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Tell me what you eat and I will tell you who you are. – Brillat-Savarin
Fritz Brenner was a careful and meticulous man and he carried this over to his cooking. Standing in the kitchen of the brownstone on West 35th street, he chopped an onion finely, neatly, uniformly, each piece of a similar size. Precision and method are essential to cooking. But Fritz was also an artist. Technique and meticulousness laid the foundation, but to achieve true transcendence required something more. One must not be a slave to a recipe but rather feel free to adapt to these onions and this stove and the freshness of this thyme and the humidity of this day. It required, as Mr. Wolfe would say, experience guided by intelligence.
“C’est bon,” Fritz said to himself as he put down his knife. The onions were perfectly chopped and sweetly pungent.
The knife, the table, the kitchen, and the brownstone belonged to Fritz’s employer, Mr. Nero Wolfe. Some might feel that the kitchen belonged to Fritz, as the cook, but Fritz always felt that he held it in trust for Mr. Wolfe, who was not without culinary artistry of his own. Today Mr. Wolfe was interviewing a young man. Mr. Wolfe was looking for someone to help him in his detective business in the way that Fritz helped him in the kitchen, someone with precision and method but also artistry, someone who could take direction but also improvise when needed. If someone suitable was found, they would be moving into the brownstone and joining the household.
Fritz thought that it would be good for Mr. Wolfe to have a companion, someone to help him with his work, yes, but also someone to sit with him at the table. It would not be proper for Fritz to sit with Mr. Wolfe at the table; in the kitchen perhaps, when they were working together on a dish, but not at the table. If Mr. Wolfe found the young man acceptable, then Fritz would be introduced and the candidate would be invited to have a bite of something in the kitchen so that Fritz could form his own opinion.
The buzzer rang, two long and one short. He was summoned and Mr. Wolfe wanted beer. Fritz quickly washed his hands and straightened his apron. He placed two chilled bottles of beer and a glass on a silver tray. Fritz left the bottles sealed. Mr. Wolfe preferred to open them himself with the gold-plated opener he kept on his desk. Fritz passed through the swinging door into the hall and then to the office on the right.
Fritz deposited the tray on Mr. Wolfe’s desk, passing by the visitor sitting straight and alert in the red leather chair. The young man was tall and broad-shouldered. When Fritz had let him in earlier, he had observed that the visitor’s suit was newly pressed and his shoes freshly shined. It seemed that he was putting some effort into this interview.
Mr. Wolfe spoke as he opened his first bottle of beer and began to decant it into its glass. “Mr. Goodwin, I believe you met my cook, Mr. Fritz Brenner, when you first arrived.”
Fritz nodded in acknowledgement of this introduction. Mr. Goodwin rose and offered his hand. “Archie,” he said. “Archie Goodwin. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Brenner.”
As they shook hands, Mr. Wolfe said, “Mr. Goodwin, I think I have all I need to make a decision. I will be interviewing several other candidates and you may expect to hear something at the end of the week. So that you have adequate information on your end to come to an informed decision as to whether this position suits you, I propose that you become acquainted with the potential accommodations. Fritz, will you show Mr. Goodwin the bedrooms on the third floor and then perhaps he would like a snack in the kitchen.”
What Mr. Wolfe did not say was that the snack in the kitchen was a crucial part of the interview. A very promising candidate earlier in the week had turned out to have an unfortunate predilection for vinegar, which he poured on everything on his plate. Another had eliminated himself by chewing with his mouth open. It could not be borne to have such people at the table every day.
Fritz gestured for Mr. Goodwin to follow him and stepped out into the hallway. “I have a little den in the basement,” he said, “to be near the kitchen, but most of the bedrooms are upstairs.”
As Mr. Goodwin jogged lightly up the stairs he said, “I’ve heard that Mr. Wolfe likes his food. The newspaper called him a gourmand. I had to look that one up. A gourmet is a connoisseur of good food or a person with a discerning palate. But a gourmand is something more. One of the definitions is a glutton, one who eats too much, but another meaning is a person who takes great pleasure and interest in consuming good food and drink. So Mr. Wolfe not only knows good food, he takes pleasure in it. That seems jake with me. Do you like cooking for him?”
