Mr. Borthwick sniffed at the contents of the green jar and shook his head, puzzled. Tipping the jar, he allowed a small amount of the spice to fall out onto the palm of his hand. This he examined, frowning and murmuring something under his breath.
"What is it?" Joe asked quickly. "What's it called?"
Mr. Borthwick shook his head. "For the life of me, I just don't know," he said. "I can't remember where on earth I got it."
Joe was alarmed. "Doesn't the jar say anything?" he asked. "Can't we get some clue from that?"
Mr. Borthwick looked the jar over. "Nothing at all," he said. "All that's there is a picture of a tree."
"But you must be able to remember where you bought it," Joe pressed.
Mr. Borthwick was flustered. He looked upset. "I'm sorry, Joe," he replied. "When you get to my age, it's hard to remember things. It can't be helped."
Joe felt a twinge of alarm. "If we don't know what it is, how are we going to get any more of it? There's only enough left for a few burgers at most."
Mr. Borthwick nodded. "I know," he said softly.
Because he had been able to remember the recipe by allowing his mind to quietly mull things over, Joe thought that Mr. Borthwick might be able to do the same. "By this time tomorrow he may have remembered," he said to himself.
But Mr. Borthwick hadn't remembered the next day, nor the day after that.
"It's gone," he said sadly. "It's completely gone. I've got no idea at all where I got that spice from."
Joe was not prepared to give up just because Mr. Borthwick could not remember where the spice had come from: perhaps they would be able to figure it out some other way. He thought for a while, and then he made a suggestion.
"Who do you know," he asked, "who knows more about spice than anybody else?"
Mr. Borthwick scratched his head. "Well," he said, "I think the great Cassaroli probably knows more about spices and herbs than anybody else."
"Cassaroli?" Joe asked. "Who's he?"
Mr. Borthwick smiled. "Cassaroli is probably the best Italian chef in the country. He works at the Excelsior Hotel and people come from miles around to taste his dishes. He's very famous."
"Do you know him?" Joe asked eagerly. "Can we go and see him?"
Mr. Borthwick looked doubtful. "I've never actually met him," he admitted, "but I see no reason why we shouldn't go and see him. After all, you and I, we can speak to him chef to chef!"
At the Excelsior
The Excelsior Hotel was at a well-known resort about fifty miles away. When they reached the hotel, Mr. Borthwick parked his car in the parking lot and together they walked around to the back of the building, where Mr. Borthwick said they would find the kitchen entrance. There they were met by a waiter, who asked them rather suspiciously what they wanted.
"We have come," Mr. Borthwick said, "to see Mr. Cassaroli."
The waiter directed them along a passage and there, in front of them, was a wide door with a sign that said, "Kitchen. Entry forbidden."
Mr. Borthwick straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair. Then, turning to wink at Joe, he pushed open the door and the two of them entered.
Joe had never seen such a magnificent kitchen. Stretching out in front of them were what seemed like acres and acres of tables and ovens. Exhaust fans, like great hooded creatures, whirred busily, and steam rose from a dozen different pans. Here and there, standing in front of chopping boards or mixing bowls, men and women dressed all in white were preparing dishes. It was a remarkable sight.
As they entered, everyone suddenly stopped working and stared at them. Then, after a few moments, a man who was as wide as he was tall clapped his hands angrily and everyone returned to work. The man waddled toward Joe and Mr. Borthwick and stood defiantly before them.
"How dare you enter my kitchen!" he shouted. "You must leave immediately!"
And with that he clapped his hands imperiously and began to waddle away.
"Excuse me," Mr. Borthwick called out after the retreating figure. "But I have come to see Mr. Cassaroli."
The chef turned around. "I am the great Cassaroli," he said impatiently. "What do you want?"
Both Joe and Mr. Borthwick were surprised. They had expected that anybody who called himself "the great Cassaroli" would look more impressive than this.
Mr. Borthwick quickly overcame his surprise and began to explain what it was that he and Joe wanted. "We have heard," he began nervously, "that there is nobody who knows more about spices than you do."
