“Such beer,” Lupa repeated, leaning back with his eyes closed.
I poured him another glass. For the next quarter of an hour we sat quietly enjoying the day, the beer, and . . . was it the company or the suspense? It seemed to me that we were all waiting for another to be the first to speak. Finally, I ventured cautiously, “Monsieur Lupa, what brings you here to Valence? Could you not accomplish your goals elsewhere, in a larger city?”
He looked at me quizzically, the touch of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“What goals are those?” he asked.
“Oh, the usual for a young chef. Apprenticeship in a large hotel, assistantship to a master—”
But he cut me off. “A man who follows the usual routes obtains the usual results. Like so many other endeavors, cuisine is both an art and a skill. Of course, the French scoff at such an idea—meaning no offense to you, sir. Too often the path to excellence at a skill is a limiting experience, until the mind, finally, is trained to abhor innovation. And, beyond a certain mastery of skills, innovation is what lets a chef stand alone.”
When he finished his little speech, he had none of the habits one would expect from one so young, neither the slight embarrassment nor the brash defiance that often punctuates the speech of the insecure. Rather, he reached for his beer and drank.
“It’s clear,” said Marcel, “that you wish to stand alone.”
“Only a dullard would not.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
Finally, Marcel spoke. “But surely you don’t mean that.”
Lupa nodded. “If I hadn’t meant it, I wouldn’t have said it.”
“What of our men at the front, then? They don’t stand alone. In fact, all our hope resides in their fighting together, in the assumption that there are goals that must take precedence over individuality. Are all our soldiers dullards?” “Probably most. It’s always rather meaningless to generalize. Joffre certainly is.”
“Then you wouldn’t fight?” Marcel was getting angry.
Lupa took a breath. “Fortunately, I’m a citizen of the United States, and we are presently neutral. I’m afforded the luxury of not fighting.”
“But would you?”
“I wouldn’t like to be mere cannon fodder.”
“Because you wish to stand alone.”
“Exactly.” He drank some beer. “But I see you’re getting upset with me. I don’t mean to say that I don’t believe in causes, or that everyone should have individuality. I applaud our troops at the front. I only refer to men of adequate intelligence, and they are not so commonplace as is generally believed, who attain eminence in a field and then prove themselves incompetent because they lack imagination, individuality, call it what you will. Joffre can execute all the textbook moves. What he cannot do is adapt. Luckily for France, the Germans are even more stupid, or they would have taken Paris months ago.” He paused and drank again.
