“Excuse me … please?”
The small group turned to discover that Sergeant Escrima had materialized in their midst.
“I wish to … how you say … apologize. I wanted only to see how kitchen was laid out here. Would have asked, but cook was not in the room. Please. Is my fault. Should not go into kitchen without asking cook first. Must apologize.”
“There. You see?” Bombest beamed, clapping his chef on the shoulder. “No harm done. The sergeant apologizes.”
“I should think so,” Vincent sniffed haughtily. “Imagine … a no-talent Army Mixmaster … in my kitchen. “
Escrima’s eyes glittered momentarily, but he held his smile. “Please. Accept my …
“Just a moment. “ Phule was suddenly between the two men, his face hard. “Sergeant Escrima was out of line, and he apologized. I don’t think, however, that gives you any call or right to insult his ability as a cook. He may not be as skilled as you are, sir, but he certainly is not a no-talent bottle washer … nor is he in the Army. He’s a Legionnaire. Might I suggest, sir, that you owe him an apology in return for your remarks?”
Bombest tried to catch the chef’s eye, but Vincent still had his sails set.
“Hah! Before I would give such an apology, he would have to show me that I am wrong … that he can tell a mixing bowl from a toilet bowl.”
Remembering Phule’s earlier response to such insolence, the hotel manager found himself wondering where he could find another chef on such short notice. This time, however, the commander had a different tactic in mind.