The Boy Who Wanted to Cook by Gloria Whelan Page A

guest.”
    â€œI’ll get a trout for you, Papa.”
    Pierre catches a jar full of grasshoppers, takes up his fishing pole, and hurries to the river. He knows all the places where the trout hide: under the shade of the branches that hang over the stream, in the deep holes where the water is cool, in the little riffles that catch the tasty insects.
    A quarter hour goes by, a half hour, three quarters of an hour. At last Pierre feels a tug on his line. A fine trout.

    On his way across the woods from the river a miracle occurs. Pierre sees the first
morilles
of the season. The rare mushrooms have a delicate perfume and give a magic to any dish. Carefully Pierre gathers the mushrooms.
    â€œLook, Papa, what I have found for the
boeuf à la mode
.”
    â€œVery nice, Pierre, but not traditional,” his papa says. “We must prepare our
boeuf à la mode
just as I have always prepared it and as your grandfather prepared it.”

    The regular guests are seated at their tables. Madame Brissac is there with her little dog, Miette. Monsieur Delage is having his customary
pouding au chocolat
Madame Jupien and Monsieur Jupien, as they always do, are tasting each other’s dinners.
    In the kitchen the trout is shimmering in its coat of
gelée.
The lettuces are delicately dressed. The
boeuf à la mode
is simmering with its little potatoes and onions.
    The cheese is relaxing and Pierre’s mother is decorating the
gâteau
with the strawberries.
    But Papa is unhappy. “I am the chef, but I am also the
patron.
At a great restaurant the
patron
is there to greet the guest. But I dare not leave the
boeuf à la mode
even for a moment and your mother is
très occupée.”
    Pierre says, “Papa, I can watch the
boeuf à la mode
.”

    His father is about to say,
“Impossible.”
Instead he snatches off his
toque
and hurries away to don the striped trousers and dinner jacket of a
patron.
    Pierre stands on a chair and stirs, adjusting the fire so there are only little bubbles, and no big ones. On the kitchen table are the
morilles
with their delicate perfume.
    While his mother’s back is turned Pierre snatches the
morilles
and drops them into the
boeuf à la mode.

    Moments later his father appears. He mops the perspiration from his face and replaces his
toque.
“The guest is here,” he says, and snatching up the plate with the trout places it in the hands of the waiter, Albert. When Albert comes back the plate is empty.
    But when the salad plate returns there is a tiny leaf no larger than a mouse’s ear. Alas, the leaf is a bit wilted and has been rejected by the guest.
    â€œA tragedy!” cries Pierre’s mother.
    As Pierre’s father ladles out the
boeuf à la mode
he sees the
morilles.
His face turns red and then white.
“Quelle horreur!”
he shouts.
    Pierre runs out the kitchen door.

    When Pierre has the
courage
to creep back his father forgives him for the guest’s plate with the
boeuf à la mode
has come back scraped clean,
morilles
and all!
    â€œThe guest has finished the
gâteau
,” Papa says, “and is now having his
café”.
    As the guest leaves
La Bonne Vache,
he summons Monsieur Valcourt and announces to the astounded
patron,
“I am not merely a guest, sir. I am an inspector from the company with the stars.”
    He thanks Monsieur Valcourt for the meal and departs.
    Pierre’s mother falls into a swoon. His father falls onto a chair. “Pierre,” Monsieur Valcourt asks, “did you know our guest was an inspector?”
    â€œYes, Papa.”
    â€œThough we may never receive a star, Pierre, you were right to keep the secret. I would rather have a son who has
honneur
than a star for
La Bonne Vache.”

    Two weeks go by with no word from the company with the stars. The wheat has ripened in the field. The raspberries have been picked. The plums have turned purple in the orchards and are