Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

this dress, in its magnificence, represents the kind of decadence that you, a simple Fool, feel the need to condemn, lampoon, and satirize?”

The Fool shook his head. “Your Majesty, no.”

“Then, could it be that you consider this dress inappropriate for a woman of my age and build, and fear that my subjects will whisper at me behind my back, and call me Mutton-dressed-as-Lamb?”

Once more, the Fool shook his head.

“Then what is it?” exclaimed the Empress. “I command you to speak your mind!”

The Fool paused for a long, long time. Then he whispered in her ear, “Your Majesty, the dress is fine—but—there’s a hole in your stocking.”

88

T

HE

M

ASTER

C

HEF

In a far-off land, there was a royal chef of exceptional skill. In the tradition of master chefs, he worked unpaid for His Majesty, except for the scraps and leftovers that he would eat when the day’s work was done. As a result, the chef was as lean as the King and his courtiers were fat, and every day he vowed to himself to find better employment.

But the chef loved cooking: it was his life. The royal kitchens were all he knew. They had seen his whole career, from pot-boy to sauce-boy to turnspit, then on to apprentice chef and finally, to his current post as Master of the Kitchens. And his skill with food was unparalleled. His palate was so sensitive that the most subtle of sauces revealed itself to him at once; he knew every aromatic spice; every herb; every seasoning. He could tell the difference between rosemary that had been picked at night and rosemary picked at noontime; he knew every colour of salt, from the pink of the Eastern Isles to the black of the Southern Seas.

His memory was phenomenal: blindfold, he could distinguish between ten thousand different cheeses; and his knowledge of wines extended to every different kind of grape in every vineyard in the Nine Worlds. His skills were a combination of natural talent and training, refined by years of experience and honed to such perfection that newcomers to the King’s table would sometimes weep with emotion at the lightness of a soufflé, or swoon at the sight of an iced pièce montée, topped with crystallized meadow flowers and bound with spun-sugar spun as fine as a frosted spider’s web. And the King himself praised him lavishly, calling him a Nonpareil, and heaping him with compliments.

Of course, the chef was very pleased at this appreciation. But praise did not fill his stomach or pay for his day-to-day living. One night, when his supper of leftover meringues, larks’ tongues, and slightly lukewarm vintage champagne had proved even less satisfactory than usual, he dared approach the Royal Treasurer, a very superior personage, and request an increase of his salary.

The Treasurer graciously agreed to meet, over a late supper of tea and petits fours, hastily prepared by the chef. She sat at the kitchen table, ate two strawberry tartlets glazed with persimmon jelly, and listened to the chef’s complaint.

“But everybody loves you here,” she said, pouring a cup of pink pepper tea. “I can’t think of any place you could go where your services would be more greatly appreciated.”

The chef explained that, although he was very grateful, he rather hoped the King might offer some form of financial recompense.

The Royal Treasurer would have laughed, but she had just taken a bite from a chocolate marchpane truffle, and her mouth was rather full.

“Money?” she said, as soon as she could. “But chefs have always worked for love! And you must know how we love you. You’ve always been so generous. I really don’t know what we’d do without you to feed and care for us.”

“Well, you could pay me,” said the chef.

The Treasurer considered this for just long enough to pour another cup of the pink-pepper tea. “I suppose that’s one idea,” she said. “But really, why does it matter? After all, you sleep here. You have the kitchen to yourself when the pot-boys have gone to bed. You eat the leftovers from the King’s own table—”

At this point the chef pointed out that firstly, there was never all that much left over, and that secondly, they were his leftovers.

The Royal Treasurer crossed her arms over her generous belly. “I should have expected more gratitude,” she told the chef reproachfully. “After all, being the King’s Head Chef is a significant honour.”

“Yes, but ma’am—” began the chef.

“You are known throughout the land,” went on the Royal Treasurer. “We have made you famous; we have given you this chance to rise above the other chefs. This was your payment from the King, an honour worth far more than money. Don’t you think it’s just a little selfish of you to ask for more?”

The chef was abashed, but the sign of the Treasurer reaching for yet another petit four was enough to stiffen his resolve.

“His Majesty honours me greatly,” he said. “But if he were to pay me a modest salary every week, then I could have a house of my own, and food of my own on the table. I could even maybe afford to marry and start a family. I have a little put aside—not half enough, but if only the King—”

“I tell you this in the strictest confidence,” said the Treasurer in a whisper. “His Majesty the King is in debt. A man in your humble position may not fully appreciate how much expense a monarch incurs, but the overheads are tremendous. He has to pay for his courtiers; his staff; his pages; his royal retinue. His horses need to be stabled and fed; his aviaries tended; his gardens upkept. If the King were to pay his chef as well as paying everyone else, he would most likely go bankrupt, and there wouldn’t be a monarchy at all.” There were tears in the Treasurer’s eyes as she said all this to the chef, and only the prospect of finishing the last of the strawberry