The Shadow of Great Britain

Capítulo 1262: Chapter 157: Tonight’s Dinner at the Hastings Household

Cooking a good meal is akin to doing a good deed. Dining is not merely about survival, but about enjoying life.

——Alexander Dumas

On a cold autumn night, the sun had long set, and the streets were lit with gas lamps, casting a yellow glow on the cobblestone roads.

At 76 Weinde Street, in an elegant two-story building, warm lights shone through the windows, revealing the coziness of home.

The decor of the house bore the characteristics of a German middle-class family, with landscape paintings hanging on the walls and a piano placed in the corner. Facing the dining table stood a bookshelf, filled with various books from the owner’s collection, including historical records, literary scripts, and works on natural philosophy. The most conspicuous spot on the bookshelf was occupied by various fashionable novels published by the British.

Not far from the living room was the kitchen, radiating a warm yellow glow. The kitchen stove burned vigorously, with the fire crackling, and the charcoal in the oven emitting a faint smoke, the air filled with the enticing aroma of stewed meat and spices.

In one corner of the kitchen hung various spices and preserved foods, such as dried sausages, sun-dried tomatoes, and homemade pickles. These were part of the household’s reserves, ensuring delicious ingredients were available even in winter.

The demanding, overweight French chef wore a white chef’s outfit and a tall chef’s hat.

His movements were swift and skillful, stirring the rich beef stew in the pot with a large spoon in one hand, occasionally tasting it with a small spoon.

As for his other hand, it was directing a few other chefs to inspect a small pot of potatoes on the nearby stove.

As the water bubbled, the small pot gurgled, and upon lifting the lid, steam wafted out, filling the kitchen with an aroma that made mouths water.

Several young maids from Paris were also bustling around the kitchen.

They wore simple gray dresses, white scarves on their heads, and had focused expressions on their faces.

Their task was to prepare the vegetables; some were diligently peeling carrots and cutting them into small, uniform pieces, while others were washing fresh leafy greens from the garden, gently separating the leaves to check for bugs or impurities.

A beautiful lady with one-eighth German blood, one-eighth French blood, and three-quarters Russian blood also joined in the busy scene. As a Russian woman, even one who had settled abroad, the ability to make a delicious pot of Borscht remained an important measure of her domestic skills.

Fiona tied on a simple market-bought house dress to protect her fine clothes from getting dirty. She then solemnly rolled up her sleeves, instructed the maids to fetch fresh beets, carrots, onions, and a few potatoes, then expertly washed, peeled, and shredded the beets. The carrots and potatoes were also chopped into small pieces for later use.

Once all the vegetables were ready, Fiona gently added them to the boiling broth, along with some tomato paste to enhance the sourness, one of the distinctive flavors of Borscht. As the soup was stirred and the aroma wafted up, she sprinkled in a handful of fresh bay leaves and a few black peppercorns, adding a rich layer of flavor to the soup.

Each Russian household had its secret tips for making a delicious Borscht, and the Ivan family’s unspoken secrets included several special ingredients: chopped fresh parsley, sour cream, and a small dish of crushed garlic.

Fiona knew that during dinner, guests at the table could add these ingredients according to their taste.

Next to the Russian cook stood the spot reserved for the Italians.

In most Italian households, mothers were the central figures and the soul of the kitchen. But unfortunately, in the Gottingen Italian kitchen, there was no mother present, so today, it was left to a bunch of sons who always left the kitchen in chaos.

After much bustling and animated debate, these sons, each with a reputation in various Italian states, reluctantly reached an agreement that at least in their family, fresh herbs, olive oil, pasta, and hard cheese were indispensable.

Garibaldi was diligently crushing fresh cherry tomatoes, wholeheartedly making his favorite classic Italian family tomato sauce.

Some young Italian lads were busy washing leafy spinach, bright purple eggplants, and green zucchinis.

Others complained about a large block of cheese that wasn’t from Parma, as Italians insisted that German cheese was never as good as Italian cheese.

With a click, the door opened, and a weary Arthur returned from the office.

He took off his heavy coat and hung it on the coat rack in the entrance. As he walked into the dining room, he saw the table already laid with a clean linen tablecloth, silver cutlery neatly arranged, and crystal-clear glassware.

He stepped into the kitchen, placed the freshly bought bread on the table, and asked the chefs and maids if they needed any help, though he was clearly less welcome in the kitchen than beneath the Tower of London.