White Truffles in Winter: A Novel Page 5

  When he crossed the room and closed the window, the fur at the foot of the bed caught his eye. He recognized it immediately. He picked it up and held it. It smelled of mildew and age. He closed his eyes. “I am sorry,” he said, mostly to himself.

  “Escoffier?”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you. The window . . . ”

  He was still dressed for company in his black Louis-Philippe dress coat and finely polished shoes. He put the fur back on top of the wooden chest.

  “I’m cold,” she said. “Drape it over me.”

  “I’ll find you a blanket.”

  “Why? It can’t be worn any longer,” she said. “It sheds. I might as well have some use out of it.”

  He looked at his hands; they were covered in fur. “There must be something more suitable. The window is closed now. It will be too warm soon.”

  “No,” she said, sharply. “The coat is what I want.”

  Escoffier gently placed the fur around her shoulders and then backed away. She felt dwarfed underneath the weight of fur and history. In the metallic light of the moon, her husband looked very frail. It seemed as if there were a great many things that he wanted to say—so many in fact that he could not speak at all. He kissed her gently. He held her face in his hands, as if to memorize it.

  “Good night, Madame Escoffier.”

  Escoffier stood outside the door of her room for a long time, waiting until he could hear the rhythm of her breath deep in sleep.

  At his desk he began to write, reconstructing each line from memory.

  “In this thin coat of skin / these silent hands / these clouded eyes / there is you. / Nothing that I am can be without you. / The timbre of my voice rises and falls with thoughts of you. / In dreams you come to me, as my true love, the one who completes. / And then I wake.”

  Escoffier read it several times and then tore it into tiny pieces. He opened the window and tossed them into the night air. White and fat, improbable as snow, his words floated on the sea breeze and then slowly tumbled onto the ground, littering the garden below.

  And then he began to write again.

  The Complete Escoffier: A Memoir in Meals

  FRITOT OU MARINADE DE VOLAILLE

  Fried Chicken

  October 23, 1844

  The Eighth Wonder of the World, the Divine Sarah Bernhardt, is born.

  October 23, 1859

  My professional career begins at the age of thirteen, when I become a kitchen apprentice at my uncle’s Restaurant Français in Nice.

  October 23, 1870

  Franco-Prussian War: the Siege of Metz, a decisive Prussian victory, concludes with the surrender of France. I do not escape.

  These are the three most defining events in my life and they all occur on the same day. I have never written this down before. I am not sure why I have now. Of course, the date of Miss Bernhardt’s birthday often shifts. Some agree with the 23rd. Some say it was the 22nd. Some say the 25th. It matters not. We always celebrated on October 23rd and so I will consider that official.

  October 23rd may even be the day I met César Ritz. 1884. I am not sure what date exactly but I do remember it was October, sometime past mid-month. He died that day in October of 1918. Or was it the next? Midnight, I believe. I hadn’t seen him for such a long time; he’d gone quite mad by then. He slipped away without notice.

  But it was also on October 23 that I first tasted what is called “southern fried chicken.” This, too, had a profound effect on my life.

  I know no other food like it. In the American South, no Sunday is spent without it, but yet many do not realize that it is a dish of forgiveness.

  The Scots, who as a culture have no cuisine of their own, first served chicken in this manner in the New World. They have a long tradition of deep-frying fowl, and, quite frankly, are a people who will fry anything. I have heard that a chef from Scotland’s West Coast once served a fried peacock to Queen Mary at a royal banquet. He inserted the feathers where they had been in life and included a pint of malt vinegar.

  This would not happen in France.

  While it is possible that this story is not wholly accurate, perhaps a well-drawn fabrication on the part of Monsieur Echenard, my former maître d’hôtel at The Savoy, it is interesting to note that when Queen Mary of Scots did eventually arrive in Paris, she returned to her homeland with an entourage of French chefs.

  To me, that is proof that the story is true enough.

  Unfortunately, even with the exotic fruits and spices of a new world, the Scottish technique of frying chickens created an intensely plain dish. Chicken, fat and flour—that was all. No marinade to soften the old birds. No cream to finish. No cognac. No herb sauce. No lemon. No native honey. Nothing. Fry. Fini. Very sad.

