5 – The Earl's Breakfast

Bard picked up the package and turned it in his hands. He recognized his own name written directly on the paper wrapping in large block letters. A longer message followed, but he couldn't decipher it no matter how hard he stared. Letters dodged away from his skimming eyes, and entire words blurred out of existence. Only when he lay his finger across each line of text, then moved it to uncover one syllable at a time, could he made sense of the message.

Dear Bard,

Thank you for the strawberry pudding! We were so excited about the first compliment you ever did get from the Young Master on your compote and custard, we pooled our wages and got you this two-book set. The lady at the shop said that any chef worth his salt knows these recipes by heart, so you probably already know them, but it would look so nice on your shelf!

XOX Finny

Something else below Finny's message had been scribbled out, and under it was penned:

sorry bout your face. you got carried away and so did I – m.r

Underneath that was a third message in slanted calligraphy that Bard recognized at once from the daily menus:

If you can impress the Young Master or myself with any of these recipes, he may deign to consider sending you for the qualification exam at a local culinary institute. If your initiative sets the building on fire, however…

-S.M.-

Bard cut the string and slit the paper with a fillet knife. Inside was indeed a two-volume set of cookbooks. He slide his finger over the title. Mastering the Art of French Cooking. He flipped through it, but there were not nearly enough pictures. His eyes settled on one particularly frightening recipe that filled three pages with text as dense as nine-days-old pease porridge.

"Boeuf a la Bourguignonne," he read, awkwardly sounding out each syllable. Strung together, they sounded to him like some sort of incantation for summoning the devil.

"Indeed," said Sebastian's silky voice, startling him. "Boeuf a la Bourguignonne is a deceivingly complex traditional beef stew of red wine, onions, bacon and mushrooms, frequently served over boiled potatoes with a side of buttered green peas, though the young master prefers his with mashed parsnips and celery root. The description sounds simple enough, but you'll notice that the ingredient list takes up most of the first page. You'll also notice that several of the ingredients—such as the consommé broth-require their own separate preparation. And most madding for you, Baldroy: it requires four hours of braising to attain its complex flavor mélange. What a wonderful idea for tonight's dinner, yes?"

Bard quickly flipped to another page. "Let's try somethin' easier. Like this one." He squinted at the page. "Crème anglaise custard with floating meringue islands and spun sugar cages. You 'ear that? Custard. You know I can do custard." He could feel a smirk pull at his lips.

"Very well." The butler glanced at his pocket watch. "It is now eight in the morning. The young master will be hosting a dinner tonight for a trade delegation from the Bay of Fundy. I shall add your crème anglaise and sugar cages to the menu. You have exactly nine hours to prepare your dish, enough for twelve servings. I expect you to present it in person directly to the Earl of Phantomhive and his guests. That way he can lay his compliments—or punishment—directly upon your head before the entire party, and I plan to back him up in any way I can."

Bard winced.

"By the by, your eye has swollen into a nasty purple bruise. A second punishment in one day might not be advisable, Baldroy."

"I'll take it an' like it, sir. I'm not afraid to reap what I sow."

"I'm sure. You radiate nothing if not contrite meekness, Baldroy. As for the Boeuf Bourguignonne," Sebastian continued, and flipped the book shut. "A Phantomhive butler who can't prepare it alone, and entirely from memory, isn't worth his salt." He brushed past Bard and reached for a pan. "But first things first. The breakfast for the young master this morning is Crépes Suzette. You shall sit on your hands, as I told you earlier."

Bard scrambled around the table to block the butler from opening the pantry door. "Let me do breakfast, please Mr. Sebastian. I almost got the knack of flipping 'em last time, but I need the practice."

Sebastian's glare would have brought Bard to his knees if he hadn't been propped against the pantry door. "You have only nine hours to prepare your custard and sugar cages, Baldroy. The seconds are slipping away, and I feel that without adequate preparation time I would be placing you at an unfair disadvantage."

"I'll do breakfast too! It's my kitchen. A chef has rights, don't he?" Bard tried to snatch the pan from the butler's hands. Sebastian was quicker. He raised the pan, then swung it at Bard's head, stopping a mere cigarette's length from his nose.

"This from the man who thinks an acceptable picnic lunch consists of live pigeons and a blowtorch. Your initiative only tries my patience."