As Mr. Borthwick spoke these words, there was a marked change in Cassaroli's manner. The famous chef relaxed a little and even allowed himself a modest smile.
"Yes," he said quite pleasantly. "That is said."
Mr. Borthwick continued quickly, "And we wondered if you could identify a spice for us. We have it here." Joe passed Mr. Borthwick the green jar and the old man gave it to the chef.
"Let me see, let me see," Cassaroli said impatiently, grabbing the jar from Mr. Borthwick's hands. "This should not be difficult."
The chef opened the lid and poked his nose in to sniff at the spice. He looked for a moment, frowned, and took another sniff. He shook a small quantity of the spice from the jar and examined it. Then saying something to himself in Italian, he put a little on his tongue to taste it.
"Mmm," he said thoughtfully.
Mr. Borthwick looked hopeful. "Can you recognize it?" he asked.
Cassaroli looked embarrassed. "I cannot," he said crossly. "It must be a very rare spice."
"But maestro," pleaded Mr. Borthwick, "surely you have tasted it somewhere before. You must have!"
Cassaroli shook his head regretfully and handed the jar back to Mr. Borthwick. "I am sorry," he said. "But even the great Cassaroli has never tasted this spice."
Mr. Borthwick and Joe must have looked so disappointed at the news that even the great Cassaroli forgot his pride for a moment.
"There is one other possibility," he said quietly. "Eating in this hotel at this very moment is one of the world's great gourmets, a truly great food expert. We will ask him. Perhaps he will tell us."
"Thank you," said Mr. Borthwick. "You see, it is very important to us to be able to find more of this spice."
Mr. Borthwick didn't dare mention hamburgers, because he knew that to the great Cassaroli, hamburgers would be beneath contempt. Such a great chef had probably never even seen a hamburger.
Joe, Mr. Borthwick, and the great Cassaroli left the kitchen and entered the grand dining room of the Excelsior. In front of them stretched table after table with starched white linens and gleaming silver. In the middle of the room a huge chandelier glowed with a hundred points of light.
As the great Cassaroli entered the room, many of the diners looked up from their plates to stare at him. Then, at several tables at the same time, groups of diners rose to their feet and clapped their hands enthusiastically. The chef stopped, bowed, and waved to those who had applauded. Then, together with his two companions, he made his way toward a table in the corner of the room where a tall man in a black suit and bow tie was dining with a woman bedecked with glittering jewels.
As the famous gourmet saw Cassaroli approach, he rose to his feet and made a small bow toward the chef. Then he looked in the direction of Mr. Borthwick and Joe and made a small bow toward them as well.
Cassaroli introduced them to the man and the woman. He was called Mr. Octavius and his friend was called Miss Cadillac.
"We have come to ask your advice," Cassaroli said in an important voice.
Mr. Octavius smiled modestly. "But my dear charming Cassaroli, who am I to advise you?" he said.
Cassaroli spread his hands. "For once I have failed," he said, sounding very upset about it all. "Where one has failed, another may succeed."
Mr. Octavius listened to this gravely and then he turned his attention to Mr. Borthwick's explanation about the mystery spice. Then, taking the jar and opening it carefully, he inspected the contents. Dipping two long and elegant
fingers into the jar, he took out a pinch of the spice and put it on the white tablecloth. From a pocket in his jacket he then extracted a small eyeglass, which he fixed over one eye.
Joe watched Mr. Octavius inspecting the spice. After a minute or so, the gourmet put away the eyeglass and busied himself with placing a tiny bit of the spice on a small silver spoon. Then he closed his eyes and put the spoon into his mouth.
Mr. Octavius opened his eyes and gently withdrew the spoon from his mouth. "I think," he said slowly, "that I may be able to help you."
Joe was sure that Mr. Borthwick's sigh of relief could be heard all over the dining room.
Mr. Octavius raised one hand to silence them. "I cannot be sure," he said. "In fact, I regret that I cannot give a name for this spice."
Of course everyone was disappointed and Cassaroli was about to protest when Mr. Octavius continued.
