White Truffles in Winter: A Novel Read online

  At the exhibit, however, they seemed slightly menacing. Most of them were drinking. All of them were loud and boisterous. The walls of the room were painted deep red, like a pomegranate. People were even arguing over that. “Blood,” a man shouted. “The walls soaked in blood.”

  It all seemed rather ridiculous. They are their own theater, he thought.

  Whatever the shade was called, however, it provided the perfect backdrop for the work. Each painting, and there were many, stood in sharp relief to the color of the walls. Each stroke, each illumination, each intent and every nuance seemed heightened, like the sun rising in an angry sky.

  Escoffier, exhausted, made his way tentatively through the jumble of canvases and people. The rooms smelled of wet wool and sweat. The work astonished him. There was a wall of oils and pastels all hung at eye level by Renoir; ten works by Degas; five by Pissarro; three by Cézanne and so many by Monet that he clearly understood Renior’s brother’s plight.

  But he had never seen such beauty. Not even the most elegant woman cast in the rose-hued gaslight of a café could rival it. When he arrived at Impression: Sunrise, it was infinitely more breathtaking in real life than it was in the catalogue. He thought for a moment that he had fallen into a dream, a lonely dreamscape in orange and gray. It was everything Doré had told him Impressionist paintings would be. It was not like reality at all but more real somehow. It did not have a distinguishable line or form. And the color was not true to any color in life but its vibrant sun set against the dawn seemed to pulsate like the real sun in a universe yet to be discovered.

  The work took Escoffier back to those moments when he first came to Paris as a young man and sat along the river and waited for the morning to come. The painting made him feel as if the world was still filled with promise, as if he was at the exact moment when everything would change.

  It was as if Monet had harnessed the power of the sun itself.

  Impossible, he thought, but the more Escoffier looked at the painting, the more it seemed alive. After a time, a voice behind him, a woman’s voice, silvered and shining, said, “The secret is that there is no contrast in colors. The sun has nearly the same luminance as the grayish clouds. If Monet had painted the sun brighter than the clouds, as one finds in real life, the painting would bore.”

  Escoffier turned around. The milk cream skin, the elegant long neck set in relief against a Belgian lace collar and black velvet waistcoat. Monet’s sun paled in comparison to her. Sarah Bernhardt. Her perfume, a musky rose, enveloped him. And yet a moment later, the crowd swelled around her and she was gone as if she never came. Even the scent of her had vanished.

  Idiot.

  He should have said something, anything. Escoffier had hoped for this moment for such a long time. When Sarah came into Le Petit Moulin Rouge, he stood behind the velvet curtains of the dining room and watched as she ate. Hers was the only ladies’ hand in the dining room that he could not bring himself to kiss. Nor could he meet her eye. One cannot approach a goddess.

  And so he sat in the darkened theater at all her performances, memorized the lines, and relived them in his dreams.

  For so very long he wanted to meet her alone and thought of standing outside of the stage door or somehow leading her away from her dinner companions, but all of that seemed offensive, reckless—the type of behavior that lovesick fools engaged in.

  And yet the goddess had come and gone and he was silent. Fool.

  Or maybe it was just a dream.

  He told no one of this meeting. To a man like Escoffier—a small man who worked in whispers, whose fleeting miracles were made one plate at a time—Bernhardt seemed well beyond his grasp. But there she was, whispering in his ear. He could still feel the warmth of her lips; could still hear her words, and that voice, weeks later. It made him sleepless.

  And yet, he was just as famous as she was.

  At the time they met, Escoffier was thirty years old and had already revolutionized fine dining in Paris. Not satisfied with the overly rich and elaborate classics Marie-Antoine Carême had set forth, faites simple was Escoffier’s mantra. He served only the finest of ingredients and only in season. Excessively complicated sauces became elegant reductions. The gesture replaced excessive gilding. Food was pared down to its essence and so became a mystery to be eaten, not just admired.

  Before Escoffier, all fine meals served were à la française with several dozen dishes served at the same time. Elaborately garnished soups, pâtés, desserts, fish, crèmes, meats, stews, and cheese were stacked high on shelves as a centerpiece to give the impression of great wealth. By the time the guests arrived at the table, most of the dishes were cold and spoiled. Some were several days old and rancid. Food was something to admire, not eat.

  But Escoffier’s food was served very hot, so that the diner could embrace the aroma, and à la russe with dishes being eaten one at a time in a series of courses, fourteen in all.

  Elegance and, in turn, eroticism were the underlying principles. “Let the food speak where words cannot.”

  He was a quiet storm that swept over the tables of Paris.

  She must have known who I was, he later thought. But the next time Escoffier saw Sarah in the dining room, her eyes seemed to look through him. Sarah was the darling of the Comédie-Française, after all. She was, by her own design, unforgettable. She slept in a silk-lined coffin and once attempted to have a tiger’s tail grafted to the base of her spine. She was born “Rosine Bernardt,” and later added the “h.” Her mother was a Jewish courtesan and her father was unknown—at least, that was one story from the press.

  It was also reported that Sarah was an American of French-Canadian descent who, as a girl, worked in a hat shop in Muscatine, Iowa. At the age of fifteen, she fell in love with the theater and made her way to Paris by taking on a series of lovers.

