The Casserole

 “But how did he do it?” I asked the bartender as he poured me another drink. Whisky, straight. No ice.

“Jimmy C Mullen? He put it down to his intuition he replied. I just make the right choices. Simple as that, he would say, and people would marvel. A hero of our times people said, sometimes bitterly, most times in admiration”.

“And what does the C stand for?” I asked.

“He never tells. People ask him and he’d reply that’s a State Secret. And then he’d give a little smile and start off on some story of his again. He’s told me once or twice. Something foreign. Can’t remember. But this, all this you see, was before he left. Since he’s been home, it hasn’t been the same.”

I’d been at the bar a while now. Just stopping by on my way south. Jimmy C Mullen, a legend among the living, had left the little town of Tulula one day without a word in his mouth and only a pot in his hand. His black leather jacket disappearing off down the long, long, road that led to the mountains beyond Tulula. Off to the big city to win a competition. Most had been surprised, but they all knew Jimmy made the right choices, he was born like that, he knew what to do. No-one worried when he left. He’d be back with more stories.

“Somebody better help him up” a voice muttered. The bar was dark, hazy. People still smoked indoors round these parts. The regulars had melted into the nicotine stained walls. People were mere shapes, shadows in this place. Hovering to and fro the bar for a refill before disappearing back into the darkness of the room. But Jimmy stood out. Not like he used too, when everyone would gather, listen to his wise, travelled words, hoping they contained the secrets to his luck. Each man, woman, minor in the bar would hang onto every word. These days, Jimmy simply hung onto the furniture. His body trembled, his legs were weak, his arms mere sacks of skin loosely covering the bones that now aged prematurely with each glass, each cigarette.

“He’ll just fall over again. Leave em’ there” another voice said from the darkness, followed by a deep phlegmy cough.

Jimmy didn’t say much more of anything. Only grunts. “Casserole” was the only word that anyone could understand. No one had yet deciphered it. Maybe it was the key. The key to his luck which, by the looks of it, had now escaped his body and was up for grabs.

“Somebody call Nancy” the bartender said.

There was a reluctant murmur around the bar. The great debate had commenced of who would call Nancy.

“Who’s Nancy?” I asked. The bartender looked at me while I sipped my glass, his eyes scrutinizing my face.

“We don’t really talk to Nancy. No one does. That’s why I’m sure as hell not going to call her.”

“Is she his wife?”

The bartender shook his head.

“But he loves her. That’s for sure. Cooking and Nancy. The two great loves of Jimmy C Mullen’s life. ”

“Was he any good? At cooking I mean” I asked.

“Exceptional. Everyone knew it was more than luck his cakes always came out moist, that his bacon was always the perfect crispiness. His pancakes never stuck to the pan. He could even flip the pancake in the air and catch it again. The crowds marvelled when he cooked here.”

The bartender looked over at Jimmy, a sadness in his eyes. He moved closer to me and started to whisper the conversation he’d had with Jimmy in the weeks before he’d left Tulula.

“Maybe I’ll make a career of it he had said to me one day while he fried me an egg. Jimmy’s huge back was turned to me. The blue and white apron straps barely made it around his thick, oak trunk of a body.

I’d shaken my head.

“You’re happy here I said to him. Jimmy turned his head and smiled at me. His brilliant white teeth, his thin black moustache.

“I’m good enough.”

“Sure you are Jimmy, everyone knows it. But why you wanna leave Tulula?” I said

“I don’t like it here Brian” he said, turning around again. He flipped the egg in the pan.  

“I mean look at this. I’m frying eggs when I could be making omelettes with goat’s cheese and chives and truffles.

“I don’t know what that is” I’d said to him. “Turn the egg over again would ya, I want it runny”

But Jimmy paid no attention, he was thinking.

“There’s that programme. The one on channel 5. The cooking one” he said, “Maybe I should sign up for it. Send them a letter or something.”

“You really think they’re gonna take a guy like you. A guy from Tulula. It’s the city folk they want. The ones with slick hair. Pretty faces. Anyway pass me my egg over, I’m starving.” I was hungry you see, and I didn’t want him getting any big ideas into his head.

“I don’t know Bri. I can feel it. I was always meant for something bigger he said. He slid the egg onto a warmed plate, removed the slices of toast he had under the grill and put them delicately next to the egg.  

“You’re gonna try something for me Bri he said, I just prepared it in a bain-mary. You’re gonna love it”.

“I don’t want any Mary anything. I just want a fried egg.” I said to him.  

“Don’t you worry. You’re gonna love it. Should be a poached egg. But a fried egg will do. Don’t you worry.”

Jimmy ladled some thick yellow sauce over the egg and finished it with some chopped herbs, chives I think.

“effs a la sauce ollandaisy” he said as he put the plate in front of me.  

I looked at the plate, poked at the sauce with my fork a little bit.

“Try it Bri, tell me what you think”.

 “I don’t know Jimmy, I don’t like it much”.

“Of course you like it. You just don’t know it yet. Keep eating.”

“And he was right you know. I mean, I didn’t really like it but I could sure tell it was proper food, like restaurant food.”

There was a silence and the bartender picked up a glass which he dried with a dirty old tea-towel.

“So you told him to sign up for the competition?” I asked

Brian shook his head.

“Jimmy had spoken with Nancy the day he set off.”