  However, when the slave trade began the Scots had their first contact with the Sudanic race, the only other people in the world who, at the time, also had a habit of deep-frying fowls. These enslaved Africans were purchased by the Scots to work on their plantations and those who were assigned to house duties were instructed in the “artistry” of Scottish cooking.

  Luckily, they paid no attention.

  When it came to the frying of chicken, they took pity on their captors and incorporated the seasonings and spices of Africa—garlic, melegueta pepper, cloves, black peppercorns, cardamom, nutmeg, turmeric and even curry powder. They forgave them their cruelty and presented them with what can only be described as a gift born in sorrow.

  Food has the ability to move people in this manner. It can inspire bravery.

  These kitchen slaves could have been beaten for this insolence, or perhaps even killed for such an act, but they served their fried fowl anyway. Not surprisingly, their captors were entranced by it. Soon southern fried chicken became a delicacy enjoyed by both cultures—it was the one point where both captors and captive found pleasure, although the Africans were only allowed to fry the discarded wings of the bird for their own meals. Despite the continued injustice, it was an inspired and blessed act of subversion.

  Although born in slavery, this dish has not only brought together an entire region of people, it has transformed them. It is, as the Americans say, “democratic,” and is now enjoyed by people of all walks of life and all parts of the country.

  Even very famous international stars have fallen in love with this redemptive dish. While on tour and traveling in the opulent Pullman private cars, where crystal and china service is set for every meal including midday tea, the great opera singer Adelina Patti was introduced to it outside of New York City. She, in turn, introduced it to Miss Bernhardt, who became so enamored of it that she introduced it to me on her birthday. Well, actually, she arranged to have the famed Negroid chef Rufus Estes re-create the dish for me so that I might learn how to cook it myself for her.

  I have met several Africans; however, I had never met a man like Chef Estes before. Not tribal at all, he reminded me a great deal of myself. He was impeccably dressed, soft-spoken and seemed well liked by both his staff and patrons. Although his French was barely passable, he told me that he’d worked for the railroads for many years, and had cooked for many celebrities such as Henry Stanley, the famed African explorer, and the presidents Grover Cleveland and Benjamin Harrison.

  He was also quite well known for his cookbook, Good Things to Eat as Suggested by Rufus: A Collection of Practical Recipes for Preparing Meats, Game, Fowl, Fish, Puddings, Pastries, Etc., and even inscribed a copy to me. The book is extremely interesting; it includes nearly six hundred recipes—although few are for eggs despite the fact that his toque had at least sixty pleats, which would indicate that he knew sixty ways to make eggs. But then, so many things are different in American kitchens. It is, after all, a new world.

  What I found the most amazing was that Monsieur Estes had been born a slave. He had no father of record, bu
t his surname, and that of his nine brothers and sisters, was that of the man who had owned him.

  The implication of this is horrendous. And yet, “Forgive and forget,” is what he said to me. After living through Metz, I could not agree. For some, it is human nature to be inhuman. “My people say forgive, but never forget.”

  “Then I am sorry for your people.”

  At the time, I did not think he was being honest with me. I know from my own life that there are some sorrows that run too deep. After France fell in the Prussian War, those of us held at Metz were loaded onto trains to be taken to Germany to be held in captivity. For how long and for what reason, we did not know. We were treated very much like slaves. We were the spoils of war. Labor camps, anything was possible. They packed us into the train cars so tightly that we could barely breathe. We could not sit, only stand. For three days, we had no food or water. Our own foul waste surrounded us. No one dared speak to complain.

  While the trip from Metz, France, to Germany is usually quite quick, the conductor made sure that the train crawled along the tracks slowly; we were, after all, the victor’s prize on display for all in France to see. We were a way for the Germans to keep order, to make sure my countrymen understood that they were no longer under the control of Napoleon III. The French no longer belonged to France. We were Germany’s.

  When our train arrived at Nancy, the conductor stopped so that everyone could get a good look at us. It seemed as if the entire town stood at the station. Some threw stones. Some screamed.

