Book Club: Too Many Cooks
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milk_and_orchidsToo Many Cooks is one of my favorite Nero Wolfe novels, both for the Archie-and-Wolfe show and for the period-piece details. But where to begin!
This book is set in Virginia in the 1930s, at a resort largely staffed by black servants. There's hardly a race or ethnicity that doesn't get insulted. It's relatively easy to laugh off Archie's remarks about excitable dagoes, but the fact is, you don't have to go very far into TMC before you're slapped in the eye with "nigger" (never used by Wolfe or Archie, by the way). I can't argue with anyone who can't enjoy this book because of these issues. I understand and respect that position fully. But I do think Stout is fairly progressive for 1938, when TMC was published. Black characters are shown to be competent at their trades and, along with the Asian character, get to speak for themselves about the uncomfortable position they hold in society. Wolfe goes out of his way to acknowledge the skill of the black characters and to endorse their complaints about the injustice to which they are subjected (he even alludes to lynchings as deplorable). Stout is careful to distinguish between Wolfe's and Archie's attitudes and the more virulent or provincial racism of the Southern characters. Wolfe is a standard-issue paternalistic liberal, but well-meaning. Archie is considerably less progressive in his language (he throws around "shines" and "smokes" and "pickaninnies," as well as "Jap"), but he doesn't display any particular animus towards individual black characters. I think Stout regards Archie's less-progressive thinking not as a sign of bad moral character, but rather as a sign of his lack of sophistication and worldliness compared to Wolfe. We look at it differently now, but again…1938. As I said, it's really up to the individual reader whether she wants to (or can) read past the racism in TMC, but I don't see malice in it as much as the reflection of structural racisms.
To me, TMC seems like the first fully-realized Wolfe novel as we have come to recognize them. While, of course, there is backstory among the suspects, the mystery doesn't hinge on lengthy, Study in Scarlet-style excursions into the past and events that happened before the client was born (I'm looking at you, Red Box and Rubber Band). Wolfe's speeches, and the narration, are also generally less purple and pompous. On the other hand, the solution of the mystery itself, or at least a very strong indication in the correct direction, is actually provided through judiciously-scattered clues, which can't be said of all the later books. I still find the reveal a little less than satisfying, since, honestly, who cares about Liggett, and the deck feels stacked against Dina Laszio, but what can you do.
What makes TMC so charming to me is Stout's loving portrait of his crew of chefs. They're all passionate, high-strung elitists of one kind or another, but they're also completely dedicated to what Wolfe calls "the subtlest and the kindliest of the arts." You have to admire Stout's vision of a world where eccentric and temperamental geniuses reign supreme in their spheres (like Wolfe in his). I think this, more than anything, struck me when I was reading the books as a child--this dream of a New York City where, if you were smart enough, you could arrange to live a supremely independent life devoted to the cultivation of your own tastes, regulated almost exclusively by your own sense of decency and obligation. I'm not quite there yet, but I can't deny it had an effect on my life.
And, of course, the book is funny as hell. From the opening sequence, when Archie describes the impending need to help Wolfe get undressed on the train in high-flown Victorian language, to the script-reading sequence where Stout shows Wolfe and Archie as the most fidgety and stubborn married couple ever through the almost exclusive use of dialogue, to the ending, where Archie deftly shoves the goofy young lovers together, TMC is a hoot. Stout is very fond of the humorous high-low contrast, and he handles it very well throughout TMC.
This is, I believe, the first time we see Marko Vukcic in person. He's inserted naturally and is believable as a boyhood friend of Wolfe, no easy thing to pull off. It's the crankiness and the outsize personality that makes me believe in it. Of course Wolfe spends most of the book fighting with him, but what else would you expect? There isn't too much of the other recurring characters, except the usual spot of competence from Saul Panzer, who appears briefly.
As for women, Wolfe declares that he's not immune to women, but has merely been "forced to cultivate" an appearance of immunity to them. To me, this indicates he is perfectly well aware of their charms and probably has had many a romantic (in either sense) impulse in his day, but finds those kinds of entanglements incompatible with his chosen way of life. I suppose Constanza Berin and Dina Laszio represent the range of perils that can result from chasing women, with poor Barry Tolman's dignity gone for much of the book as he pines for Constanza and Dina's plotting to have her husband murdered.
It should be noted that Wolfe is, if not a locavore, at least acutely conscious of the role that the production of the ingredients plays in cooking. Your mouth waters when he reads his description of peanut-fed hams. In this, I think Stout is not so much incredibly forward-thinking as sophisticated for his time--I think it was WWII and its aftermath that saw the rise of full-scale industrial agriculture and all the culinary nastiness it entails. Stout sticks to his approach, though (think of "Murder is Corny," published in 1964). Still, few of the items on Wolfe's menu would be served to gourmands today; turkey is certainly no longer regarded as a particular delicacy. (It would probably be replaced by pig of some sort.)
Speaking of location, poor Archie is a fish out of water most of the time. His unflattering comparison "in terms of excitement" between what must be a gorgeous resort with "Times Square or Yankee Stadium" is the sort of New York chauvinism that only those of us who have migrated from the Midwest to the city can truly espouse. Kanawha Spa is one of the most remote spots he ever gets to in the course of the series--I can only think of Montenegro (of course) and California in Murder by the Book as further. Train travel between NYC and the South was clearly a lot nicer then than it is now. Of course, one of the worst parts of travel is that Archie isn't able to be sure that when he comes back, Wolfe will be where he left him!