"As you know well, Cassaroli," he said, "I have eaten all over the world and dined in France. I have dined up and down Italy, in restaurants in valleys and on the tops of mountains. I have sampled sweet cabbage in Poland and honey fingers in Greece. I have eaten my way across Australia and across South America—in both directions."
Joe listened with fascination as the famous gourmet continued. There was something masterly in the way he spoke, and Joe knew that he was in the presence of a great authority.
"And," said Mr. Octavius, raising a finger into the air, "I have tasted some extremely unusual dishes. In Hong Kong I ate several snakes, all served in sauce. On the islands of China I ate ants, neatly spread on toast. They were delicious. And, of course, I have had so many helpings of bird's nest soup that I can hardly remember them all."
Cassaroli was entranced by this account. To a chef, such a man as Mr. Octavius was worthy of the highest possible admiration.
"But enough of this!" said Mr. Octavius. "To the business at hand!"
Joe hardly dared breathe. Would the famous gourmet give them the clue that would lead to the spice?
"I have tasted this before," Mr. Octavius announced, pointing to the green jar. "I tasted it many years ago. But I have never come across it since."
"Where was it?" Mr. Borthwick urged. "Can you remember?"
Mr. Octavius lowered his voice, as one does when one is about to reveal a secret.
"I am ashamed," he whispered.
Cassaroli leaned forward. "Tell us," he pressed. "We will tell nobody."
Mr. Octavius hesitated. "My only excuse," he said, "was my hunger. I hadn't eaten for eight hours, otherwise I wouldn't have dreamed of going there."
"Going where?" Cassaroli hissed.
Mr. Octavius took a silk handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed at his forehead. "It was late," he said. "Nobody else was open. I was traveling through that town down the road." He paused, looked guiltily at Cassaroli. "Forgive me, it was many, many years ago. I popped into a hamburger joint!"
"A hamburger!" Cassaroli exclaimed. "You ate a hamburger!"
"I will never do it again," Mr. Octavius pleaded. "But I must admit, it was a very fine hamburger! I can't remember the name of the place. I think it was called Braithwaites or Bentinks—something like that . . . Borthwick's! That was it."
An Exciting Discovery
"We're back exactly where we started," Mr. Borthwick said as they drove home. "We're none the wiser."
Joe thought about this for a moment. It had been an incredible coincidence that Mr. Octavius himself, the great gourmet, had, one evening long ago, slipped into Mr. Borthwick's hamburger place. And it had been another coincidence that on that very evening Mr. Borthwick had put a pinch of spice from the green tin into his hamburger.
"I hardly ever used that stuff," Mr. Borthwick remarked. "I can't imagine what I was doing!"
But of course Mr. Borthwick was right when he said that they were back where they began. A great chef and a great gourmet had both failed to identify the spice. They knew nothing more than they had known when they set out. It was very disappointing.
For the next few weeks nothing much happened. Then, one evening when Joe came by to help Mr. Borthwick paint some shelves, Mr. Borthwick gave him some bad news.
"I don't think we'll bother to work tonight," he said dejectedly.
Joe was surprised. "But we were going to paint those shelves," he protested. "Why don't we start tonight?"
Mr. Borthwick sat down on his chair. He looked crumpled up, defeated.
"Listen to me, Joe," he said seriously. "We just can't go on. I owe the bank money. The business isn't profitable and now the bank manager says that if I don't pay up in three weeks then that will be that."
"Why has the bank suddenly decided to ask for their money back?" Joe asked.
Mr. Borthwick looked up. "I think I know the reason," he said quietly. "One of their biggest customers is Hamburger House. The manager of Hamburger House and the manager of the bank have become close friends. Need I say more?"
A knot of anger gripped Joe's stomach. Mr. Borthwick's enemies were determined to close him down at all costs.
Joe looked at the old man. The will to fight back seemed to have gone out of him completely. "If anyone is going to save the business," Joe thought, "it will have to be me."
As he lay in bed that night, Joe thought of what he could do. It all seemed hopeless. To pay the bank back, Mr. Borthwick needed money, and he just did not have it. Unless he got it within three weeks, he would have to sell.