“She from around here?” I asked, intrigued by this woman.

 “Mountain woman. Black hair, dark brown eyes.”

“And what makes her so special? Why was Jimmy so…entranced by her?”

“Well, I don’t know how to say this but, folk around here say…Rumour has it she can see the future is all. She has this pet snake she walks around with, in the garden. It just sits there, on her shoulders, wrapped around her neck. She speaks to it softly. Too soft for anyone to hear, but Jimmy would watch her all day as she made her circles around the little patch of lawn they have out back. He would watch from his camping chair on the veranda, a beer in his hand. She would look over at him every now and then, a smile on her face. And then she would go on talking to her snake again. Jimmy told me all this you see. Before he left.

“The sauce is tasty she had told him when he’d first made his effs a la sauce ollandaisy for her. He’d gone up into the attic to where the old computer stood that very day and he’d filled in his application and sent it off. It was a sign he thought. The sign he’d been waiting for you see.

“Because she liked his eggs?” I asked

Brian nodded.

“You think I’ll win with my eggs? he had asked Nancy. Jimmy C Mullen was proud of his eggs, you see. He fancied no one cooked eggs better than he did. No one in the entire country. Nancy touched his face gently. She smiled at him and then stood up and walked over to the terrarium. She peeked out of the window and looked up at the sky before grabbing the snake. She walked out to the garden, the great beast slithering up her arm and around her neck. Its tongue sliding into her ear, whispering something to her. The day before he’d left he came in here. He used to tell me what they spoke about you see. I couldn’t make anything of it. She speaks in riddles, something off with her if you ask me. But he comes over and says to me; “hey Bri, I got into the competition. I’ve spoken with Nancy. She says I’m gonna win.”

“What she say exactly?” I asked him, knowing full well he’d got this big idea into his head again.

He had asked her this;

“Will I win the competition Nance?”

“A great chef will be born Jimmy Croesus Mullen, and another will sink to the bottom of a glass.”

“Will you watch? When I’m in the final?”

“When all has ended, you will be carried by strangers for the rest of your life.”

“They’re gonna love me, aren’t they? I’m gonna be famous. I’ll open a restaurant. Here in Tulula. Everyone will come. Bri can be the bartender and you, you can be the manager!”

“An old story will finish and a new one will begin. What lies hidden under the tongues of men will be revealed. A northern wind heading south will blow across the valley.”

He was convinced he’d win when he heard this you see. So, with his favourite pan he had set off on his journey to greatness. And that was it. The greatness he’d always desired. The greatness that he thought was rightfully his.”

“So what happened?” I asked Brian

“Well, it was the casserole you see.”

I looked at Brian, sipping on my drink, waiting for him to continue.

“What casserole?” I asked after a short silence.

“That pan of his. The one he took with him. The casserole.”

“But how has that got anything to do with how he is now?” I said pointing to Jimmy behind me who had stood up again. He could barely stand, his gaunt figure hovering near one of the tables.

“Well you see the chef who ran the program told him a casserole was food, not a pan. This was the finale, millions of spectators. He told him, a pan is a pan, and that a casserole was a meal baked in an oven dish. It’s what we say around here you see. We call a pan a casserole. The head chef who ran the programme didn’t like country folk much I think, just like I told Jimmy. But he didn’t listen to me. He’d only listen to his Nancy. And so then the bastard chef turns around and tells the French kid on the show, the other finalist, that he was the winner. Joked that at least he could pronounce the dishes they were cooking. Everyone laughed, but poor old Jimmy just stood there.”

“Poor guy.”

“Yeah. I guess so. And then while everyone celebrated, Jimmy took a glass and had a drink. Just a quiet one. Nothing special. Nothing strong. But then he had another. And another. And then he came home like this” the bartender said pointing over to Jimmy who was now eyeing the both of us.

I looked at Jimmy and saw he was attempting to manoeuvre. His upper body moved, his hands were shaky, but his legs didn’t seem to respond. I was about to get up and help him, but before I could, he keeled over.

“Casserole” he said as his body hit the floor like a slab of meat.

“So you see, that’s the story of poor old Jimmy C Mullen. And a shame too. Would have been good to have Jimmy back in the kitchen here, to cook some effs a la sauce ollandaisy for foreign folk like you.”

I pretended not feel insulted but these were country folk after all, I had to forgive them for not knowing any better.

“You know what I said to Brian as I finished my glass, I’ll take Jimmy home to his Nancy.”

“Really?” he asked, astonished.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s nothing. Where does she live again, this uh… Nancy?”

“Two streets down when you head out. To your left he said, eyeing me suspiciously. I looked around the room. Jimmy was still lying on the floor, spit dribbling out of his mouth.

“Are you sure?” he asked me again

“Yeah yeah, don’t worry about it. I’m used it. My old pa, you see.” The bartender nodded.

I picked Jimmy up and his dribble ran over my clean jacket. I pretended to laugh and looked over at the bartender again.

“Anyway, you have a good one. I’ll see you around.” I said to him.

He nodded to me and watched as I dragged Jimmy through the door. I waited for it shut behind me before taking a few steps down the street. Jimmy was snoring. I’d find a quiet little place to drop Jimmy off and let him sleep, I thought, and then I’d hurry over to Nancy.

Someone had to tell me my future.