"When you tell me to make squab a la Wellington, I hear battlefield rations for a cagey old soldier. I don't know why you was acting so surprised, you didn't draw me a picture or nothing. But you hired me, an' you get what you pay for. Just sayin'."

Sebastian thrust the pan into Bard's shaking hands. "Remember, these are to be crépes Suzette, Baldroy. Not en flambé. You will find the recipe on page 191 of volume I."

"Ooh, what are those?" asked a wide-eyed Finny as he and Mey-Rin arrived for the late-morning servants' breakfast. "Giant chocolate wafer biscuits? There's hundreds of them all stacked near to the ceiling!"

"They aren't chocolate, Finny," said the maid. "I think them's burnt. Pancakes or somesuch."

"Crépes," said Bard, pouring a watery yellowish sauce from a pan into a shallow dish. "But if you crumble 'em over this orange-butter glaze an' eat it with a spoon, they don't taste half bad."

"And…and Mr. Sebastian let you serve that to the young master?" asked Mey-Rin, pushing away the fork Bard placed in front of her.

"Of course not," said Bard with a grin, and lit a fresh cigarette in the gas burner of the stove. "But a master marksman or fencer, 'e don't become a master in a day. Even the Earl of Phantomhive himself didn't become an earl overnight."

"Well actually—"

"You don't make a perfect crépe the first time out, an' not without breaking no eggs neither. But in the course of my practicin', Sebastian gave up on me and threatened to chain me to the table if I didn't stand aside while 'e whipped up his own batch in three minutes flat. After 'e left though, I got it inna end. Two perfectly golden crépes. Sliding 'em out of my pan was almost as nice as kissin' a certain lovely young thing-"

Finny's jaw dropped. "Bard, have you got a…?" He turned to the maid, who shook her head vigorously.

"It's a figure of speech, Finny. He's tryin' to be poetickal, but it really ain't working."

"Mey-Rin." Bard thought he caught a glimpse of the maid's eyes through her bottle-thick glasses, and resisted the urge to slide up next to her by rolling his next cigarette. "You don't think I'm poetic?"

The maid dipped her finger into the dish of orange glaze. She gave the substance an experimental lick, then said, "You're more a man of rash action than romantickal words Bard, you are. A whole lot of bluster and noise, wi' nothing to show for it."

Bard set two plates on the table. "This one 'ere is yours, Finny. One crépe spread wi' melted chocolate, a mutilated banana, more chocolate, an' whipped cream. Sebastian said if I fed it to the Young Master he'd die of insulin shock, but really I made it wi' you in mind."

In lieu of words, Finny quivered with delight.

"An' for Miss Mey Rin, I made this crépe: simple no-frills raspberries n' cream. With a touch of lemon sugar for class. That's what my bluster an' noise has to show for itself."

"There's a bit of paper stuck into it with a toothpick, there is," said Mey Rin with barely a glance at him, though Bard noticed that her face glowed pink for a moment while a smile twitched across her lips.

"Oh, that." Bard dropped his eyes and fumbled with his matchbook. "That's just a voucher entitling you to a kowtow, by me, at a time of your choosin'. It were Sebastian's idea."

Finny removed his fork from his mouth long enough to ask, "But Bard, what will you eat for breakfast?"

The chef crumbled one of the charred crépe wafers over the dish of the watery orange sauce and shoved a spoonful into his mouth. "I wouldn't make 'em if I weren't willing to eat 'em now, would I?" he said with a grimace.

Sebastian cleared his throat. He stood in the kitchen doorway and held up his silver watch. "Tic tock, tic tock, Baldroy. Seven hours to go. Mind that you keep your execrable whipped cream away from anything the Young Master might touch. It is a garnish, not an entrée."

"Seven hours? Shit." Bard hastily gathered every dirty pan and dish within arms' reach—including his own bowl of burned crépe crumbs—and dumped them all in the washbasin. "Finny, the minute you're finished I need you to double-time out to the henhouse and bring me every last egg you can find. Mey-Rin, I need you to—" he lowered his voice, and noticed that she'd gone beet red. "I'd like you to stay to help, umm, read out the ingredients to me and such out of this very nice book, which some kind friends gave me, if you can spare the time."

"I—I would have to ask Mr. Se—Sebastian."

"Stay and read for him, by all means, if the pair of you can figure out how to interact without distraction," said the butler. "Chef Baldroy, professional though he is, may find that his neck—or at least a finger—is on the chopping block if he fails. Sugar cages will not spin themselves."