This book is set in Virginia in the 1930s, at a resort largely staffed by black servants. There's hardly a race or ethnicity that doesn't get insulted. It's relatively easy to laugh off Archie's remarks about excitable dagoes, but the fact is, you don't have to go very far into TMC before you're slapped in the eye with "nigger" (never used by Wolfe or Archie, by the way). I can't argue with anyone who can't enjoy this book because of these issues. I understand and respect that position fully. But I do think Stout is fairly progressive for 1938, when TMC was published. Black characters are shown to be competent at their trades and, along with the Asian character, get to speak for themselves about the uncomfortable position they hold in society. Wolfe goes out of his way to acknowledge the skill of the black characters and to endorse their complaints about the injustice to which they are subjected (he even alludes to lynchings as deplorable). Stout is careful to distinguish between Wolfe's and Archie's attitudes and the more virulent or provincial racism of the Southern characters. Wolfe is a standard-issue paternalistic liberal, but well-meaning. Archie is considerably less progressive in his language (he throws around "shines" and "smokes" and "pickaninnies," as well as "Jap"), but he doesn't display any particular animus towards individual black characters. I think Stout regards Archie's less-progressive thinking not as a sign of bad moral character, but rather as a sign of his lack of sophistication and worldliness compared to Wolfe. We look at it differently now, but again…1938. As I said, it's really up to the individual reader whether she wants to (or can) read past the racism in TMC, but I don't see malice in it as much as the reflection of structural racisms.
To me, TMC seems like the first fully-realized Wolfe novel as we have come to recognize them. While, of course, there is backstory among the suspects, the mystery doesn't hinge on lengthy, Study in Scarlet-style excursions into the past and events that happened before the client was born (I'm looking at you, Red Box and Rubber Band). Wolfe's speeches, and the narration, are also generally less purple and pompous. On the other hand, the solution of the mystery itself, or at least a very strong indication in the correct direction, is actually provided through judiciously-scattered clues, which can't be said of all the later books. I still find the reveal a little less than satisfying, since, honestly, who cares about Liggett, and the deck feels stacked against Dina Laszio, but what can you do.
What makes TMC so charming to me is Stout's loving portrait of his crew of chefs. They're all passionate, high-strung elitists of one kind or another, but they're also completely dedicated to what Wolfe calls "the subtlest and the kindliest of the arts." You have to admire Stout's vision of a world where eccentric and temperamental geniuses reign supreme in their spheres (like Wolfe in his). I think this, more than anything, struck me when I was reading the books as a child--this dream of a New York City where, if you were smart enough, you could arrange to live a supremely independent life devoted to the cultivation of your own tastes, regulated almost exclusively by your own sense of decency and obligation. I'm not quite there yet, but I can't deny it had an effect on my life.
And, of course, the book is funny as hell. From the opening sequence, when Archie describes the impending need to help Wolfe get undressed on the train in high-flown Victorian language, to the script-reading sequence where Stout shows Wolfe and Archie as the most fidgety and stubborn married couple ever through the almost exclusive use of dialogue, to the ending, where Archie deftly shoves the goofy young lovers together, TMC is a hoot. Stout is very fond of the humorous high-low contrast, and he handles it very well throughout TMC.
This is, I believe, the first time we see Marko Vukcic in person. He's inserted naturally and is believable as a boyhood friend of Wolfe, no easy thing to pull off. It's the crankiness and the outsize personality that makes me believe in it. Of course Wolfe spends most of the book fighting with him, but what else would you expect? There isn't too much of the other recurring characters, except the usual spot of competence from Saul Panzer, who appears briefly.
As for women, Wolfe declares that he's not immune to women, but has merely been "forced to cultivate" an appearance of immunity to them. To me, this indicates he is perfectly well aware of their charms and probably has had many a romantic (in either sense) impulse in his day, but finds those kinds of entanglements incompatible with his chosen way of life. I suppose Constanza Berin and Dina Laszio represent the range of perils that can result from chasing women, with poor Barry Tolman's dignity gone for much of the book as he pines for Constanza and Dina's plotting to have her husband murdered.
It should be noted that Wolfe is, if not a locavore, at least acutely conscious of the role that the production of the ingredients plays in cooking. Your mouth waters when he reads his description of peanut-fed hams. In this, I think Stout is not so much incredibly forward-thinking as sophisticated for his time--I think it was WWII and its aftermath that saw the rise of full-scale industrial agriculture and all the culinary nastiness it entails. Stout sticks to his approach, though (think of "Murder is Corny," published in 1964). Still, few of the items on Wolfe's menu would be served to gourmands today; turkey is certainly no longer regarded as a particular delicacy. (It would probably be replaced by pig of some sort.)
Speaking of location, poor Archie is a fish out of water most of the time. His unflattering comparison "in terms of excitement" between what must be a gorgeous resort with "Times Square or Yankee Stadium" is the sort of New York chauvinism that only those of us who have migrated from the Midwest to the city can truly espouse. Kanawha Spa is one of the most remote spots he ever gets to in the course of the series--I can only think of Montenegro (of course) and California in Murder by the Book as further. Train travel between NYC and the South was clearly a lot nicer then than it is now. Of course, one of the worst parts of travel is that Archie isn't able to be sure that when he comes back, Wolfe will be where he left him!