his deme’s staff but knowing them intimately enough to be up on problems, family matters, health and welfare. It paid off.
He said, in passing, “Hi, Chuck, how’s Doris?”
“She’s better. If she’d just lay off that candy.”
He called to another, “How was the vacation, Slim?”
“Tiring. I’m glad to be back.”
The door of his Head Chef’s private office smoothed open before him, and he entered.
Pierre Daunou was standing looking at a large control screen. He grumbled, “Triple deck-aire sandwiches,” before turning to see who his visitor might be.
Barry Ten Eyck said, “Hi, Pete.”
Pierre Daunou would never fail for employment. Were there ever a surplus of first rate chefs, he could always get a job in Tri-Di shows as a stereotype chef. He was roly-poly, apple cheeked, small of mouth and with a tiny French mustache of yesteryear. Ludicrously, in this ultra-modern atmosphere, he even wore a white apron and a tall chef’s white hat.
“Bon soir, Barry,” he said. And then, meaninglessly, he snorted, “Triple deck-aire sandwiches.” He made a Gallic gesture of disgust.
Barry sank into a chair across from his head of the deme’s Restaurant Division. He said. “What about triple decker sandwiches?”
The chef plopped himself down into his own swivel chair behind his littered, phone screen desk. He flicked up a hand. “Five years I spend attending the Cordon Bleu in Paris. Ten years I spend here and there as an apprentice and then as an assistant chef. Fifteen years of study. And now what do I do?”
“You’re the best chef in Phoenecia,” Barry said soothingly.
“I am the best chef for five hundred kilometers around!” the other said in quick contradiction. “And what do I do? I design triple deck-aire sandwiches for idiots without palates!” He flicked his plump hand in the direction of the control screen he had been consulting when his superior had entered.
“Hamburgers, hot dogs, fried steak, fried chicken, triple deck-aire sandwiches, french fried potatoes, ice cream. Do you realize, Monsieur Ten Eyck, that those seven items compose half of all orders filled by this department?”
Barry chuckled. “I’m surprised it isn’t even higher.”
The Head Chef slapped a palm down on the desk. “For the sake of those who do not want to eat in their own apartments and have their food sent up directly to the auto-tables in their dining coves, we have here in Shyler-deme four auto-cafeterias and six other restaurants. Monsieur Ten Eyck, we even have an alleged French restaurant, designed by I, myself. At great trouble I reproduced the interior of Le Chalut, a superlative little two-star restaurant in which I was once employed in Provence. Outdoing even myself, I created masterpieces of cuisine such as Rognon de veau flambé and Lamproie bordelaise. And what do they order when they are graced to enter my French restaurant?”
Barry was looking at him apologetically. He cleared his throat.
“Hamburgers! French fries! Triple deck-aire sandwiches!”
Barry said soothingly, “Some of us appreciate your efforts, Pete.”
The chef gave his flick of a hand gesture of disgust. “A handful!”
Barry said, “Ah, Pete, Miss Cusack tells me you’re a bit dissatisfied again.”
“A big dissatisfied!” the other snorted. “Ha! I tell you Monsieur Ten Eyck, this time I am through. What is the use of my years at the Cordon Bleu, the greatest school of haute cuisine the world has ever seen, if I wind up here in this shining automated kitchen equipment mass producing triple deck-aire sandwiches for clods? No. I have made savings. I shall return to Common Europe and open a tiny boite in Italy, Switzerland, possibly France itself and I shall be appreciated, Monsieur Ten Eyck. Gourmets will come from a thousand kilometers about to dine well on the products of the kitchen of Pierre Daunou! Never again will I even think of the words triple deck-aire sandwich!”
Barry Ten Eyck sighed. “I wish you’d think it over, Pete. As you know, I consider you the best man on my staff. The Restaurant Division goes like clockwork. I’d hate to see you leave.”
The other puffed out his cheeks, only slightly mollified. “You have my notice Monsieur Ten Eyck. In two weeks, Pierre Daunou will leave in search of employment where his arts are appreciated.”
Barry stood. “Well, as I said, I’ll hate to see you go. I hope you’ll change your mind.” He turned to leave, then turned back. “Oh, Pete. Do you know anything about Moroccan cooking?”
“Moroccan cooking? I know everything about Moroccan cooking. I once worked at the 1001 Nights restaurant in Tangier. But there is very little to know. The number of dishes is limited, though at the best some are superlative. Ha! Treed. One takes three plump pigeons, eh? One takes salt, two teaspoons. One takes saffron, a pinch, ginger a teaspoon, pepper, the same. One takes a chopped tablespoon of chervil, the same of parsley. One takes three pieces of cinnamon bark and three large onions, in large pieces. One takes five hundred grammes of olive oil and 800 grammes of flour.”
Barry had raised a hand to head the other off, but it was too late.
“One puts into the pot the pigeons, the salt, saffron, ginger, pepper, chervil, parsley, cinnamon, onions and the olive oil and makes it to boil. Of the flour one makes very thin pastry sheets about eight inches across. Thin, thin, as thin as strudle pastry. You know strudle pastry? Ha! One puts about thirty of these sheets of pastry on a plate, one over the other, making a circle about eighteen inches across. When the pigeons are cooked, one removes the cinnamon and puts them with the onion onto the pastry. All is covered with ten or twelve more sheets of pastry. Over this one pours a very little liquid from the cooking pot. And thus it is ready to serve.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Barry said.
“Wonderful? Ha! Treed is the oldest of all Arabian dishes, mon ami. It is said that when the Prophet Mohammed was asked what he liked best in the world, he answered that he loved his wife above everything but after her he liked treed. But why do you ask of Moroccan cuisine?”
Barry shrugged. “The members of the Gourmet Club want a Moroccan restaurant. I understand that a couple of them just got back from a vacation to Marrakech, or somewhere in Morocco, and are evidently all keyed up about a Moroccan restaurant in Shyler-deme.”
“Ha! The Gourmet Club,” the Head Chef snorted. “About thirty-five members. If there were thirty-five hundred perhaps I would remain, for their sakes.”
Back in his own office, Barry Ten Eyck slumped down into his chair and eyed the busy Carol Ann Cusack speculatively.
He said finally, “Miss Cusack, what do you say we retire from stooging for the cosmocorps of Vanderfeller and Moore, buy ourselves a small mobile home, start collecting NIT and take off for Costa Rica? We’ll get out from under before they fire us for incompetence.”
She didn’t look up. “No, thank you, Mr. Ten Eyck,” she said.
“Well, why not? Half of the rest of the country doesn’t work. Why should we?”
“Because living on Negative Income Tax is somewhat short of the good life.”
“Oh, I don’t know. If you live in a swanky apartment in a deme, NIT doesn’t go very far. But I’ve been hearing about Costa Rica. You can do very neatly there on two sets of Negative Income Tax. What do you say we give it a try?”
“I don’t think my husband, Sid, would approve, Mr. Ten Eyck.”
“Oh, your husband, your husband; every time I propose to you, you bring in your husband.”
“Was it a proposal this time? It sounded more like a proposition. Did you see Mr. Vanderfeller?”
“Can’t you tell? Why’d you think I wanted to run off to Costa Rica?”
“I