If Joe was going to save Mr. Borthwick's business, he'd have to find somebody who would provide the money for Mr. Borthwick to pay back the bank, or he would have to earn it himself. Joe didn't know any wealthy people (nor did Mr. Borthwick), so he decided their only chance was to discover the name of the mystery spice.
"If only we had more of that wonderful magic spice," he thought, "we could make hamburgers that would surprise the world. Nobody would go to the Hamburger House if they could have one of our burgers instead!" Somewhere, someone must know what the strange substance was.
Joe knew that Mr. Borthwick must have bought the spice from somewhere, which meant that there might be a store owner who would recognize it. If it had been bought as long ago as Mr. Borthwick said it had, then the owner would be an old man. And, thought Joe, "as long as he hasn't retired, I might be able to find him."
With all the enthusiasm of a detective on the trail, Joe went through the town phone book, making a list of all the grocers. There were twenty in all, though some of them he knew were large supermarkets. These he crossed off the list right away. That left eleven. Joe visited them one by one, speaking to each store owner and showing him the green jar with the tree picture.
Two or three of the older ones were helpful, but they couldn't say anything definite. Then, in a little store on the edge of town, Joe found an old grocer who gave him his first clue.
"I think I might have seen a jar like that," the old man said from behind the counter. "It must have been a long time ago."
Joe urged the old grocer to go on. "Can you remember where you got it from?"
Joe's question was answered by a doubtful look. "I don't think so. It was an awfully long time ago."
The grocer thought for a while. "Just a moment," he said at last. "I happen to have some of my old catalogs. I keep them for memory's sake, you know."
The old man put the jar down on the counter and shuffled off into a back room. After a while he returned, carrying a battered old catalog. In it there were photos of shoes and bundles of string and funny old washing machines with big handles. The grocer flipped to the food section and began to turn the pages very slowly.
"Dried vegetables," he muttered, "pickles, tinned Portuguese sardines, red and green jelly squares, Danish caviar in small and large bottles . . ." He paused. "Spices."
Joe peered at the catalog. The page where the old man had stopped was covered with columns of numbers, but in between the numbers were tiny photographs of jars and tins. The grocer ran a finger down the columns, muttering something
to himself.
Suddenly he stopped. "There," he said. "That's it! I knew I'd seen it!"
Joe felt like leaping onto the counter, he was so excited.
"Where is it?" he cried. "Please show me."
"Well," said the grocer, "here's a picture of the jar—it is the same one, isn't it?"
Joe looked at the small photograph. Yes. There was no doubt that it was the jar. It was exactly the same shape and on the front a picture was just visble. It was a picture of a tree. Underneath the picture of the jar, neatly printed in tiny lettering, were the words "Mrs. Bailey's Mixture. A taste bud tickler for every occasion."
Joe read this description aloud and looked expectantly at the grocer. For a moment he looked puzzled but then, slowly but unmistakably, a smile of recognition spread over his face.
"Of course!" he said. "Ofcoursel"
Joe was bursting to know what the grocer remembered, but he did not want to break the old man's train of thought.
"Well, well," the old man went on.
Joe counted to ten, then blurted out, "Who is Mrs. Bailey?"
"Mrs. Bailey?" came the answer. "She was a famous cook—used to be the best mixer of spices in the whole country. And she lived here, right in this town."
At this news, Joe's heart leaped. All he had to do was find Mrs. Bailey and then Mr. Borthwick's troubles would be over.
"Where is she now?" he asked.
"Heaven, I expect," the grocer replied. "She died many years ago."
Joe felt the disappointment that you feel when you get very close to something you want and then, at the last moment, find it snatched away from you.
"But her daughter still comes in here," the grocer added. "Every week, without fail. She looks just like her mother, but I hear that she can't tell one spice from another!" The grocer shook his head in disapproval.
To Joe that didn't matter. He was on the right track at last. Fortunately, the grocer was able to tell Joe where Mrs. Bailey's daughter lived. Joe wrote down the address, thanked the grocer for his help, and set off to tell Mr. Borthwick about the progress he had made.
Alexander Mccall Smith Page 2