Fritz smiled. “And how! It is good to cook for someone who gives the food its proper respect. As Monsieur Escoffier said – Good food is the foundation of genuine happiness. And you, Mr. Goodwin, do you enjoy detecting?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I do. I like helping people. And I like the chase. It’s very satisfying to tail someone without them knowing or to get your hands on a clue everyone’s been wanting. I figure that’s how cats feel when they drop a mouse at your feet. It might not look like much to other folks, but I’m proud of having caught it. I guess that I’m not just good at it, I take pleasure in it.”
They had reached the third floor. Fritz opened the door to the right. “This is the North Room. It is larger and it has an en suite. The windows here face the street. Mr. Wolfe left it unfurnished until he knew whether his assistant would like to choose his own appointments.”
Mr. Goodwin entered the empty room and slowed turned around, surveying each wall. “I reckon this would do me. I don’t need much more than a bed, a chair, and a chest of drawers.”
Fritz nodded. “I also can show you the South Room, if you like. That is a guest room now, but we can make a change if it is preferred. That room looks out on the back alley. Mr. Wolfe prefers the south for the light in the winter.”
Mr. Goodwin shook his head. “No, this is good. I’ve already started planning what goes where. If Mr. Wolfe decides he’ll have me, that is.”
“Then perhaps you will accompany me to the kitchen now? I will show you the dining room on the way and then, if you would like, a sample of my cooking.”
In the kitchen, Fritz directed Mr. Goodwin to the little table by the window as he lit the fire under a pan of oil. “Mr. Wolfe takes his breakfast in his room. You could have a tray as well or you could come here to the kitchen.” He took his bowl of batter from the fridge and placed a test spoonful in the pan. The oil was perfect. He carefully ladled balls of batter into the half inch of oil, making sure not to splatter the hot fat.
“I’m the sort who isn’t really awake until I’ve had my glass of orange juice, so I don’t know that I’m very good company first thing in the morning, but I guess I’d rather join you in the kitchen if it’s all the same to you. If Mr. Wolfe hires me, that is.”
Fritz turned one fritter. It was golden brown. Good. He began to turn the others. “Lunch and dinner will be in the dining room with Mr. Wolfe. Saturday is my day out. But I will leave a salad and bread and cheese and cold meats. Or sometimes, when the mood takes him, Mr. Wolfe will cook. He is an accomplished cook.”
“Alright by me.” Mr. Goodwin sniffed the air. “That smells incredible. What is it?”
Fritz lifted the fritters from the oil to drain on a bit of paper. “I have made corn fritters. You will like them. There is also some salad. With the fritters, often I serve blackberry jam but sometimes honey. Which would you prefer?”
Mr. Goodwin hesitated. “Blackberry jam, please. They grow a lot of corn in Ohio, where I grew up, but I don’t believe I’ve ever had it in fritters.”
Fritz laid a plate in front of him. “It is a favorite of Mr. Wolfe’s, so here we have it often. The dish comes from the American south.”
Mr. Goodwin picked up his fork and knife and cut a bite of fritter, smearing it with a dab of blackberry jam. His fork rose to his mouth. His eyes widened. “That is mighty fine, Mr. Brenner, mighty fine.” He took another bite.
“Would you like some beer, Mr. Goodwin? Or a glass of wine?” Fritz asked.
“Well, if you have any, what I’d really like is a glass of milk, please.” Mr. Goodwin took another bite of corn fritter. “I’d wager that there’s nothing particularly fancy in these, just everyday ingredients that anyone might have in their kitchen. So what makes them so good?”
Fritz nodded. “There is corn, flour, egg whites, milk, salt, and oil for frying. The quality of the dish is in the ingredients. The corn must be very fresh, picked within hours.”
Mr. Goodwin swallowed the last of the fritters and patted his satisfied stomach. “I guess that some of the quality is in what you do with the ingredients. Even with fresh corn, putting everything together in the right way takes some knowhow.”
After Mr. Goodwin had gone, Mr. Wolfe called Fritz to the office. “Well?” he asked.
Having discussed the prior candidates, Fritz knew what Mr. Wolfe was asking. “Mr. Goodwin is a nice young man, polite and friendly. His palate is untrained but he likes food and he is perceptive enough to learn. I would not mind feeding him.”