My Fine Fellow

by Jennieke Cohen

Genres: YA Historical Fiction; YA Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Culinary delights abound, romance lingers in the air, and plans go terribly, wonderfully astray in this gender-bent take on My Fair Lady from Jennieke Cohen, author of Dangerous Alliance - perfect for fans of Bridgerton or A Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue. 

It’s 1830s England, and Culinarians - doyens who consult with society’s elite to create gorgeous food and confections - are the crème de la crème of high society.

Helena Higgins, top of her class at the Royal Academy, has a sharp demeanor and an even sharper palate - and knows stardom awaits her if she can produce greatness in her final year.

Penelope Pickering is going to prove the value of non-European cuisine to all of England. Her contemporaries may scorn her Filipina heritage and her dishes, but with her flawless social graces and culinary talents, Penelope is set to prove them wrong.

Elijah Little has nothing to his name but a truly excellent instinct for flavors. London merchants won’t allow a Jewish boy to own a shop, so he hawks his pasties for a shilling a piece to passersby - but he knows with training he can break into the highest echelon of society.

When Penelope and Helena meet Elijah, a golden opportunity arises: to pull off a project never seen before, and turn Elijah from a street vendor to a gentleman chef.

But Elijah’s transformation will have a greater impact on this trio than they originally realize - and mayhem, unseemly faux pas, and a little romance will all be a part of the delicious recipe.

Supplemental enhancement PDF accompanies the audiobook.

 

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Release date: January 11, 2022

Publisher: Harper

Print pages: 343

Sample

One

Why Can’t the English Learn?

In the year 1833 of the Common Era, a fair ten years since King George IV died and his much beloved daughter, Princess Charlotte, succeeded him as Queen Charlotte of England, Ireland, Hanover, and so on and so forth, one Miss Penelope Pickering stood in the shadowed portico of St. Paul’s London, wondering how much longer she’d have to wait for her dear friend Helena Higgins.

Of course, as even Penelope would admit if pressed, Helena had never been what one might call the epitome of charm. Nor would one characterize her as a lady of grace, for her sharp tongue offended nearly everyone she met. She was, however, well on her way to becoming the foremost authority of their generation on the culinary arts in Britain, and therefore considered herself entitled to tell people when they harbored incorrect assumptions about Culinaria, or indeed the world. And, to be quite honest, Helena was very often right. Most of Helena’s schoolmates found this trait downright irritating, but Penelope Pickering was of a decidedly tolerant bent.

This perhaps explained why Penelope now found herself standing across from the Covent Garden Market, wishing she’d remembered to bring an umbrella on this chilly evening in early January. She had only just returned from touring the Americas with her parents, and after not seeing Helena since the final day of their previous spring term at the Royal Academy of Culinaria Artisticus—a good six months since—most of her memories of Helena’s less-than-ladylike manners had softened. Distance and time have a way of making friends forget each other’s faults, and Penelope was not immune to this phenomenon.

She looked about her once more, then pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her navy blue traveling dress. She held it up to the flickering gas lamp to her left with one gloved hand as she did her best to shield it from the rain with her other.

Number 9, Cavendish SquareJanuary 5, 1833

Marylebone, London

My Dear Penelope,

What a pleasure it is to welcome you to Cavendish Square! It seems an age since we first concocted this scheme to spend our final term at the Royal Academy living away from those dreary girls at school, and the day has finally come. I am pleased your parents relented at last! My own parents and brother continue their sojourn on the Continent, and therefore I must apologize for not being able to greet you myself, but I trust the staff has welcomed you with great ceremony and that you are now settling into the violet room with your every comfort well attended. I daresay your journey was decidedly unpleasant, but I hope you will be sufficiently recovered from your travels to join me this evening in some research. I shall await you at eight of the clock at St. Paul’s Church, and we shall sample London’s most authentic taste of the Americas. Bring your appetite and coin purse as the night market has markedly improved in your absence.

Yours as ever,

Helena Higgins

Penelope glanced across the street at the vendors hawking their wares and food by the light of the gas lamps. The usual assortment of unaccompanied young men and ladies her own age milled around the purveyors who had set up on the street—those who couldn’t afford stalls inside the columns of the market building. Hats, umbrellas, or hooded capes shielded most of the patrons from the worst of the rain as they bought goods and food from the roaming hawkers. Unlike Penelope, they had come prepared for the weather. None of them looked particularly like Helena, however. Penelope stuffed the letter back into her pocket and her hands back into her fur-lined muff. With the rain, many of the vendors now had a captive audience as ladies and gentlemen emerged from the theaters only to huddle under whichever awnings and porticos they could.

