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By Root 1345 0

were getting cold. As soon as dinner was over, they all went to the kitchen because it was warm there. It was so spacious that several people could sit there without getting in anyone's way. The gaslit walls were covered in white and blue tiles up to the height of a man. On the left was a huge iron stove with three deep wells in which were set three pots whose bottoms were blackened by coal soot. At the end a small chimney rose over a cooking range used for grilling with a smoker above. Above the stove, higher up the wall than the skimmers, the long-handled cooking spoons, and the grilling forks, was a row of numbered drawers containing bread crumbs, grated crusts—both fine and coarse—and spices—cloves, nutmeg, peppercorns. On the right, the chopping table, a huge oak block, leaned against the wall, all cut and scarred; various pieces of equipment attached to it—an injection pump, a stuffer, a food mill, with their cogs and cranks—gave a sense of mystery and the disturbing impression of a kitchen in Hell. All around the walls, on boards, even under tables, were heaps of pots, terrines, buckets, platters, tin tools, a battery of deep pans, tapered funnels, racks of knives and chopping tools, skewers and larding needles, a whole world of things that lived on fat.

Despite the excessive cleanliness, grease dominated; it oozed from the white and blue tiles, shone on the red floor tiles, gave a gray sheen to the stove, polished the chopping block to the glow of varnished oak. And in the vapor from the three continuously steaming pots of melting pork, the condensation, falling drop by drop, ensured that there was not, from floor to ceiling, so much as a nail that did not drip grease.

The Quenu-Gradelles made everything themselves. The only items they bought from outside were potted meats from celebrated houses, rillettes, conserves in jars, canned sardines, cheeses, and escargots. Starting in September, the cellar, which had been emptied in the summer, had to be refilled. After the shop closed they worked late into the evening. With the help of Auguste and Léon, Quenu stuffed saucisson, prepared hams, melted saindoux, and prepared the poitrine, lard, and strips for larding. It made an impressive clatter of pots and grinders, and the scent of the kitchen rose and filled the entire house. All of this had to be done in addition to the daily preparation of fresh pork, pâté de foie gras, galantines, hare pâté, fresh sausages, and boudin.

By eleven that evening Quenu had two pots of saindoux working and was starting on the boudin. Auguste was helping him. At a corner of the square table Lisa and Augustine were mending linen, while across from them sat Florent, his face turned toward the stove, smiling. Little Pauline had stepped onto his feet and wanted him to send her “jumping in the air.” Behind him Léon was chopping sausage meat with slow and even strokes on the chopping block.

Auguste went to look for two jugs of pig's blood in the courtyard. He had bled them himself at the slaughterhouse. He brought the blood and entrails back to the shop and left the pig carcass for the kitchen boys to dress and cart over in the afternoon. Quenu claimed that no one in all of Paris bled a pig better than Auguste. In truth, Auguste was an expert judge of blood and the boudin was good anytime Auguste said, “The boudin is going to be good.”

“So, are we going to have good boudin?” Lisa asked.

Auguste put the two jugs down and slowly answered, “I think so, Madame Quenu, yes, I think so … The first sign is the way the blood flows. When I pull out the knife, if the blood runs off too slowly, that's not a good sign. It shows that the blood is poor quality.”

“But,” Quenu interrupted, “doesn't that also depend on how far in the knife was pushed?”

Auguste's pale face showed a smile. “No, no,” he answered. “I always stick the knife in exactly four fingers. That's how you measure it. But you see, the best sign is when the blood runs out and I beat it with my hand in the bucket. It has to be a good, warm temperature, smooth but not too thick.”

Augustine