the chauffeur, like all of us, so wanted to believe. When the Saigon sun cracked our lips, splitting them open like some soft fruit, the promise of a kiss, even one so far away, could get us through the endless procession of days. I, in truth, have always preferred the rain. It has little to do with my vocation. Cooks, unlike poets, are unmoved by the weather. From the very beginning, the best ones, according to Minh the Sous Chef, know how to use the extreme heat, the bitter cold, to their advantage. They take the sun and turn the flesh of fruits or animals into a mouth-savoring chew. They never forget, even as the skin underneath their fingernails turns blue, that the appearance of ice means the advent of meat without maggots or a crust of salt. As for the rain, it means that yeast may be slow to rise and that eggs may rot within days. My affinity for the rain really has little to do with its culinary consequences. I, like all my brothers, was conceived in a downpour. What else was there to do during the rainy season? Hell, I suspect everyone in Saigon was conceived amidst the sound of water, carousing on the rooftops, slinking down the drainpipes. In this city, well, anyone conceived in Paris today would be treated to the sound of automobile horns and church bells because a snowfall contributes nothing to the city's constant chatter. A snowfall in February, silent—sullen would not be overstating it—is for me the most unforgiving. There is no pretense of grace, no lofty swirling, no laceworked confetti. The sky just opens up and pours down powdered sugar, cracker crumbs, salt. These are my exact thoughts. Nothing poetic, nothing profound, nothing more worldly than the miserable weather and how I would have to be out in it before the markets closed for the day. Breakfast has been served. Basket and Pépé have been stuffed with livers. Lunch for their Mesdames is still hours away. GertrudeStein and Miss Toklas are staying in for the day because of the weather and because photographers are expected later for tea. The rhythm of a Monday at the rue de Fleurus punctuated by a gripe about the snow, a refrain about tropical rain. Fate, though, is listening in. Worse, it mistakes a melancholic aside for a bout of nostalgia. The latter honors the past. I am merely regretting it.
"Thin Bin, this is for you."
I turn my head from the ice-flocked window, and my heart stands still. So soon? I think. It has only been a day, Mesdames. Only one day.
Miss Toklas is standing just inside of the kitchen doorway, and next to her is GertrudeStein. GertrudeStein has one hand in the pocket of her skirt, and the other is pointing to a small silver tray in Miss Toklas's hands. "Thin Bin, this is for you," GertrudeStein repeats.
A one-way fare for the métro? Severance pay minus the cost of one notebook, used? A letter of recommendation for my next Monsieur and Madame: "Marvelous cook but clumsy when inebriated and has on occasion been known to pilfer. Yours truly, The Steins. "No matter, whatever my Mesdames have for me on that tray, I can at least assume it is not a canape. In all the years that I have been with them, I have never seen them together in quite this way. First of all, GertrudeStein rarely accompanies Miss Toklas into the kitchen. They have a division of labor, and GertrudeStein's half has nothing to do with this room. Second, Miss Toklas always does the talking when it comes to matters of domestic affairs. GertrudeStein does not even know how much I get paid. As for the silver tray, I can only assume that these two are a bit more formal about their dismissal practices than other Messieurs and Mesdames. The timing, after breakfast and before lunch, is classic. More cooks are discharged during these few fateful hours than any other. Most Messieurs and Mesdames require coffee and something sweet from me before they will let me go. Monday is also the preferred day of the week for such tasks. It leaves Monsieur and Madame with enough time to find a replacement. That is why most dinner parties are scheduled from Thursdays through Saturdays.