White Truffles in Winter: A Novel Page 8

  For a moment, the man seemed as if he was going to speak but decided against it. He slapped the beef loin he was holding onto the butcher block next to Escoffier and began to scrape away the mold, trim the hardened fat, shape and cut it until he had a perfectly marbled Châteaubriand, as large as his hand.

  Escoffier put an arm around him, to comfort, to encourage. “There. It is beautiful, is it not?”

  Xavier pulled away. “For those who can afford it.”

  The words made Escoffier’s face go hot. Civility must be maintained—that was the first rule of the kitchen. Xavier knew that. Escoffier tugged at his earlobe, a reminder to keep his own anger in check. “Lucky for you there are some who can,” he said and immediately regretted the tone and the implication that this man who had lost so much and suffered so much was somehow ungrateful. It was not the case, but there was no time for self-pity. Léon Gambetta would be arriving soon.

  “I am sorry,” Escoffier said and it felt as if he were whispering. Xavier said nothing.

  All around them the others prepared for the night’s rush. Like a cotillion, dozens of cooks, immaculate in their whites, swirled around and around each other locked in the dance of kitchen miracles. Fish were beheaded and scaled; ducks were plucked; dough was shaped into rows of baguettes, and blackberries were dusted with sugar. Harmony and perfection happened at every turn, but Xavier and Escoffier were oblivious to it all. They stood as if on an island: shipwrecked.

  Escoffier could feel the man’s sorrow, the dark edge of it, but the lamb needed to poach for nearly an hour and then be thoroughly chilled. He had no time. “I consider this matter finished,” he said and covered the lamb with a sheet of roasted pork skin, pushed past Xavier, and placed it in the oven.

  “Ana Elizabeth was only six years old,” Xavier said quietly.

  The daughter.

  Escoffier had seen a photo of Xavier’s family. His wife was tall and dour, as he was, but the girl had the kind of smile that reminded Escoffier of the first apples of fall, crisp and sweet. He could keenly imagine the pain of such a loss, and what he couldn’t imagine he could see in Xavier’s face. It was heartbreaking, but there was so much work to be done. Escoffier just couldn’t bring himself to speak of it.

  Unfortunately, he later understood that what goes unsaid is often the one thing that can never be forgiven nor forgotten.

  Escoffier stepped past Xavier and began to wash the fat of the lamb off his hands in the large porcelain sink. The water was hot, steaming. The scent of the olive oil soap made his stomach growl. He’d forgotten to eat all day. He suddenly felt dizzy, tired. The restaurant was overbooked for the evening and Gambetta, Prince Edward and possibly the Kaiser would soon arrive. No time. No time.

  “Papa,” Xavier said, and put a hand on his shoulder but before he could say anything more Escoffier gestured him away. He would not look at the man. This has to end. He continued to wash his hands.

  “No. No excuses,” Escoffier said. “The kitchen must be your home, your church, your mistress, your family, your country—there is no room for any other love here. If you do not understand that, then you have no place here.”

  Escoffier’s hands were scalded but he couldn’t stop washing them. He suddenly felt unclean.

  When he finally turned back to Xavier. “Work,” he said. “Or go.”

  He knew the man had no place else to go. The family of chefs, the home of this kitchen, this sacred place, was all the man had left in the world.

  Xavier’s face was unreadable. He gently placed the Châteaubriand on a rack and went back downstairs to the meat locker, knife in hand.

  Good, Escoffier thought.

  “He’s here,” someone shouted. Escoffier quickly dried his hands. Minister Gambetta was not the sort of man who liked to be kept waiting.

  ESCOFFIER HAD HEARD ABOUT THE CHRISTMAS MEAL, OF course. When one serves kangaroo and elephant it does not go unnoticed, even during a siege.

  Zoo animals—it was a practical last resort for cafés such as Voisin’s. Before the siege, the restaurant’s manager had stocked the cellars with tanks of fish, live rabbits, suckling pigs and wild hens but by December even the horse meat had run out. And, as Gustav Doré had immortalized in his work, the markets were selling dressed and trussed rats at a franc each; one franc fifty for the larger ones, which neared two pounds.

