The Roux Where it Happened

James held the thick iron pan over the fire with practiced hands. As the butter melted, he mixed in the flour until the grainy texture gave way to a smooth paste. The deep, nutty aroma of the roux suffused the cramped kitchen and transported him back to the Champs-Élysées. James heaved a deep sigh. He never should have left Paris. There he was a free man. It was not an easy life, but at least it was his own.

Despite being two rooms down, James could still hear the three men bicker. Peter shuffled at his side, the pasta now drained and the imported cheese grated. James flashed a brief smile at the younger man. Just enough to make his younger brother question if he actually showed some pride. James grabbed a thick jug from the cabinet and took a long draught before placing it back with a thud.

“Are you sure that is wise, brother? Your breath might catch fire with that Pennsylvania swill.” Peter teased.

“Simply to calm the nerves, Peter.” James said returning to his duties. Peter looked like he wanted to say more, but merely nodded.

“They are getting their dander up,” Peter noted. The men turned as one as they heard a fist crash into the table and rattle the bone china.

“The food is ready when it is ready. If you only learn one thing from me, it is that!” James admonished, placing the dutch oven in the masonry stove. The young chef was glad he was able to convince the Master to install one, even if it was only temporary. They would, after all, be moving to Philadelphia next month.

“The chestnut puree, artichoke bottoms, and truffles are finished. The Calvados sauce is simmering and will be ready momentarily. All is well, brother.” Peter said, putting a hand on the man’s thick shoulder.

“I just hope Mr. Hamilton is as keen for my cookery as the Master,” James replied.

The kitchen became a sweltering nightmare as the fires mingled with the New York City summer heat. It seemed the dining room was heating up as well as tempers flared. Despite brief reprieves of silence as silverware met porcelain, there was a palpable tension emanating from that direction. James put the finishing touches on the capon when Elizabeth, returning with a pile of empty plates said, “James, the Master desires a word with you.”

James froze. Very rarely did the Master interrupt his dinners, especially with such esteemed guests. He directed Peter to finish his task, mopped his brow, and strode into the dining room. The three well-appointed men sat at a table and their demeanor seemed far-flung from the raucous that was occurring just a few minutes earlier. The Master bellowed a laugh and noticed James enter the room.

“Gentlemen, this is James, our Chef de Cuisine. No expense was spared with his training. When I was in France, he received tutelage from the illustrious Monsieur Combeaux and even learned from the private chefs of His Excellency, the Prince de Condé. I believe you had a question for the boy, Mr. Hamilton.” Mr. Jefferson said, turning to his left.

“Mr. Hemings, was it?” Hamilton asked, a morsel of food poised at his lips before he placed it back on the plate. He had reddish-brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and a jawline sharp enough to cut root vegetables.

“Yes, sir.” Hemings said, head down. Despite the Master’s introduction, James did not feel comfortable amongst these men.

“The meal thus far has been exquisite. I, myself, spent some time in France in the course of my duties, but I am not familiar with many of these dishes.” Mr. Hamilton said. He spooned the bite into his mouth and closed his eyes in rapture.

“Yes, sir. Many of these dishes are inspired by my Southern upbringing. For instance, your next course, capon, is a classical French dish. However, it is stuffed with Virginia ham which balances the flavor.”

“And this? It is rich and unctuous. Absolutely sublime!” Mr. Hamilton asked, pointing to the dutch oven with the pasta and cheese sauce.

“The macaroni pie, sir? It…” James started.

“I have heard of the macaroni dish,” Jefferson declared. “This must be my cousin Mary’s recipe. She is in the process of writing a book and this was in her most recent compendium. That is clearly where you learned it. Right, James?”

“Of course, sir.” James said, through thinned lips. It was no use arguing with the Master. He would believe what he will and James would do what he must.

“You see, Alexander! Virginia is not simply some backwater. There is refinement and civilization! Certainly fit for our nation’s capital.” Mr. Jefferson said.

“I cannot argue with that logic if this is how you eat every meal, Thomas!” Hamilton laughed.

“And, Mr. Madison,” Jefferson turned to his right, “you agree with your old friend’s plan to secure the public credit of our nation?”

"I shan't be making any friends in Virginia with this agreement, but then again, that is why they call it a compromise,” Madison said with a glint in his eye.

“And who, pray tell, owns that land near the Potomac River where our new capital will be settled?” Mr. Hamilton asked with a wry smile.

“Merely proper compensation for the good Virginians who have already paid our debts,” Madison retorted.

“Now, now, gentlemen. Why return to this argument when there is more excellent food and wine to be had!” Jefferson roared, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders. “James, you are dismissed,” the Master added without looking at the chef.

With a curt nod and bow, James left. He walked into the kitchen, ignoring the rush of hot air against his face, and slumped against the wall. He should have been angry. Angry that they were paying him far less than his white counterparts. Angry that they were reluctantly paying him at all only because the law in the Northern states required it. Angry that they could not believe it was his macaroni pie recipe, one he adapted from the kitchens of the Prince de Condé.

And yet, another part of him wanted to feel proud that they enjoyed his meal. Some of the most important men this side of the Atlantic praised his cookery. Nevertheless, all James could feel was hollow. When he reached for the jug in the cabinet, Peter did not say a word.

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Thank you for reading!

This was my interpretation of the meeting between James Madison, Thomas Jefferson, and Alexander Hamilton on June 20, 1790 in New York. The event was made famous by the song, “The Room Where it Happened,” in Lin Manuel Miranda’s musical Hamilton. The meeting was actually a dinner served by Jefferson's chef and enslaved person, James Heming. Jefferson called the meeting a meal “save the union.”

I wanted to not only call attention to James’ role on that day, but also highlight the fact that he brought many famous dishes from France including Macaroni and Cheese and Crème Brûlée. Many of these recipes were falsely attributed to others. Unfortunately, James developed an alcohol addiction and committed suicide before the age of 37. Here are some links to learn more about James and the kitchens he worked in:

https://www.monticello.org/jameshemings/

https://www.monticello.org/research-education/thomas-jefferson-encyclopedia/james-hemings

https://tacf.org/black-history-month-chef-james-hemings

https://www.poplarforest.org/masonry-stoves-thomas-jefferson/