The Champion's Chicken

For six years, Leonard Pike had won the village cooking prize with a dish he refused to name. He called it an interpretation. Everyone else called it chicken in sauce. This year he arrived in a white jacket carrying a wooden box that made an unmistakable clucking sound.

The box belonged to his cousin, who bred ornamental hens. Leonard had collected it by mistake along with his catering equipment. His prepared chicken remained in the cousin's refrigerator, forty miles away. In the box stood a healthy, furious hen called Duchess.

The contest rules required entrants to display their principal ingredient before cooking. Leonard, cornered by three judges and a photographer, opened the lid.

Duchess sprang onto the table. A judge applauded what she assumed was a statement about food provenance. Leonard bowed. It was the worst possible moment to explain.

While the other cooks chopped and stirred, he telephoned his cousin behind the marquee. She could deliver the chicken in an hour. Judging began in forty minutes. She also warned him that Duchess disliked hats, sudden movements, and most men.

When Leonard returned, the photographer was standing on a chair. Duchess had taken possession of the egg display. The chief judge, whose hat featured a large feather, was attempting to reason with her.

Leonard removed his jacket and tried to cover the hen. She ran beneath the tables, sending flour into a cloud. A boy caught her calmly beside the vegetable stall and handed her back. He said his grandmother's chickens behaved exactly the same way when people fussed.

With eighteen minutes left, Leonard examined his remaining ingredients: onions, butter, herbs, cream, and a basket of mushrooms. He made soup. It was something his mother had taught him before he learned to call food an interpretation.

The judges tasted it in silence. Leonard explained about the box, the cousin, and the absent chicken. The chief judge asked whether the hen had been part of the presentation. He said no. She looked relieved.

He won second prize. First went to the boy's grandmother for a potato pie. The photographer's favorite picture showed Leonard, flour in his hair, holding Duchess against his expensive jacket. It appeared on the village noticeboard for months.

His cousin arrived as the marquee was coming down. Leonard gave her the untouched box and asked whether she would like some soup. She tasted it and requested the recipe.

“An old family interpretation,” he began, then stopped. “Mushroom,” he said. “It's mushroom soup.”

From the box, Duchess offered a comment. This time he let her have the last word.