  Christmas Day was the ninety-ninth day of the Paris siege. And so a holiday fête of this nature was inevitable. The zoo in the Jardin des Plantes could no longer feed these exotic beasts. Even the famed Castor and Pollux, the only pair of elephants in Paris, were not spared. The meal was a tribute to their exquisite beauty and a celebration of salvation—at least for those who could afford it. Who were very few. Most in Paris were dying of starvation, food poisoning or pneumonia. And yet, café life went on. It was, after all, the soul of the city.

  When Escoffier saw the wine list for Gambetta’s secret dinner, he knew that it was no mistake that he had demanded the same wines that were offered for that famed Christmas meal—Latour Blanche 1861, Château Palmer 1864, Mouton Rothschild 1846, Romanée-Conti 1858, and even the Gran Porto 1827.

  “A Bollinger, too?” Escoffier asked, which made Gambetta smile.

  “Of course you know,” he said. “I knew it would be impossible to hide this from you.”

  “I never forget a menu. It is both my gift and my curse. Unfortunately, the only wine we have in our cellar is the Rothschild but it is a beautiful, yet melancholy, wine and should evoke the proper memory.”

  Voisin’s Christmas celebration began with stuffed donkey’s head and then moved onward to roast camel, elephant consommé, kangaroo stew, leg of wolf cooked venison style and le chat flanqué de rats—cat surrounded by rats. There was also La Terrine d’Anteloupe aux Truffles, a terrine of boned rack of antelope studded with foie gras and truffles—a dish that bore a striking resemblance to the lamb that Gambetta had requested.

  Escoffier had a sinking feeling, which was made worse by the fact that Gambetta suddenly demanded that all the waiters be dismissed for the evening and that Escoffier not only cook the entire meal, but also serve it himself.

  “You were in Metz, is that not correct?” Gambetta said. Escoffier had never hidden the fact, but was surprised that the Minister knew.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “For a great chef, a culinary magician such as yourself, the starvation must have been unbearable. Tell me, did you not dream of pastry and champagne every night?”

  Escoffier pulled the selected bottles from the racks, hoping the conversation would take a different turn. He never spoke of the war, never allowed talk of it in his kitchen. It was over. Done.

  Gambetta put an arm around Escoffier’s shoulder. “Not many understand the beauty and passion of food as you do. The dreams must have driven a man like you to madness.”

  The Minister’s breath was hot and stale. The dampness of the wine cellar chilled Escoffier. He pulled away slightly. “I dreamt of France and her children.”

  There are some things that one does not speak of. Even a man like Escoffier, the son of a blacksmith, knew that. But Gambetta seemed unwilling to end the conversation. “Of course,” he said and then leaned in even closer. “Still. You must have longed for all this.” He pointed to the wines that surrounded them, each bottle a part of the history of France: dark and complex.

  “One makes do.”

  Gambetta seemed so pale in the candlelight, more like the memory of the man and not the man himself. Escoffier carefully took the Mouton Rothschild from the shelf, lifted the bottle to the flame to examine it. The wine was heavy with sediment, in need of a good airing before drinking.

  Gambetta took the bottle from his hands. “May I?” He examined the cork, obviously looking to see if it had been removed previously, if the wine had been diluted or ta
mpered with in any way. It was clear that he trusted Escoffier only to a certain point. It was outrageous to be treated that way, but Escoffier knew that to speak of such things would have been insolent—and the consequences of such an act would have been far worse.

  And so he said, “The Rothschild is very lovely. You will be quite pleased. It reminds me of brown sugar, chocolate and dried plum—very powerful and elegant. Let me show you. The color is remarkable.”

  Escoffier uncorked the wine and slowly began to decant it in the candlelight, carefully leaving the sediment behind. “Amazing, isn’t it? Rubies—those are the only other things on this earth that are as beautiful as this is, are they not? No?”