  “Down with you cowards!”

  I could not believe what I was hearing. Although not all of the voices sounded entirely French, I could not help but wonder. Cowards? I saw little of the battle itself, only the suffering, but my fellow passengers were different. They had fought bravely only to be delivered to the enemy through treason, through the act of one insane man, and not because of a loss of nerve. They had suffered so much, and lost so much. Cowards? These men surrendered in tears, they fought for their beloved France, and now were being sent into an unknown captivity—these men were cowards?

  How could it be? When I looked out over the crowd, there was so much anger. I could only imagine that this is what it was like for the slaves when they stood on the auction block awaiting their fate.

  “How can you forget?” I asked Monsieur Estes.

  The elegant man straightened his waistcoat, leaned in and said, “The forgetting is all you have. My two brothers went north to fight and died in the Civil War for my freedom. My mother couldn’t shake the sorrow and died of a broken heart. That’s too much death to bear. You have to forget. You have to give sorrow wings. You have no choice.”

  And then he told me of the origins of this dish and I began to cook it with him. Two men, two cooks, completely different and yet something at the core of us was completely the same. We were kindred spirits.

  That night I served his chicken to Miss Bernhardt for her birthday celebration and she was quite thankful. Although the dish did not contain a puree of either foie gras or truffles, and it was not her traditional birthday meal of scrambled eggs and champagne, she consumed it in its entirety, including a side of what the English call “chips.”

  “Magic,” she said. “It is magic.”

  And it was. The crust was crispy and light with a floral hint from the spices. The meat of the young chicken was fragrant and juicy. I have never seen an actress, any actress, each so much in one sitting.

  Upon my return home, I had written Monsieur Estes to thank him for his time and his exquisite recipe, but my letter was returned a month later unopened. The famed chef had disappeared, never to be heard from again. Some spoke of the Klan.

  It pains me to think that this gracious man may have fallen victim to violence at the hands of such ignorant barbarians. How is it possible? How could someone so famous just disappear?

  Miss Bernhardt said, “The forgetting killed him.”

  I believe she may be right.

  As for the recipe for the fried chicken, it is simple. Cut some boiled fowl into slices and marinate them in very good olive oil, the juice of a lemon and a handful of herbs fresh from the garden. I enjoy tarragon, for a hint of licorice; lemon thyme, to bring forward the citrus note; and the slightest bit of lavender. The fowl should marinate for at least three hours. Flour. Fry. Garnish with fried parsley.

  It should be noted that this is not Monsieur Estes’s recipe. To recreate his exact dish, you will need a quarter of a pound of butter, a spoonful of flour, pepper, salt, a little vinegar, parsley, green onions, carrots, and turnips. Cook in a saucepan. Cool. Place cut chicken in this marinade for at least three hours. Dry the pieces, flour them and fry. Garnish with fried parsley.

  While Monsieur Estes’s is a memorable recipe, it is not mine. To make southern fried chicken properly, you must add a bit of your true self—the history of the dish demands it. You must bring your heart. Although very few dishes require such bravery, when cooking there is no room for cowardice.

  Life, of course, is another matter entirely.

  THE DIFFICULT THING ABOUT MEMORY IS THAT IT LEAVES a permanent stain. Even when details fade, there is a darkness that remains. The left foot will always be favored after the right is broken. The heart will always be reluctant once it understands how far it can bend.

  It was the sound of Sarah’s laughter—all bones and fury—that Escoffier could not forget.

  They met in 1874, Paris, long before Delphine, marriage and children, at a time when the most scandalous city in the world was scandalized by the first exhibition of the Société Anonyme Coopérative des Artistes. “Impressions”—Claude Monet, Pierre Auguste Renoir, Camille Pissarro, Edgar Degas—was a show of outsiders, not sanctioned by jury or state nor salon, only themselves. Renegades.

  Everyone had seen it. The critics were inflamed.

  “Dirty three-quarters of a canvas with black and white, rub the rest with yellow, dot it with red and blue blobs at random, and you will have an impression of spring before which the initiates will swoon in ecstasy.”

