Wolfe scowled at her. I could see he was torn with conflicting emotions. A female in his kitchen was an outrage. A woman criticizing his or Fritz’s cooking was an insult. But corned beef hash was one of life’s toughest problems, never yet solved by anyone. To tone down the corned flavor and yet preserve its unique quality, to remove the curse of its dryness without making it greasy — the theories and experiments had gone on for years. He scowled at her, but he didn’t order her out.
“This is Miss Timms,” I said. “Mr. Wolfe. Mr. Brenner. Miss Nichols is in—”
“Ground too fine for what?” Wolfe demanded truculently. “This is not a tender fresh meat, with juices to lose—”
“Now you just calm down.” Maryella’s hand was on his arm. “It’s not ruined, only it’s better if it’s coarser. That’s far too much potatoes for that meat. But if you don’t have chitlins you can’t—”
“Chitlins!” Wolfe bellowed.
Maryella nodded. “Fresh pig chitlins. That’s the secret of it. Fried shallow in olive oil with onion juice—”
“Good heavens!” Wolfe was staring at Fritz. “I never heard of it. It has never occurred to me. Fritz? Well?”
Fritz was frowning thoughtfully. “It might go,” he conceded. “We can try it. As an experiment.”
Wolfe turned to me in swift decision. “Archie, call up Kretzmeyer and ask if he has pig chitlins. Two pounds.”
“You’d better let me help,” Maryella said. “It’s sort of tricky....”