Part 4 of a 9-part series
Having taken the job, I began
recalling some of the many oddities and familial strangeness from the
night of my audition dinner. I wondered
if things at that household could have really been that screwy. Even if they had been, I argued back to myself,
probably it was just a fluke, an aberration of circumstances because of the
audition, having a stranger romping around their house and such. I mean, these folks were obviously
intelligent, successful and wealthy.
They must be OK right? How weird
could they be?
That was a question whose answer I
never fully learned, but I did get glimpses of the whole. During the time I worked for the Quires I
found myself growing more and more amazed that a couple so obviously messed-up
could become so successful. A tribute to
this country’s systems I think, or perhaps, it was that their personal forms of
imbalance just happened to mesh with their chosen career paths.
At any rate, I soon came to realize
that the Quire’s ran their house like a boot camp for dysfunctionalism where I,
and the rest of the staff, were the raw recruits, there to be broken, shaped
and molded into something smaller. If
there was a Drill Sergeant at this boot camp it was certainly The Wife. While the rest of The Family had each their
role in the chain of command (Mr. Quire the General, the daughters the
lieutenants), it was she who had the
primary contact with the troops and was tasked with the training. Her training tool of choice? The Rule Book.
The was no actual, written rule book. That would have made things too easy, of
course. The Rule book was in Mrs.
Quire’s head and she had the freedom (and inclination) to change the rules at
will or whim. Woe be it to he who was
not up to date on the rules. For me,
quite naturally, the rules governed everything to do with the kitchen and
food.
One set of rules covered the use of pots, pans,
utensils, and equipment and dictated which should be used for what applications, and in what manner. Mrs Quire was obsessive about cleanliness and
order so there were lots of rules about that too. All of the lovely copper pots and
pans hanging from the big rack in the middle of the room had to be arranged
“just-so” in order of size and by type.
Each had to be facing the same direction, at the same angle. If any pot was used, even for boiling water,
it had to be put through an incredibly thorough and time-consuming cleaning and polishing
regime.
I’ve already mentioned one of the
Cutting Board Rules, another had to do with Potato Pancakes. Potato Pancakes were one of the Quires' favorite foods and they often wanted them in accompaniment to just about any
entrée. I made a pretty good Potato
Pancake, but Mrs. Quire had her way she wanted them made. She went as far as to come into the kitchen
one afternoon and walk me through her whole process and recipe. Who was I to argue? They were the ones paying the big bucks so
even if I couldn’t tell any difference in the end result, I followed her
recipe.
One Sunday afternoon following a
nice brunch meal for them which included Potato Pancakes with freshly-made
apple sauce and sour cream, Mrs. Quire entered the kitchen.
“Did you enjoy you meal today Mrs.
Quire?”
“Very good potato pancakes. Nice and crispy, just like I showed you how
to do.” She was speaking to me, but her
eyes were roving all over the kitchen, looking hard for something.
“I have some lovely fresh prawns
from the market. How does that sound for
dinner?”
“Do something lighter.” Now she was starring at the pot rack over the
granite slab counter top.
“How about a nice vegetable quiche?”
“OK.
That’s fine.” But she didn’t look
fine. She was positively glaring at the
pot rack. Her voice ratcheted up
several notches of volume and intensity.
“Vat pan you use for pancakes?” I
had already learned that her English deteriorated in direct proportion to her
state of agitation.
“That one.” I pointed to a heavy-bottomed stainless steel
one in the sink.
“No, no, no, no. This pan, this pan.” She was now wildly gesturing at a large
copper sauté pan in the rack. “I tell
you. I show you. This is pan for Potato Pancakes. Pancakes not so good today. Better this pan.”
“I thought you liked the pancakes
today?”
“No.
Not so good. You use this pan for
Potato Pancakes now on, like I show you.”
Easy for her to say. If I had used that pan I would have had an extra
30-40 minutes of clean-up time (not to mention that she’d never be happy with
the polishing job I’d do any way).
Regardless of the pay scale I’d never been one to want to take longer at a
job than absolutely necessary. I mean, I
had a life besides work. I
simply nodded an “OK” which seemed to appease her. But I never made Potato
Pancakes for them again.
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