“Yessum, sir.” Mamie batted her eyes. “No lard. No ham hocks.”
Mr. Sitwell stared straight ahead. This was the performance Mamie had been gearing up for, another element of the complexity of her role in the house. All the other servants were expected to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible, but the cook was often called upon to interact with the guests, to become part of the entertainment. Smiling and bowing in the front of the house was just another part of her job.
Mr. Barclay took a deep breath and said, “This man is Mr. Pound, Mamie. He’s the progenitor of the cookless breakfast.”
“Cookless breakfast? Why, what on earth is that?”
“Delicious wafers of whole meal flour, molasses, and dried fruit. All baked and pressed under a patented process, introduced right here in the city, at the World’s Fair.”
“And do you eat them with ham and eggs?” Mamie blinked.
Mr. Barclay laughed. “No, Mamie. You pour them into a saucer of milk and serve it cold. Now when a man stands up from the breakfast table, instead of feeling sluggish and weighed down, he is energized, full of the fuel he needs to start the day.”
“Mo’ fuel than ham and eggs?” Mamie’s eyes opened wide. “Lawdy, y’all white folks is a true wonder. What will you think of next?”
Mr. Sitwell looked at Mr. Pound. It was difficult to tell how much the man appreciated Mr. Barclay and Mamie’s performance. He nodded his head, looked around the hall, and smiled as if vaguely amused.
“Tell me, Barclay. Is your entire staff colored?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Mr. Barclay said. “I prefer to maintain a staff of a uniform hue. Cuts down on conflict, and I’ve found, perhaps counterintuitively, the problem of theft.”
“Is that right?”
“Indeed. I realize there is a fad these days to go with the Irish. But, quite frankly, from what I have seen, I still believe that if one is able to manage it, one is better off sticking with the colored race, in part because of the unfortunate prejudice. By which I mean that a perfectly respectable colored will happily work as a servant while the white man content to do so will inevitably be of a lower caliber.”
“This is unfortunate,” Mr. Pound agreed. “Yet so often true.”
“Well, of course,” Mr. Barclay said. “It is why even if one is able to find a decent Irish man he will so often prove surly, and I simply cannot abide surly. Ultimately it comes down to a simple question of genetic aptitude. One can’t argue with generations of breeding; one can’t argue with science. Isn’t that right, Mamie?”
“I’m still trying to wrap my mind around this here cookless breakfast,” Mamie said. She cocked her head and gave Mr. Barclay a puzzled look. “But tell me, sir. Why is it I’ve never heard of this marvelous invention before?”
Mr. Barclay sighed. “Alas, Mamie. Mr. Pound’s fine product is not yet available in stores here in the city. But that is why our friend is here. He is thinking of purchasing one of my manufacturing facilities. This will cut his transportation costs in half so that soon his nutritious wafers can be made available not just in the city but throughout the entire country. Isn’t that marvelous?”
Mr. Pound clucked his tongue. “That’s enough now, Barclay. I’m well aware of what this deal would mean over time. Your Mamie couldn’t possibly understand such matters and you and I shall have plenty of time to discuss them tonight, over dinner.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Barclay said.
“And in the meantime, don’t you worry none, Mr. Cookless Breakfast Man. About yo’ restrictions. Much as it pains me to not throw a ham hock in there somewhere, I got something planned that I think is gonna satisfy you this evening. Yes, sir. Whip you up something real nice, leave you feeling proper energized.”
“Thank you, Mamie,” Mr. Barclay said.
She bowed and, with a wide swing of her hips, walked back to the kitchen.
“You’ll forgive my enthusiasm,” Mr. Barclay said. He and Mr. Pound began walking down the hall. “It’s just so rare that I have the opportunity to play a hand in the distribution of a product I so deeply believe in.”
“It’s quite alright. I must say I am curious to see how our diet finds interpretation at the hands of your Negro cook.”
“I’m sure you will be pleasantly surprised.” Mr. Barclay smiled. “It will be a treat for me as well, to see what is to be made of this diet of yours, as clearly it has served you well. You are looking quite fit, Pound. Not a day older than the last time I saw you.”
“It has been a while, hasn’t it? When did we last see each other?”
“I believe it was that night at the Monte Carlo.”
“I believe you are correct.”
“Well, perhaps this will prove another benefit of our transaction, the opportunity to see more of you in the city. Tell me, have you given much thought to who you intend to market your wafers to?”
“Yes,” Mr. Pound said, just before they disappeared into the parlor. “All of them.”
Mr. Sitwell waited until the door closed behind them. He hung Mr. Pound’s coat in the hall closet, then turned around, walked through the dining room, and pushed through a swinging door.
When he got back to the kitchen Mamie was already hard at work at the stove. Despite the theatrics at the front door, Mamie was well aware who Mr. Pound was: an old friend turned health reformer from Mr. Barclay’s college days. He ran a longevity spa in the Berkshires and was currently making a great deal of money selling his breakfast wafers and a series of books meant to promote the moral lifestyle that was to accompany their consumption. He was now interested in purchasing the plant with the ambition of making his wafers available on a national scale. Mr. Barclay had made a point of telling Mamie about Mr. Pound’s peculiar dietary restrictions two weeks in advance, and ever since she had devoted a few hours each day to experimenting with different ingredients in order to come up with a meal that would be both sufficiently flavorful and would accommodate his particular needs. The elaborate seasoning she’d created was a combination of several ingredients, including dried onion, garlic, dill, horseradish, mustard, parsley, white pepper, turmeric, green and red bell peppers, rose hip, summer savory, mushroom, safflower, coriander, fenugreek, basil, marjoram, oregano, thyme, tarragon, cumin, ginger, cayenne pepper, cloves, spinach, rosemary, cinnamon, paprika, yeast, celery, and orange and lemon peel. In combination these had produced a seasoning that was not only remarkably economical but also unlike anything Mr. Sitwell had ever tasted before.
It was absolutely delicious.
He watched her shut the oven door.
“Twenty-eight minutes,” Mamie said to Mac as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Not a second longer, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mac set the timer.
She turned to Mr. Sitwell. “You stay in the house for now. I need you to help serve dinner tonight and that means I can’t have that man seeing you out in the yard.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded. He sat down on a stool near the side window, glad for the excuse to be in the kitchen. He loved watching Miss Mamie work, knew for a fact that, though Mr. Boudreaux got credit for having trained her, she was a better cook than he had ever been. In some ways, Mr. Sitwell thought, Mr. Boudreaux was like the house itself in that there had been a time when he had been very impressed. Then, one day when he was fifteen, he’d gone to the larder in order to do some errand for Mamie and found Mr. Boudreaux lying facedown on the floor. It was the first of what would be many times he’d seen the man passed out drunk.