  There were other stories, of course, most of which she created herself.

  When it came to the Divine Miss Sarah, as Oscar Wilde had called her, confusion was understandable. She claimed not to speak any English but her French had an American accent, and so was always suspect. She said her father was “Edouard Bernardt” from the Le Havre of Monet’s painting, a magical place, and he was a man who, depending on the moment, was a law student, accountant, naval cadet or naval officer. But “Bernardt” was her grandfather’s name. He was Moritz Baruch Bernardt, a petty criminal.

  When it came to Sarah, the truth was difficult to ascertain. Alexandre Dumas, fils, whose La Dame aux Camélias Sarah performed thousands of times, called her a notorious liar. She took famous lovers, including Victor Hugo, of both sexes.

  She was thunder and lightning. She was Heaven and Hell. She was unforgettable.

  After their meeting at the exhibition, Escoffier barely slept. He threw himself into work and his studies with Doré. Busy, always busy.

  Two months had passed when Doré stopped by Le Petit Moulin Rouge to see Escoffier. The artist’s studio was around the corner from the café and so he often ordered supper to be delivered, especially when he was working late with students.

  “It’s for Mademoiselle Bernhardt,” he told Escoffier. “You know what she likes. Make whatever will suit her.”

  Escoffier could not believe what he was hearing. “She’s taking lessons?”

  “She’s very good. It’s surprising. Exhibition quality,” Doré said. “And don’t forget. Several bottles of champagne, of course.”

  Escoffier knew exactly what Sarah liked; he knew what everyone liked. He kept extensive notes about all of his favored diners. This was his second chance. He sent the champagne ahead and planned to cook and deliver the food himself.

  Escoffier knew if he could win Sarah’s heart it would be with a dish made of truffles and pureed foie gras, the one she often doted over. The subtle aroma of truffle, according to the great Brillat-Savarin, was an aphrodisi
ac. And so, “Let the food speak where words cannot,” Escoffier said, making the sign of the cross, and cooking as if his life depended on it, because on some level it did.

  When the chef finally knocked on the studio door, his small hands shook under the weight of the silver tray and its domed cover.

  Escoffier had changed into clean clothes and now looked more like a banker than a chef. But he was, most certainly, a chef. Beneath the dome, caramelized sweetbreads, covered with truffles, lay on a bed of golden noodles that were napped in a sauce made from the foie gras of ducks fed on wild raspberries, the framboise, of the countryside.

  It was a dish of profound simplicity, and yet luxury.

  When Doré opened the studio door, Escoffier was surprised to see that Sarah was dressed as a young boy, which was, of course, illegal. She wore a black vest, gypsy shirt, riding pants tucked into tall boots with her wild copper river of hair twisted into a knot on the top of her head. Her eyes were dusty, tornadic. Her skin seemed more like marble than flesh. She held a chisel in one hand—the bust she was working on was rough, just a few cuts—and a glass of champagne in the other. The thing he would always remember about that moment was that she was covered with a fine white dust, like powdered sugar.

  She could have dismissed him. After all, she clearly didn’t remember that they had already met. “Put the tray on the table and go,” is what he expected her to say. But she did not.

  She looked at him as if he were someone whom she had loved and lost. She would later say that it was at that moment that she noticed that he had her father’s eyes—eyes filled with a glorious burning. She had, indeed, remembered him.

  As was the custom, she kissed him on both cheeks. “Le Havre,” she whispered and Escoffier lifted the silver dome off the heavy platter. The room was filled with a hint of raspberries, warmed by the summer sun, and truffles, dark as memory.

  Sarah leaned over the dish and closed her eyes. “It is as if the very air is made of velvet.”

  And then she laughed: all bones and fury.

  And he was forever hers. No matter whom he loved, or was loved by, the shadow of her always remained.

  AT LE PETIT MOULIN ROUGE, THERE WERE ROOMS TO BE seen in, rooms to be lost in, and rooms never to leave. The restaurant, only open during the summer months, featured a series of outdoor gardens with arbors of roses and lilacs trellised to form fragrant walls. Inside there were two formal dining rooms on the main level, two large private rooms on the second, and several smaller rooms for more intimate dining on the third and fourth floors. There were thirty rooms in all and a private entrance at 3 rue Jean Goujon that was hidden by a roadside lilac grove.

  Every night, every dining-room drama was scored by music from Napoleon Musad’s orchestra, who played in the band shell across the street at the Champs Elysées gardens. That night was no different.

  Escoffier usually worked the dining room, kissing the hands of the ladies who were discreetly ushered in through the side entrance. But that night, he waited in the kitchen so that he might catch a glimpse of Sarah leaving Doré’s studio, or maybe even find her standing outside the back door waiting to thank him for such an elegant supper.

  It is impossible that she is not moved, he thought and watched the couples in the park, under the gaslights. The ladies in their elegant bustled dresses and peacock-plumed hats. Men in their frock coats and silver handled canes. They strolled along dimly lit walks or sat drinking wine under the darkness of the trees. Musad and the orchestra were playing an evening of the work of Vincent d’Indy, mostly his chamber pieces; a charming backdrop for an evening in the park.