  Gambetta watched as Escoffier deftly poured the ruby river of wine, gently, slowly and carefully. The musty air was filled with the particular lushness of late summer with its ripe cherries and tart apples.

  “Lovely,” the chef said under his breath. “So very lovely.”

  Gambetta laughed. “My friend, you are a liar,” he said somewhat charmingly, somewhat ruefully. “You pour that wine as one lowers his lover down upon silken sheets. You cannot tell me that you no longer hold the pain of hunger in your heart.”

  “We tracked prey and foraged just as the Indians did,” Escoffier said, still pouring. “And so every meal, no matter how simple, was a feast to us—that was key. Saucisson, sardines—it did not matter. When eaten with the proper spirit, food nourishes both body and spirit.”

  Gambetta took the bottle from Escoffier’s hand. “You nearly starved to death. How can you not feel anger?”

  The conversation was exhausting. It was now quite clear that the Germans were coming, and Xavier would most definitely have to be sent home. And on such a night! They were short handed and every table for both the early and late dinner seatings was reserved. There was no one in the brigade, except Escoffier, who could adequately serve as rôtisseur. But of course, he had to also serve this meal. It was impossible. And now his own loyalty to France was in question.

  Escoffier took a deep breath before he answered. “It was war. But even in war, there can be great gifts. The eve of the battle of Gravelotte was on the day of Assumption, the day of Our Lady, Patroness of France. We had a lovely lapin à la soubise. The rabbit was sautéed in a puree of caramelized onions and finished with cognac. It was really quite stunning.”

  At the mention of Gravelotte, Gambetta became enraged. “You speak as if you are a fool,” he said and threw the bottle of Rothschild onto the floor. “The day of Assumption, the day of Our Lady, Patroness of France, as you say—this is the very root of France’s problem.”

  “I am sorry. It was not my intention to offend,” Escoffier said. It was all that he could think to say. He had no idea why Gambetta was suddenly livid.

  “I assumed that you were a worldly man. Sophisticated. I see that I was wrong.”

  Gambetta was pacing in and out of the light. He was furious enough to walk out, leaving Escoffier with fine wines oxidizing and a lavish meal with no one to eat it. “I am extremely sorry,” Escoffier said again, knelt, and began to pick up shards of glass with his bare hands. Wine seeped into the wool of his dove gray pants.

  “Don’t understand, do you?”

  “I sincerely wish that I did.”

  Gambetta yanked him up by his collar. Escoffier’s platform shoes made him unsteady. He nearly fell over backwards. The shards of glass dug deeply into his palms. His hands began to bleed. Gambetta did not notice.

  “Look at me when I speak to you. How do you not see the danger that is all around us?”

  “I am just a chef. My world is as vast as an egg.”

  “Which everyone knows that you can cook over six hundred ways. This sudden false humility is not becoming.”

  “It is not my intention—”

  “You and I both know that we can no longer live in a country directed by religious superstition and unpredictable devotions. Catholics control everything and their passion makes them easily manipulated. The day of Assumption, the day of Our Lady, Patroness of France—it’s obscene how they prey on the simple-minded.”

  Escoffier suddenly found it difficult to breathe. “This is about Catholics?” Blood and wine were running down his arm, staining his pants, the cuff of his white shirt. He hid them behind his back. The sight of his wounds would only make matters worse.

  “These idiot Catholics think if they offer a fatted lamb to the heavens it will bring them luck. You cannot run an army or a country on luck and nonsense.”

  Escoffier knew where talk like this could lead. After the fall of France, the new ruling body, the radical Paris Commune, took possession of the city and began to arrest priests and prominent members of their congregations. A few days later, the Martyrs of Paris, as they had come to be known, were executed within the prison of La Roquette, shot down at the Barriere d’Italie and massacred at Belleville. Escoffier himself barely escaped.

  Publicly Gambetta opposed these actions and ordered members of the Commune executed for their actions. And yet here he was.

