“Of course,” he added, tying on an apron. “Miss You has to stay to lunch.”
There was nothing to do but invite her to stay; she would have, anyway. She thought Big Boy the handsomest fattest male with muscles she had ever seen, il va sans dire…
The dish that Big Boy was famous for in every studio in Paris was General Lee's Saddle Blankets. They were not really blankets … they were chicken pancakes … but Big Boy felt he had to carry on the honor of the Old South by giving it a name the natives of the country would respect. I don't know how much they respected the name. I know they loved the pancakes.
This is how Big Boy committed his magic. To a pound of ground cooked chicken he added a tablespoon of baking powder, enough curry to cover a half dollar (I am sorry but that's the way he measured things), a big pinch of salt, and a small pinch each of cayenne, thyme, mace, and nutmeg, a small grated onion, a half pint of milk, and a quarter pound of sweet butter. He would beat this until his arm ached and his breath came (as he put it) in boy's trousers (short pants).
He would fry this on a very hot griddle, madly singing “When This Long Cruel War is Over,” a marching song of General Jackson's, he always explained. He served it hot with chicken gravy into which a little warm sherry had been beaten. Also if he could get them, those very small French canned peas that taste like nothing grown on this side of the sea.
I could see You was impressed by his dash, his voice; and when she tasted the food, by his skill with pancakes.
She said in French, “But he is a charming fellow.”
“Well,” said Rif, “I suppose one could say that, but not I. I do not trust his background. His people are billies called hills. He is too rich, too fat, and I think has more muscles than brains.”
“I said so,” said You, “Everything; a charmer.”
“What does the little tomato say?” asked Big Boy.
“You cook well,” I translated…
It was a week later; Rif and I were coming back from a small village where we had gone to buy old walnut paneling. We made frames of this paneling, and sold them to artists who weren't so good as we were in making wormholes. At that time the fad was for old frames in which worms had played at love and replenished the earth with other young worms, who had made more wormholes, and so lifted the price of the wood they had lived in. In the end, like all good things, they made too many wormholes and became rare-wood dwellers and they died of varnish when the frames were painted.
But in time these worm-rich timbers gave out, and Rif and I invented the fake wormhole. We shot small buckshot from an old shotgun at the wood. It looked like real wormholes … but sold for less as the shot remained in the frame. Our best product was created with a special shoemaker awl, and this would fool even a worm. Rif proved it one night by getting a worm to crawl into the frame and set up light housekeeping. Rif was very honest, however … he never sold a machine-age wormhole as a real one. But we did do well.
We came back to Paris and sold our frames and sent You a special bunch of flowers that cost so much the dealer thought we were un peu exalté (a little nuts, if your study of French argot is a little stale).
An hour later, who should barge into our studio but Hilaire de Salignacs, our landlord himself. He flung our flowers at us and sat down and wept all over our best chair.
“This is ruin … this is ruin and more!”
“What is the matter?” asked Rif, “the Sureté Nationale is after you for growing pigs in the garden?”
“It is Ursule. She is in love with the large American.”
“You are sure?” I asked.
“Yes. You gentlemen I could trust … you are men who are men of the world … a slap, a tickle, a pose for a painting, but nothing serious, you understand. But this fat one … he is madly in love with her. He would make her with the wedding.”
“That is good,” said Rif, relaxing.
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