A party of three stopped next to Penelope and blinked at the rain. The girl, who looked to be a year or two younger than Penelope’s ten and seven, huffed. “Oh, it’s too, too tiresome. Can’t you get us a cab, Frederick?” She turned to the young man next to her. Judging by their similar looks, Penelope guessed him to be the girl’s brother.

“I’ll get deuced wet out there!” he exclaimed in a way young men reserve for sisters who irritate them. Then he seemed to remember a stranger stood nearby, for he inclined his head to Penelope. “I beg your pardon, miss.”

“I must apologize for my son,” said the third of the party, a middle-aged woman with a tall feather protruding from her coiffure. “He is a heathen, I’m afraid.”

Penelope nodded at the lady. “Quite all right.” She’d hardly call the young man a heathen for using the word “deuced” in her presence, but the woman couldn’t know that Penelope had heard far worse language in her travels. “The weather shows no sign of abating, I fear.”

“Freddie, get this lady a hackney as well.”

Penelope shook her head. “I thank you, but I’m meeting someone.”

The older woman frowned. “Here? At this time of night?”

Penelope gestured at the carts in the street and at the sheltered stalls beyond, inside the market building. Steam from the food the vendors were cooking dissipated into the dank evening air as a multiplicity of scents wafted toward Penelope. “A school friend invited me to join her here at the stalls for some culinary research. It seems this is one of the few places in London where one can find an authentic taste of the Americas.” Though Penelope rather thought she’d be the judge of that.

“The Americas?” the woman repeated as though the thought of anyone seeking out food from the continents across the ocean had never occurred to anybody in the whole history of human relations.

“Are you a Culinarian, then?” the young man asked Penelope as he swiped a piece of damp hair away from his dark blue eyes.

She nodded. “I soon will be. I’m in my final term at the Royal Academy.”

“My sister dabbled a bit but decided to go to the Royal Conservatory of Commoditas and Design in the end,” he said with a gesture at the young woman.

“I never dabbled, Freddie. My design improvements to Lady Hammersley’s chaise and four had her bragging to her neighbors for weeks. If anything, you’re the dabbler.” Freddie’s sister wrinkled her nose.

“Well,” said he with a rueful smile, “perhaps I am, but I make a dashed fine pheasant pie.” He tipped his tall hat to Penelope, murmured something to his mother about going to look for a cab, and bounded off into the rain. As he stepped off the curb, he collided with a bedraggled young man in a shapeless brown coat carrying a wooden tray covered in cloth.

Penelope winced as two half-moon-shaped pies fell from the tray and plopped onto the dirty, wet cobbles.

“Watch yourself, why don’t ya?” the young man said, throwing a glare at Freddie.

“I beg your pardon,” Freddie said. He touched his hat and hurried down the street.

“Two pasties trod in the mud,” the boy yelled at Freddie’s back. He made a great show of covering the remaining pies with their protective cloth. “Some gentleman, jostling poor cooks and knocking their livelihoods onto the street,” he said loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

“Here, boy,” Freddie’s mother called. “I’ll pay for what my son cost you.” She turned to her daughter. “Clara, give the young man a shilling.”

“Oh, he’s your son, is he?” the boy said, approaching. Penelope figured he must be about her age, yet it was difficult to say, considering the quality of the gaslight flickering to the left of them. “Might have raised him better than to pay for his mistakes yourself. Fella might as well pay for his own mistakes, my ma always said.”

“Do you care for the shilling or not, boy?” Clara asked, holding out the coin between gloved fingers.

“I’ll take it, miss, and thank ye for it.” The boy winked at her then, and Penelope looked away from the exchange, realizing that the young man might have been attractive if he washed the dirt from his face and had the waves of his brown hair cut into a semblance of a shape.

“Well, I never,” Clara said, and pulled her mother’s arm so they stood farther away from the boy.

He smirked. His gaze then landed on Penelope, now standing alone under the portico. She scanned the stalls for Helena again, but saw no one resembling her.

“Buy a Faraway Pasty, miss?” the boy asked. He lifted the cloth off his tray, and the smell of fried dough, beef, and oregano wafted toward her.

Penelope blinked. “Empanadas?”

His light brown eyes, framed by thick lashes wet from the rain, widened. “What a clever one you are! Not one person in twenty knows ’em by their right name. Just fer that, I’ll give you two fer the price of one.”

