. “Remember that.”
      
“But how much does it leave for me?” the youth asked
meekly.
      
“One hundred and fifty thousand. But then you’ve got the
funeral expenses to pay out of that.”
      
“
Funeral
expenses?”
      
“You’ve got to pay the funeral parlour. Surely you know
that?”
      
“But I buried her myself, Mr Zuckermann, behind the cowshed.”
      
“I don’t doubt it,” the lawyer said. “So what?”
      
“I never used a funeral parlour.”
      
“Listen,” Mr Zuckermann said patiently. “You may not know
it, but there is a law in this State which says that no beneficiary
under a will may receive a single penny of his inheritance until
the funeral parlour has been paid in full.”
      
“You mean that’s a
law
?”
      
“Certainly it’s a law, and a very good one it is, too. The
funeral parlour is one of our great national institutions. It
must be protected at all cost.”
      
Mr Zuckermann himself, together with a group of public-spirited
doctors, controlled a corporation that owned a chain
of nine lavish funeral parlours in the city, not to mention a
casket factory in Brooklyn and a postgraduate school for
embalmers in Washington Heights. The celebration of death
was therefore a deeply religious affair in Mr Zuckermann’s
eyes. In fact, the whole business affected him profoundly,
almost as profoundly, one might say, as the birth of Christ
affected the shopkeeper.
      
“You had no right to go out and bury your aunt like that,”
he said. “None at all.”
      
“I’m very sorry, Mr Zuckermann.”
      
“Why, it’s downright subversive.”
      
“I’ll do whatever you say, Mr Zuckermann. All I want to
know is how much I’m going to get in the end, when everything’s
paid.”
      
There was a pause. Mr Zuckermann sighed and frowned
and continued secretly to run the tip of his finger around the
rim of his navel.
      
“Shall we say fifteen thousand?” he suggested, flashing a big
gold smile. “That’s a nice round figure.”
      
“Can I take it with me this afternoon?”
      
“I don’t see why not.”
      
So Mr Zuckermann summoned his chief cashier and told
him to give Lexington fifteen thousand dollars out of the petty
cash, and to obtain a receipt. The youth, who by this time was
delighted to be getting anything at all, accepted the money
gratefully and stowed it away in his knapsack. Then he shook
Mr Zuckermann warmly by the hand, thanked him for all his
help, and went out of the office.
      
“The whole world is before me!” our hero cried as he
emerged into the street. “I now have fifteen thousand dollars
to see me through until my book is published. And after that,
of course, I shall have a great deal more.” He stood on the
pavement, wondering which way to go. He turned left and
began strolling slowly down the street, staring at the sights of
the city.
      
“What a revolting smell,” he said, sniffing the air. “I can’t
stand this.” His delicate olfactory nerves, tuned to receive only
the most delicious kitchen aromas, were being tortured by the
stench of the diesel-oil fumes pouring out of the backs of the
buses.
      
“I must get out of this place before my nose is ruined
altogether,” he said. “But first, I’ve simply got to have
something to eat. I’m starving.” The poor boy had had nothing but
berries and wild herbs for the past two weeks, and now his
stomach was yearning for solid food. I’d like a nice hominy
cutlet, he told himself. Or maybe a few juicy salsify fritters.
      
He crossed the street and entered a small restaurant. The
place was hot inside, and dark and silent. There was a strong
smell of cooking-fat and cabbage water. The only other
customer was a man with a brown hat on his head, crouching
intently over his food, who did not look up as Lexington came
in.
      
Our hero seated himself at a corner table and hung his
knapsack on the back of his chair. This, he told himself, is going
to be most interesting. In all my seventeen years I have tasted
only the cooking of two people, Aunt Glosspan and myself—unless
one counts Nurse McPottle, who must have heated my
bottle a few times when I was an infant. But I am now about
to sample the art of a new chef altogether, and perhaps, if I am
lucky, I may pick up a couple of useful ideas for my book.
      
A waiter approached out of the shadows at the back, and
stood beside the table.
      
“How do you do,” Lexington said. “I should like a large
hominy cutlet please. Do it twenty-five seconds each side, in
a very hot skillet with sour cream, and sprinkle a pinch of
lovage on it before serving—unless of course your chef knows
of a more original method, in which case I should be delighted
to try it.”
      
The waiter laid his head over to one side and looked
carefully at his customer. “You want the roast pork and cabbage?”
he asked. “That’s all we got left.”
      
“Roast what and cabbage?”
      
The waiter took a soiled handkerchief from his trouser
pocket and shook it open with a violent flourish, as though
he were cracking a whip. Then he blew his nose loud and wet.
      
“You want it or don’t you?” he said, wiping his nostrils.
      
“I haven’t the foggiest idea what it is,” Lexington replied,
“but I should love to try it. You see, I am writing a cooking-book
and . . .”
      
“One pork and cabbage!” the waiter shouted, and somewhere
in the back of the restaurant, far away in the darkness,
a voice answered him.
      
The waiter disappeared. Lexington reached into his knapsack
for his personal knife and fork. These were a present
from Aunt Glosspan, given him when he was six years old,
made of solid silver, and he had never eaten with any other
instruments since. While waiting for the food to arrive, he
polished them lovingly with a piece of soft muslin.
      
