Behind her, the clatter of dishes assured her the maids were loading up the dumbwaiter with covered silver platters of bacon, fried eggs, fried tomatoes, fried roes, and fried bread.

The fried herrings and poached haddock had already been sent up, and by now Gertie, Pansy, and the new maid, Mabel, hired for the Christmas rush, would be collecting dirty dishes to send down once the waiter had been unloaded.

It was all timed down to the second, and Mrs. Chubb, the Pennyfoot’s competent housekeeper, took pride in seeing that everything was in the proper place at the proper time.

Even if it meant doing Michel’s job, like getting sausages out of a hot oven. Glaring at the pantry door, she yelled, “Michel? What are you doing in there? I hope you’re not sipping on that blinking brandy again!”

Mrs. Chubb rarely used questionable language unless she was really agitated. Apparently Michel must have noted her resentment, as he appeared in the doorway, his tall white hat bobbing back and forth as he wagged a finger at the housekeeper. “That ees no way to talk to a chef of such renown. I have not touched one single drop of ze brandy. Non.”

“Then what are you doing in there?” Mrs. Chubb slapped a cover on the sausages and carried the pan over to the dumbwaiter. One of the maids grabbed it from her and shoved it onto the pile of platters.

Waiting just long enough for the maid to haul on the rope and send the load up to the dining room, Mrs. Chubb spun around and came face-to-face with the chef.

“If you really must know,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “I search for the jug of cream. I make the custard, and I must have the cream to put in it, oui? What is custard without ze cream, huh?”

“All right, you don’t have to get all hoity-toity with me.” Mrs. Chubb shoved past him and walked back to the large wooden table in the center of the room. “Next time, load the sausages before you look for the cream. I don’t have time to do your job as well as mine.”