  “The Catholics must be dealt with,” he said.

  Obviously, this was some sort of a political chess game. Escoffier looked at the cuts on his hands, the stain of the wine.

  “It was grace,” Escoffier said. His voice sounded small, unsteady. His hands were throbbing. “We had been told that the day of Our Lady was chosen as a way to appeal to her mercy. We had hoped for grace.”

  Escoffier felt trapped like a small kitchen mouse.

  Gambetta smiled. “And what you received was stupidity,” he said. “Twenty thousand Prussians died—but no one secured the win. That fool, Marshal Bazaine, believed God was on his side and granted him grace, as you say, and so assumed victory and retreated. It was an act of treason.”

  “I have often said that he was a traitor to his country.”

  “Because he was a Catholic.”

  “Because he was a fool.”

  “Which is the same. He held God above France. That should never be. You of all people know that. How many days at Metz were you without food?”

  “It is not important, I served my France.”

  “How many?”

  “I ate better than most.”

  “How many days?” Gambetta shouted. The two men were standing face to face under the gaslight. Escoffier knew how he looked to Gambetta, who was after all a great man, a hero. To him, the chef was insignificant. Not brave, not bold, just a small man, an ungrown simple child.

  Gambetta stepped back into the darkness. Unreadable.

  “I am a patriot,” Escoffier said. “If you need my secrecy for France, it is yours.”

  The Minister began walking deeper and deeper into the wine cellar, deeper into the darkness. His footsteps echoed on the cobblestone floor. He started raving. “This is not another uprising against the Catholics—do not be mistaken.”

  His voice boomed as if he were giving an address to a crowd of thousands. Practice, perhaps.

  “We as a government no longer desire to share our influence with the Church. We desire simply to have liberty—true, lawful and noble liberty—both for the Church and for ourselves.”

  “I am here to serve my France,” Escoffier said and felt as if he were shouting prayers into storm clouds.

  From deep in the dark cellar, Gambetta laughed. “And your God? You see, I had been told that you are a Catholic. I am now trying to determine what kind of a Catholic you are.

  “Who was the apostle who betrayed Jesus? Judas? Are you a Catholic like that? Or are you Thomas the Doubter? Or Paul the Loyalist?”

  The words echoed. Escoffier felt his face go hot. If Gambetta could not trust him, all he’d worked for and suffered for would be gone. He’d be like Xavier—adrift.

  “There is no place for God in my kitchen,” Escof
fier shouted and as soon as he did he felt ashamed. He turned away, raised his bloodied hands to his face. Tears burned his wounds.

  For a moment, everything was silent. Then there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the cobblestones; this time they were coming toward Escoffier. Exhaustion overwhelmed him. Suddenly, Gambetta, still in the shadows, stopped. He was so close, Escoffier could smell him: tobacco and wet leather.

  “The Prince of Wales claims that you can be trusted with matters of the heart.”

  “France is my heart.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because cooking is a science, an art, and most important, a passion. The man who puts all his heart into satisfying his fellow men deserves consideration.”

  Gambetta stepped back into the light.

  “Very well. You are Judas, then. Very good.” He laughed. “Tonight, for France, you will do a great service. With this meal we will honor the suffering of the past and look ahead to a brave new future, a future in which France will become the glorious maiden we know her to be.”

  There was a tap at the wine cellar door.

  Escoffier opened it painfully, his hands so scored he knew the dinner would not be his best effort. He was surprised to see a young boy standing there. “Vincent? Why are you not peeling potatoes for this evening’s meal?”

  The boy whispered in his ear, “Miss Bernhardt is in the kitchen with the body.” And then ran.

  An egg yolk needs one cup of oil to emulsify—less and it will not bind.

  Salting meat before cooking prevents browning.

  Green vegetables lose their color when cooked in a lidded pot.

  Fish is fully cooked only when specks of white albumen dot the surface of the skin.

  Mushrooms must never be washed.

  Flour must always be sieved.

  Searing meat does not preserve the juices—quite the opposite.