  “One wonders whether one is seeing the fruit either of a process of mystification which is highly unsuitable for the public, or the result of mental derangement which one could not but regret.”

  “Impression!” the art critic Louis Leroy would later write. “Wallpaper in its embryonic state is more finished!” And so he named the group “Impressionists.” Escoffier was intrigued. He had been studying sculpture with the artist Gustave Doré, who suggested that he attend the exhibit. He went without hesitation.

  As a gesture to the working classes, the exhibit was open only in the evenings. Escoffier left the kitchen of Le Petit Moulin Rouge after nine. It had been a long day. The dining room was being renovated and the work was behind schedule. Summer season was just a month away. They had to be ready to open or the fickle fashionable set would find someplace else to behave badly in.

  It was raining and unseasonably cool. The gas streetlamps were dim; some were out. The damp air made the city feel quiet. Mud stuck to the bottoms of his shoes, spattered his trouser cuffs. There was just the occasional clop of horse hooves on the cobblestone streets or the whispers of lovers in the darkness of doorways.

  The exhibition was being held in Nadar’s studio. Escoffier knew the photographer well. When he arrived, there was a great winding line of people—standing, pushing, seeing, being seen. The bourgeoisie, in their borrowed finery, huddled together and narrated the scene to one another in loud whispers. Some provided the names of the divetta and their cuckolded patrons whose faces they recognized from drawings in the newspapers; some just speculated on whose heart was lost and whose was won.

  The second floor of the building where the exhibit was housed was brightly lit; laughter and anger drifted down to the street. Escoffier joined the crowd as they walked up the narrow flight of steep stairs, step by
careful step. He was still wearing his platform shoes; slick from the mud, they pitched him forward and made each step tentative, made him feel even smaller. When he reached the landing, people were wildly arguing.

  “Imbeciles!”

  “Genius!”

  A duel was challenged. Someone screamed but many laughed as guns were drawn and the men were escorted out into the night. Two shots. Applause. More laughter. Escoffier did not look.

  There was a table with a tired man selling tickets. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair and beard unkempt. Admission was a single franc, and the catalogue, edited by the man, Renoir’s brother Edmond, fifty centimes. Escoffier could barely afford admission. He studied the catalogue closely, and yet gently, so as not to break the book’s spine.

  “Would you consider an exchange?” he asked. “This fine book for a fine meal at Le Petit Moulin Rouge?”

  Renoir’s brother shook his head. “Fifty centimes is a small price for what I have gone through. Degas could not see his way to speak to me until the very last moment before we were to go to press. And Monet sent too many paintings and such horrible titles—Entrance of a Village, Leaving the Village, Morning in a Village—the man has no sense.”

  The brother opened to a page. The painting was Le Havre as seen from a window: the sun appeared to be damp and the sunrise was merely vapors. It was haunting in a way Escoffier could not explain.

  “Thankfully, he let me rename them,” the man said. “Impression, Sunrise—is that not the perfect name?”

  It was. Escoffier gave the man fifty centimes.

  “Merci.”

  The brother entered the transaction neatly in a small ledger book. Escoffier could see that there were few entries on the income side. Notoriety had not brought profitability.

  If this were a restaurant, the man would be rich.

  Even though it was late, inside the studio the exhibit was crowded, although not many appeared to be from the “working class,” as the organizers had hoped. The majority of the crowd was composed of artists, none particularly well known, along with courtesans and actors. They were the type of people Escoffier often allowed to eat as guests at Le Petit Moulin Rouge—the “decorative people,” as he thought of them. Bohemians—gypsies of sorts—witty, attractive, charming and unconventional. They were amusing and essential to setting a tone in any dining room, especially the women. Without these women the restaurant would be filled with unhappy men. Respectable women were not willing to be seen dining publicly. At least, not yet. Escoffier was trying to convince the owners to add rose-colored lighting in the dining rooms. It would be flattering and soon all women would come to Le Petit Moulin Rouge. And come again. He knew that the civilizing presence of women, even Bohemian women, was key to success.