Soon the waiter returned carrying a plate on which there
lay a thick greyish-white slab of something hot. Lexington
leaned forward anxiously to smell it as it was put down before
him. His nostrils were wide open now to receive the scent,
quivering and sniffing.
      
“But this is absolute heaven!” he exclaimed. “What an aroma!
It’s tremendous!”
      
The waiter stepped back a pace, watching his customer
carefully.
      
“Never in my life have I smelled anything as rich and
wonderful as this!” our hero cried, seizing his knife and fork.
“What on earth is it made of?”
      
The man in the brown hat looked around and stared, then
returned to his eating. The waiter was backing away towards
the kitchen.
      
Lexington cut off a small piece of the meat, impaled it on
his silver fork, and carried it up to his nose so as to smell it
again. Then he popped it into his mouth and began to chew
it slowly, his eyes half closed, his body tense.
      
“This is fantastic!” he cried. “It is a brand-new flavour! Oh,
Glosspan, my beloved Aunt, how I wish you were with me
now so you could taste this remarkable dish! Waiter! Come
here at once! I want you!”
      
The astonished waiter was now watching from the other
end of the room, and he seemed reluctant to move any closer.
      
“If you will come and talk to me I will give you a present,”
Lexington said, waving a hundred-dollar bill. “Please come
over here and talk to me.”
      
The waiter sidled cautiously back to the table, snatched
away the money, and held it up close to his face, peering
at it from all angles. Then he slipped it quickly into his
pocket.
      
“What can I do for you, my friend?” he asked.
      
“Look,” Lexington said. “If you will tell me what this
delicious dish is made of, and exactly how it is prepared, I will
give you another hundred.”
      
“I already told you,” the man said. “It’s pork.”
      
“And what exactly is pork?”
      
“You never had roast pork before?” the waiter asked, staring.
      
“For heaven’s sake, man, tell me what it is and stop keeping
me in suspense like this.”
      
“It’s pig,” the waiter said. “You just bung it in the oven.”
      
“
Pig!
”
      
“All pork is pig. Didn’t you know that?”
      
“You mean
this
is
pig’s meat
?”
      
“I guarantee it.”
      
“But . . . but . . . that’s impossible,” the youth stammered.
“Aunt Glosspan, who knew more about food than anyone else
in the world, said that meat of any kind was disgusting, revolting,
horrible, foul, nauseating, and beastly. And yet this piece
that I have here on my plate is without doubt the most
delicious thing that I have ever tasted. Now how on earth do
you explain that? Aunt Glosspan certainly wouldn’t have told
me it was revolting if it wasn’t.”
      
“Maybe your aunt didn’t know how to cook it,” the waiter
said.
      
“Is that possible?”
      
“You’re damned right it is. Especially with pork. Pork has
to be very well done or you can’t eat it.”
      
“Eureka!” Lexington cried. “I’ll bet that’s exactly what
happened! She did it wrong!” He handed the man another
hundred-dollar bill. “Lead me to the kitchen,” he said.
“Introduce me to the genius who prepared this meat.”
      
Lexington was at once taken into the kitchen, and there he
met the cook who was an elderly man with a rash on one side
of his neck.
      
“This will cost you another hundred,” the waiter said.
      
Lexington was only too glad to oblige, but this time he gave
the money to the cook. “Now listen to me,” he said. “I have to
admit that I am really rather confused by what the waiter has
just been telling me. Are you quite positive that the delectable
dish which I have just been eating was prepared from pig’s
flesh?”
      
The cook raised his right hand and began scratching the
rash on his neck.
      
“Well,” he said, looking at the waiter and giving him a sly
wink, “all I can tell you is that I
think
it was pig’s meat.”
      
“You mean you’re not sure?”
      
“One can’t ever be sure.”
      
“Then what else could it have been?”
      
“Well,” the cook said, speaking very slowly and still staring
at the waiter. “There’s just a chance, you see, that it might
have been a piece of human stuff.”
      
“You mean a man?”
      
“Yes.”
      
“Good heavens.”
      
“Or a woman. It could have been either. They both taste the
same.”
      
“Well—now you really do surprise me,” the youth declared.
      
“One lives and learns.”
      
“Indeed one does.”
      
“As a matter of fact, we’ve been getting an awful lot of it
just lately from the butcher’s in place of pork,” the cook
declared.
      
“Have you really?”
      
“The trouble is, it’s almost impossible to tell which is which.
They’re both very good.”
      
“The piece I had just now was simply superb.”
      
“I’m glad you liked it,” the cook said. “But to be quite honest,
I think that was a bit of pig. In fact, I’m almost sure it was.”
      
“You are?”
      
“Yes, I am.”
      
“In that case, we shall have to assume that you are right,”
Lexington said. “So now will you please tell me—and here is
another hundred dollars for your trouble—will you please tell
me precisely how you prepared it?”
      
The cook, after pocketing the money, launched out upon a
colourful description of how to roast a loin of pork, while the
youth, not wanting to miss a single word of so great a recipe,
sat down at the kitchen table and recorded every detail in his
notebook.
      
“Is that all?” he asked when the cook had finished.