The basement door closed, muffling Mrs. Hudson's complaints from outside.
Allen stood before piles of ingredients and took a deep breath.
The smell of earth and raw meat mingled, and to him, it was the scent of money and the future.
"Let's get to work."
He repeatedly rinsed the beef brisket and beef shank, which Bill would have considered scraps, with clean water, then patiently and meticulously cut them apart with a newly sharpened knife.
Fascia, fat, and lean meat were sorted into different basins.
This was an extremely time-consuming and labor-intensive process.
Without modern meat grinders and cutting machines, everything had to be done by hand.
But Allen still worked meticulously, knowing that the pre-treatment of raw ingredients would directly affect the taste and quality of the final product.
He then threw the large pieces of beef fat he had cut into the gleaming large pot, lighting the fireplace as he did so.
As the temperature rose, the beef fat slowly melted, making a "sizzling" sound, and a rich, fatty aroma began to fill the basement.
Once the beef fat was fully rendered, he skimmed off the dregs with a spoon, then threw the small pieces of beef into the scalding hot oil in batches.
"Sizzle—"
The moment the meat came into contact with the hot oil, there was a strong sound and a burst of white smoke mixed with the aroma of meat.
This was the Maillard reaction, basic knowledge that every chef would understand in later generations, but in 1860, most people still simply threw meat into water to cook it.
Just this first step of pan-frying created a charred, fragrant crust on the outside of the beef, locking in the juices and flavor.
After all the beef was pan-fried until golden, Allen scooped it out, then threw large pieces of onion and carrot into the pot, stir-frying them in the remaining beef fat until the vegetables' aroma was fully released.
Finally, he poured the seared beef back into the pot, added enough water, and a generous amount of salt and a few crushed black peppercorns.
There were no complex spices, only the simplest seasonings, which better highlighted the inherent flavor of the ingredients.
Or perhaps it could be said that reality did not allow Allen to buy more spices.
He covered the pot and let it simmer slowly over low heat.
As time passed, the smell in the basement changed.
The initial smell of cooking oil and raw meat gradually dissipated, replaced by a mellow, rich aroma of meat broth that made one involuntarily swallow.
This dominant aroma seeped out from under the basement door, traveled up the stairs, and wafted into Mrs. Hudson's living room.
Mrs. Hudson, who was wiping silverware, twitched her nose; at first, she thought she had imagined it.
But soon, the scent grew stronger and clearer.
God, she had lived for over fifty years and had never smelled such an enticing aroma.
"What in the world is that boy up to?"
She put down her work and couldn't help but walk to the staircase leading to the basement.
She had intended to loudly scold Allen for making a mess in her house again, but smelling that appetizing aroma, the words of reprimand simply wouldn't come out.
Just as she was hesitating, the door at the bottom of the stairs creaked open.
Allen emerged, carrying a small bowl filled with several pieces of tender stewed beef and thick broth.
Seeing Mrs. Hudson, he showed no surprise.
"Good day, I imagine you might be curious about what I'm doing."
Mrs. Hudson's face felt warm, a touch of embarrassment for her curiosity being caught red-handed.
She put on a stern face and huffed, "I was merely concerned you'd set my house on fire, Mr. Allen! What is that smell?"
"Stewed beef, the first product for my business."
Allen smiled and offered her the small bowl he was holding.
"It's fresh from the pot, and I thought, as my landlady, you have the right to be the first to taste and evaluate it."
Looking at the steaming, fragrant stewed beef in the bowl, Mrs. Hudson hesitated for a moment, then took the bowl and spoon.
She carefully scooped up a small piece of beef.
The meat was stewed so tenderly that it fell apart with just a gentle touch of the spoon; she put it in her mouth, and her eyes instantly widened.
God be my witness, she had never tasted such wonderful food.
The beef practically melted in her mouth without needing to chew, and the rich meat juices mixed with the sweet freshness of the vegetables exploded on her taste buds.
This taste was more delicious than the most expensive dishes in the most upscale restaurants she had ever visited!
"Oh… oh my God…" She couldn't help but take another large spoonful, drinking the thick broth along with it, and a warm current rose from her stomach, dispelling the chill of early winter in New York.
The small bowl of stewed beef was quickly eaten clean; Mrs. Hudson even wanted to lick the bottom of the bowl.
When she realized her lapse in etiquette, her old face flushed crimson.
"Ahem… ahem!" She cleared her throat, trying to regain her stern landlady image, "The taste is… passable."
Allen watched her insincere expression, chuckling inwardly, but said seriously, "Thank you for your evaluation, Mrs. Hudson. To receive your approval gives me confidence."
"Hmph, you'd best not make a mess of my basement."
Mrs. Hudson's words were still sharp, but her tone had softened considerably. She handed the empty bowl back to Allen and quickly turned to go upstairs.
Allen smiled and turned back into the basement. Mrs. Hudson's reaction gave him ample confidence.
A large pot of stewed beef was soon nearly empty.
He carefully portioned the beef and broth into his homemade tin cans, leaving about an inch of space in each can.
Next came the most crucial step—sealing the cans.
He secured the filled cans in his rudimentary manual seaming machine, then began to crank the handle.
"Click… click…"
The rollers precisely pressed over the can opening, perfectly seaming the lid and body together.
One perfectly sealed can after another was created in his hands.
Finally, he placed these sealed cans back into a large pot of boiling water for several hours of high-temperature steaming.
This was the most important step to kill all microorganisms and ensure the cans could be stored for a long time.
By the time all the work was completed, it was already early morning the next day.
Dozens of tin cans, varying in size and labeled 'Williams,' were neatly arranged on the basement floor.
Illuminated by the oil lamp, they gleamed with a simple yet solid light.
Allen sank to the ground, exhausted, looking at the fruits of his labor with a satisfied smile.
In his eyes, these were not ordinary cans.
They were a pass, the first step on his path to that empire of wealth.
Now everything was ready.
Tomorrow, he would take these groundbreaking products and knock on the doors of the city's grocery stores.