January 1st, 1889 - McPadraic home

It was New Year’s Day at 10 AM. Most of the members of the McPadraic family were sleeping in after staying up late last night, but Arthur had woken up at his usual time, had done a work out, and was now in his office, waiting for his new member of staff to arrive. He had ordered the servants to send him straight to see his employer. Arthur liked to know the staff he hired, all the more after the incident with the previous cook. He hoped this French chef was better.
“Come in.” He said, when there was a knock.

  

Magic certainly had a way of making things last longer, and Ahmet’s uniform was one of those things. He’d gotten that along with the shortest notice in his strange, magical career: some 14 odd hours to get his shit together and present himself to a new household. Sure, he’d packed with only a day or two in advance before.

Mr. McPadraic. It was the sort of local name that no one didn’t know. It came with prestige. He’d since forgotten whether this was the redhead with the bastard in Liverpool or the one with some nephew standing in for a dead son. Mr. Baudelaire was a big fish in a small pond – Mr. McPadraic was a bigger fish in an even smaller pond.

There was some sort of prestige in that, strangely enough. He knocked, steeled his nerves, and opened the door when beckoned.

“Mr. McPadraic,” he greeted, closing the door behind himself. “I am Armel Koch, from Baudelaire’s Boulevard.”

That was not a French accent in the slightest. German or Prussian, maybe.

  

Arthur lifted an eyebrow at the young man entering. He looked Mediterranean rather than French, spoke with what was certainly not a French accent, and was a good deal younger than Arthur had expected. A distinguished chef? At his age? He would have to go and have a word with Mr. Baudelaire soon. Five seconds into having met this chef, he already realized he had been cheated. If only he had been as observant last night. But he had had a few glasses of Mr. Baudelaire's best wine.

Actually, he now started wondering whether that had in fact been Baudelaire's best wine.

The other eyebrow quirked.

And he resumed a neutral face. "Mr. Koch. Thank you for being able to make it so early. Mr. Baudelaire assured me you are one of the finest chefs around."

He now started wondering about Baudelaire's standards for staff.

Arthur managed to keep his eyebrows from quirking this time.

"Tell me, where are you from?"

  

While France was Mediterranean, his accent certainly sounded on the southern end of that. Mr. McPadraic’s brow quirked, and there was a subtle but nonetheless quizzical tilt of Ahmet’s head in response. Whatever McPadraic saw, he got the sense it was not what he was hoping for.

Baudelaire had always been... well, slimier than caviar. Before he’d sent ‘Armel’ off (and for the longest time he’d assumed that Baudelaire had simply mixed up his name), he had talked to him about his time in Germany. Asked if he’d ever been to Alsace (which he had been, for a school trip once). If he’d like to move up in the world.

He was naïve, perhaps, to assume it would be straightforward.

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Baudelaire spoke a big game – it might have been his greatest gift of all. What would Mr. Baudelaire have said of ‘Armel’s origins?

“My family is quite well-traveled. I have been in Mr. Baudelaire’s employ for a decade, and spent much of my time and schooling in Germany before that.”

Shit. Wait. Had that been a hint to stick Alsace in there somewhere?

  

Well, that would have to do for now. Arthur had not called the young man in to question him on his origins after all. "Very well." he said. "The maids will inform you about the daily routine in this household and when meals will be expected." Speaking of the maids... that was what he had wanted to talk to Armel about. "We pay our staff well, treat them with respect and try to make sure all needs are met. What we expect in return is proper moral standards and discretion. Your predecessor, I'm afraid, had a little... misadventure... with one of the maids." No dout he would hear about it soon enough anyway. "We tolerate no impropriety, and any such behaviour will result in immediate dismissal." Arthur studied the man for a few seconds as if he was trying to estimate whether Armel was capable of such a heinous act as fornication. "On the other hand, work hard and show good character, and I assure you , this household will look out for you."

  

“Thank you, sir.”

Armel gazed back as guilelessly as a man destined to eat McPadraic’s late wife’s flowers could.

Did a deer summon forth images of romping in the woods?

“I am sorry such misbehavior occurred within your kitchen,” Armel answered monotonously. “We are accustomed to vigorous standards.”

Regarding the food quality itself rather than the fuckers preparing it, but somehow that seemed better to skim over.

“I intend to, Mr. McPadraic,” he said, shoulders straighter for it.

He wasn’t so sure he believed McPadraic’s implications, but he had siblings to look out for. Ingratiating himself to this household was their best bet thus far.

“What should I know to begin with as far as your household’s preferred meals?”

  

At least the reaction seemed decent.  "A proper English breakfast. Warm lunch and a light supper. No foreign experimentation on regular days, apart from french cuisine" - foreign products were more expensive, and there was in fact a budget to stick to, if they wanted to remain with all the staff they had - "but you may prepare something more exotic when  we have guests. Nothing spicy though. My dear wife cannot handle it well."

  

Armel nodded along with each ‘item’, hands clasped before himself. Surprisingly... humble, for a man of McPadraic’s esteem. He was an annual regular, certainly, though not one who regularly dined out by any means.

“Certainly. English and French cuisine for the main menus, hold the delicacies for company. I believe you typically have the glazed white boar roast special on New Year’s, the flaming phoenix breast for your sons, and the maiden’s salad with lemon dressing for your wife and daughters – is this similar to the menu you would like to see at home?”

Probably with less fire. Merlin knew how many fireproofing charms and close calls that damned restaurant had.

  

Arthur quirked an eyebrow in surprise. At least the young man had a good head on him. He didn't need another dimwit working in his kitchen. "Something like that, yes. But some extra meat for my wife and my youngest daughter." They were both awfully fragile. On top of that, his wife tended to fall sick, especially during her monthly ordeal. Sometimes she would have to spend days in a darkened room, and was unable to do anything, but wait there for people to bring her soups and tea, and have a nurse check on her. Arthur was eager for her to eat well and strengthen her body.

  

And McPadraic didn’t specify the meat type. Was this one of those families on the edge of destitution to prop up a life of repute..? Well, as long as Ahmet made the right connections and jumped ship before it sank, his prospects were good. Worse came to worst, Baudelaire was always biting off more than he could chew.

“Certainly, sir.”

Too many questions could make the elite touchy. He figured he’d do a side platter of seasoned meats and see what stayed and disappeared.[b]

“In-house alcohol, cheeses, and dessert sculptures will require advanced notice, but anything that can be bought and prepped within the day need only enough notice to get the ingredients in time. Are there any events I should be aware of coming up, or shall I get started on breakfast?”

  

"Very well. My oldest daughter will have her nineteenth birthday at the end of this month. We will celebrate it over the weekend, when she's home and I want it to be a big event. But you will receive notice of that in due time." His own birthday was within a few days, but he never really celebrated it. "That will be all for now. Thank you, Mr. Koch."