  At eight p.m., when the last dinner service ended at Le Petit Moulin Rouge and the waiting horse-drawn hansom cabs began to leave one by one, the orchestra began the Quartet for Piano and Strings in A Minor, Op. 7. It was one of Escoffier’s favorite works. The joy of it, the coyness, and then the bold dance of the keys and strings always reminded him of his grandmother, the warmth of her kitchen and the kindness that she showed a young boy who wanted to learn the art of cookery.

  Tonight, however, the Quartet made him furious. All he could think of was Sarah and Doré listening, too, their bodies entwined. Some said Doré was handsome, but to Escoffier his mentor was not an attractive man at all. He looked like an educated ape with his wild hair and unsuitable clothes—he was quite fond of wearing checkered pants and an unmatched checkered scarf in all seasons. What could Sarah see in him besides his talent?

  But as soon as Escoffier thought this, he understood that it was precisely what attracted her to Doré. He had, after all, illustrated the works of Milton, Dante, Lord Byron and that Spaniard Cervantes and his Don Quixote. Not a week passed without a new book illustrated by Doré. He was rich and successful, but it was more than that and Escoffier knew it. Doré was the heart of Paris. His etchings of the Prussian Siege showed a city at its knees—a mother watching in horror as a soldier killed her infant and market stalls selling rats, cats and dogs. Doré had been there, as they all had been there. He remembered for them all and so they would not forget.

  And I am nothing but a cook.

  And yet Escoffier could not bear to leave the window. Just one last look. When the staff left for the evening, Escoffier remained.

  Hours later, the boulanger found him asleep in a chair facing the street. He shook him gently. “Papa, I have come to start today’s bread.”

  “I was just . . . ”

  Escoffier could see by the look on the baker’s face that there was no need to explain. He knew. Everyone must know.

  “Yes. Well.” Escoffier stood. Straightened his vest. “Please tell the staff that today’s menu is in honor of my own personal triumph, the success of the meal that I made for our Miss Bernhardt and the esteemed Gustave Doré, my now former teacher.

  “It will be Noisettes d’Agneau Cora Dressés dans les Coeurs d’Artichauts and Pigeonneaux Cocotte.”

  The boulanger looked confused. “Artichoke hearts and pigeons?”

  “It seems appropriate, does it not? A pigeon is a sucker and the Coeur d’Artichaut is a man who falls in love with every girl he meets.”

  The man laughed and hugged Escoffier as if he were his own son.

  “C’est la vie,” he said. “Enjoy your heartbreak now, while you can. One day soon a woman will come along and you will become an old married man like me with too many children and too little sleep.”

  “You have bread to make.”

  The boulanger winked, tapped the side of his nose. “Our secret,” he said and then went back to his work.

  Escoffier washed his face, gathered his topcoat and hat. “I will return before the luncheon service,” he said. The light was still on in Doré’s studio and so he walked up the stairs and leaned against the door. He could hear the chipping of chisel on marble. The muffled sounds of laughter.

  He stood for a long time, listening. When a champagne bottle popped and then all grew quiet, Escoffier knew it was time to go home.

  Later that morning, two notes arrived for him. The first was from former French Minister Léon Gambetta requesting a private salon for a meal that night. The menu was to include a saddle of Béhague lamb and the utmost secrecy.

  The second was from Sarah.

  Both eventually would come to haunt him.

  SARAH’S STUDIO WAS NOT AT ALL WHAT ESCOFFIER HAD expected. It was not a hot square box of a place like Gustave Doré’s. It was a top floor flat in a small odd building that sat in a courtyard just beyond the Boulevard de Courcelles. It looked more like a greenhouse, with several rows of windows and a glass-paned roof. And it was filled with people—all of whom, oddly enough, had striking yellow hair.

  Yellow as pineapples, Escoffier thought. He was not expecting this familial scene and felt foolish standing there with a large hamper of food and a chilled bottle of Moët.

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bsp; “It is as if I am drowning in a sea of butter, is it not, my dear Escoffier?” Sarah laughed. She wore white trousers, a jacket, and a white silk foulard tied around her head like a washerwoman. A cigarette hung from her mouth. She looked beautiful, careless and cunning.

  “Drowning in butter. I cannot think of a better way to die,” he said, and she leaned into him and kissed him on both cheeks as was the custom, and yet his face went hot.

  “Well, I can,” she whispered. “But there are children present.”

  At the center of the room there was indeed a child, a small girl whose golden curly hair formed a halo around her angelic face. She was dressed as cupid wearing only a diaper and holding a small bow and arrow, a quiver on her back. She was obviously posing for Sarah. She had her head tilted to the right and her eyes toward the heavens. Escoffier had never seen such a beautiful child before. It would be difficult to do this creature justice in marble, but he had to admit that Sarah was well on her way. The sculpture she was working on captured the girl’s innocence and also her mischievous air.

  “This is young Nina,” Sarah said. “She was sitting in the balcony last week. I was on stage and could not keep my eyes off her—which is a dangerous thing for an actress. I could have fallen into the orchestra.”