Penelope raised a brow. She doubted she was getting much of a discount, but she had come to eat, after all. “How much?”

“Just tuppence, miss. Not a penny more.”

Penelope riffled through her pocket and handed him two copper pennies. He held out the tray for her to choose from. She pulled out her handkerchief and used it to take two plump, medium orange ones with a few browned spots from the center of the tray. Despite the cold evening, they still held some warmth. He covered them again and raised an eyebrow as though waiting for her to taste. Penelope took a bite from the flat end of one of the pouches so she could perceive the filling’s flavor. The perfectly fried corn-based dough and well-spiced minced beef, diced potato, and onion mixture yielded under her teeth. Surprised, she glanced at him. He grinned back with a slightly crooked smile.

The spices sang to Penelope of heat and love and generations of hardship. “Salvadoran?”

“Not I, but”—he tilted his head as if to tell her a secret—“I learned it from a Salvadoran.”

Penelope raised her brows. She hadn’t even known there were any Salvadorans in London. She took another bite. “Paprika in the masa instead of achiote?”

His eyes lit up. “Best I could do.”

Penelope nodded and wrapped the rest in her handkerchief. She wouldn’t think many London purveyors would carry achiote, anyway—let alone sell it cheaply. “Your Salvadoran friend taught you well.”

“These aren’t even my specialty. You should try my squash-blossom corn pasties. Best in London when they’re in season.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. It sounded like something she’d had with her parents during their time in Mexico. The ones she’d eaten had been uncomplicated, but clean, straightforward food at its most delicious. “And where did you learn those?”

He shrugged with one shoulder. “Now, now, a fella can’t reveal all his secrets, can he?”

Penelope raised a brow. Cooks, chefs, and Culinarians alike often kept their special recipes to themselves, but so few people in Britain had any but the smallest knowledge of the cuisines of the Americas that she found herself wondering why he didn’t care to reveal his source. “I suppose not.”

“Course, for a lady so pretty as yourself, I might be persuaded . . . if you saw fit to buy another.” He lifted the tray nearer Penelope’s face as the corner of his lips kicked up at one side—the kind of smile she imagined rakish gentlemen used to attract naive girls who had greater dowries than judgment. On him, though, she didn’t know if it was anything more than a way of enticing her to buy more empanadas.

She had to hand it to him; the young man was a good salesman. “I’m afraid I’ve hit my limit for Salvadoran empanadas this evening.” After all, she had a night of tasting in front of her, and a lady had to preserve her figure somehow. Her trip across the Americas had already added more curve to her shape than she’d departed England with.

“Balderdash! Utter balderdash!” a voice boomed from behind a column.

The young man and Penelope swiveled back to look at the speaker.

“Here, what’s this?” the boy said.

A slight figure under a hooded cape emerged from the shadows. “Learned it from a Salvadoran, my foot. Why, anyone who tasted them could tell that those empanadas are Peruvian. No doubt this boy stumbled upon the combination on his own, and he’s taking advantage of your knowledge, Pen.” The lady pushed back her hood, revealing black ringlets minimally frizzed from the rain, and green eyes that tipped up slightly at the edges like those of a cat. “I am disappointed to see you making such a trivial mistake,” she stated.

Penelope smiled despite herself. “Have you been hiding behind that column this entire time? I’ve been waiting an age, Helena.”

“Seven minutes, to be precise. I had some notes to jot down on this fellow’s Peruvian pasties.” She waved a palm-sized notebook in the air. “Flavor good, but sloppy execution.”

“Who are you?” the young man asked with a frown. “And what right do you have to take notes on me?”

“As to your first query, I am Lady Helena Higgins, top of my class at the Royal Academy of Culinaria Artisticus, and soon to be the most sought-after Culinarian in Britain. Most recently, I have acted as a culinary consultant by royal appointment to Queen Charlotte and the Royal Navy. As to your second question, the same right as any creature alive, I’m sure.” Helena reached under her cloak, revealing the reticule hanging from a cord over her shoulder. She dropped her notebook and pencil inside and closed it.

The boy sniffed. “Culinary consultant, eh? Well, I don’t take kindly to people trying to steal me recipes—especially puffed-up Culinarians who haven’t even graduated. Fella’s gotta make a living somehow, and next thing I know, you’ll be cooking me empanadas for the queen and not paying me nary a ha’penny for it! Meanwhile, I have to hear you tellin’ me I don’t know me own business.”

Helena’s green eyes widened. “How dare you insinuate that I would steal your accidental recipe for a Peruvian empanada. Why, the very idea—”

“I must say I agree with him, Helena,” Penelope cut in. “Those empanadas taste far more like those I ate in Central America or Colombia. My parents and I spent weeks in each region. We didn’t make it so far as Peru, but according to my research, most Peruvian empanadas are made with a wheat-based dough.”

Helena turned to Penelope, all her outrage melting like candy floss in water. “Did you really go all the way to Colombia? I wonder if I should have taken you up on your offer to accompany you to the Americas, primitive as they are. But then I would not have been able to consult for the queen, and I daresay that will prove far better for my future culinary career.”

Penelope tried not to roll her eyes. “The Americas are not primitive, Helena. I might, perhaps, characterize some places as a bit rural, but not primitive.”

Helena waved her hand in the air. “I meant no offense, I assure you. Only how can you possibly think this street rat knows his Salvadoran anything from his Peruvian?”

The young man had had enough. “Here, how do you know what I know? You some kind of busybody? What sort of lady comes ’round Covent Garden looking to deprive a poor young cook of his livelihood by telling his customers he don’t know where his own food comes from?”

Helena stretched to her full height, which was admittedly not much, but she wore it well. “Young man, I am a Culinarian. I have no intention of stealing your so-called recipes or telling your customers anything at all. This lady, however, is my friend and a fellow Culinarian, and as second in our class at the Royal Academy, she should know better.”

Penelope let out an amused breath. Helena never took too long to bring up the fact that Penelope held a constant second place in their class to Helena’s first. “I really think you ought to take another bite of this empanada, Helena.”

“Oh, very well.” She held out her hand for the unbitten pasty, and Penelope obliged. Helena chomped into it with little delicacy, chewed a few times, and tilted her head to the side. “Ah, this one’s different from the one I ate earlier.” She nodded at Penelope and then at the boy. “You see, lad, she does know better.”

The young man frowned. “So you agree it’s Salvadoran now?”

Helena nodded and swallowed another bite. “Undoubtedly.” She weaved her arm through Penelope’s. “My friend, you know, is working toward becoming an expert on the cuisine of the Americas. Come, Penelope! The rain has practically stopped and there’s a delightful little Hungarian stand across the way that I’ve been longing for you to try.” She pulled Penelope off the curb and into the street.

The boy followed. “Hey! Just because you’re almost a Culinarian, that don’t make you the Queen of Sheba. You may have a right to take down notes on me food, but you got no right to insult me. People coming from all around tell me my pasties are the best in London. Faraway Pasties, they call ’em.”

“That may be,” Helena said, pulling Penelope to the left to skirt a pile of muddy refuse, “but you sell them for two pence apiece.”

“So what if I do? It’s an honest living.”

Helena spoke over her shoulder. “Honest it may be, but not very profitable.” They ducked between two columns and into the shelter of the market building.

“I can’t sell them for no more—I’ll get priced out.”

“Helena, do leave the lad alone,” Penelope interjected, starting to feel uncomfortable about how the young man had interpreted the conversation.

“Penelope, I have no intention of doing anything else,” Helena said with big, innocent eyes. “I only mean that if he had the training, he could easily open his own shop, be the Faraway Pasty Man, if he so desired, and end up pulling in hundreds of pounds a year.”

“Here, what’s that ya say?” the young man asked.

“But instead he’s forced to walk the streets with his wares, making barely enough to live on. If we could but educate these poor souls to a higher degree, just think how society would flourish.”

Penelope brushed droplets of rain from her shoulders. “But surely not everyone could make a success even if they had the education.”

“No, but they’d have a better chance.” Helena walked farther into the market. “Just take this bedraggled young man, Pen.” She cast a glance over her shoulder. “If I had a mind to, in six months I could turn him or anyone else into a first-rate gentleman culinary artist. One even our classmates would find impressive.”

“Hey! You saying I isn’t impressive?”

Both girls stopped and looked at him then. His eyebrows knit together as he glared back.

“Your flavors are excellent,” Penelope said.

“But nothing out of the common way,” Helena qualified. “At any rate, they’re not impressive enough for you to own your own shop or even a stall of your own—of course, you are still quite young, I suppose.” She eyed him up and down. “How old are you?”

He frowned. “Why would I tell you that?”

Helena cocked her head to the side. “Ten and seven?”

“Thereabouts,” he grumbled.

She turned to Penelope. “There, you see, he is your age, Pen, and just look at the unfortunate fellow.”

“He’s your age, too, Helena,” Penelope stated, tilting her chin down.

“Have you forgotten that I shall be eighteen in nary a month? Dear me, what a little education might do for this creature. I’ve a good mind to write a book on the subject. One day. I mean, if you think about it, had King George not given his assent to Lady Bramley’s Freedom of Female Education Bill, we might not be able to become the preeminent Culinarians we are destined to be. Truly it boggles the mind, Penelope.”

King George IV, though universally disliked by his subjects, did manage to do one good thing of note before his death, which was to grant royal assent—in person, no less—to the aforementioned bill when Parliament passed it in 1820. The fact that he only did so at the urging of his daughter, Princess Charlotte, surprised nobody.

Penelope opened her mouth to reply, but the boy spoke first.

“Just cuz you’re educated, that don’t give you the right to be insulting.”

Helena stared at him. “Was I insulting?”

Penelope cleared her throat. “He’s quite right, Helena. You were.”

Helena gasped. “I had no notion I was insulting the poor fellow.” Her cat eyes stretched into guileless green orbs. She reached under her cloak and sifted through her reticule. “As a show of good faith, young man, please accept this donation to the betterment of your culinary education.” She dropped three half crowns onto his tray, and he ogled them. “Now, good evening to you.” Helena threaded her arm through Penelope’s again. “Was everything quite satisfactory when you arrived?”

Penelope threw a glance at the money and then at the boy’s face. Judging by his wide eyes and slack jaw, she doubted he’d ever had so much value in his possession at one time. “Er . . . yes, the room is lovely.” She looked at the coins again and wondered what he would do with it all.

“I knew the violet room was for you! I can hardly believe we truly get to stay at Cavendish Square together this term instead of squeezing into that ridiculous dormitory at school with the likes of Mabel Pilkington. I fancy I’ve grown used to the privileges of being a fourth-year far too easily. Now, come along. There is so much to taste,” Helena said, dragging Penelope into the market and leaving the young man staring after their wake.

Two

A Room Somewhere

Late that evening, after all the stalls at Covent Garden had shuttered for the night and the theater patrons had disappeared into their homes and even the pickpockets had gone on their merry ways with springs in their steps from the accrual of more coin than they deserved, Elijah Little trudged down the stairs to the door of his uncle’s basement-floor room in Old Fish Street. The creaking on the second-to-last step always made Elijah wonder if it would give out, but again, tonight, it held his weight. He pulled out his key and opened the door to the small room.

The short wooden bed that was barely long enough to support his heels sat against the wall under the tiny window that looked out onto the street level. He’d scrunched the pallet he slept on when his uncle wasn’t at sea into the corner to make the room seem bigger, but the effect was marginal. Elijah set his empty tray down on the rickety wooden table, opened his tin tinderbox, and set about striking the cold flint and steel together until enough sparks lit the tinder. He let a brimstone match flare to life and used it to light a tallow candle before tamping down the tinder. Then he lit a few small branches in the grate with the candle and moved to the washbasin, where he set about scrubbing the food particles and other residue of the street from his hands. Since he had no looking glass, he swiped his wet hands over his face a few times, then dried everything with a piece of cloth. It was a tedious process for so late at night, but one he was well used to.

He sat at the table, pulled every coin from his pockets, and emptied it all on the table’s surface. The copper and silver he’d earned stared back at him. He took a deep breath. All told, it was more than he’d ever made in a single night, even if two-thirds of it was basically charity.

Elijah scratched his earlobe as he considered the coins. Part of him wondered if he should feel ashamed at taking so much money from a rich girl who’d belittled him multiple times in one evening. On the other hand, how many principles could a fellow have when he was as poor as he? With this money, he could buy twice or even three times as many ingredients as he was usually able. If he kept up his hours working with his neighbor Charlie in exchange for the use of his kitchen, and with this fortunate influx of funds, Elijah could do some right good business. Maybe he’d even make as much as his uncle did as an able seaman.

Elijah shrugged off his coat and waistcoat and hung them over the chair. He untied his neckcloth and placed it on top of his outer garments. Lowering himself onto the bed, he ignored the lumps and yanked off his boots. Then he lay back, cradling his head in his hands. He frowned as the face of the lady who’d given him the money appeared in his mind. One trouble Elijah had never had was trouble with the ladies, but that Helena Higgins, ...