The Devil's Feast

by M. J. Carter

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. I am Captain Avery. I am afraid I do not know Monsieur Oood.”

  “Not know Ude?” He glanced over his shoulder at an older man, small and well-padded, with close-cropped white hair and saucerlike hangdog eyes, to whom two younger men were paying court. One, I now recognized as Morel, Soyer’s sous-chef, whom I had met earlier in the kitchen. Alvanley lowered his voice.

  “But you must know Ude. He was the chef at Crockford’s. He was—is—the greatest French cook in England. He worked for Louis XVI and Napoleon! He escaped the guillotine by a whisker! A chef among chefs, a king among men.”

  Crockford’s was the most fashionable gambling club in London, well above my means and connections. “I fear I am but a provincial gentleman, sir, and do not inhabit such elevated circles,” I said.

  “Oh, I, too,” Alvanley said. “Which is why I lodge with Ude! I was a dreadful spendthrift in my youth; lost everything. What’s left I spend on rent and dinner. Splendid solution!” He sipped his champagne and whispered, “Of course, he bleeds me dry, but it is worth it!”

  The door opened and the room fell silent. Soyer paused in the doorway. He did not disappoint. His black frock coat was embroidered with exotic flowers in scarlet and purple thread; beneath it he wore a purple and gold waistcoat from which no less than two gold watch chains dangled, and a purple silk cravat tied into a lavish bow. He completed his attire with a pair of tight silk trousers, a dark purple velvet hat worn at the usual precarious angle and a fistful of large rings over his white gloves.

  He came over at once to greet my companion and myself. “So good to see you, Lord Alvanley,” he said. I was surprised to discover the jolly old fossil had a title.

  “We were admiring your wife’s paintings.”

  “Ah, Emma, my dearest one, she is a great, great talent.” He smiled at the pictures. “She is traveling in Europe.”

  “Alone?” I said. “I mean, how unusual.”

  “She is a most unusual woman,” he said. “A genius. The King of Hanover, no less, has commissioned her to paint a portrait, and who am I to curtail the exercise of her talents? My work keeps me here, and her stepfather—her father in all but name—chaperones her.”

  “And while the wife is away . . . eh, Alexis?” said the man who was not Morel, winking. There was an awkward pause.

  “I adore the ladies, as do we all,” said Soyer cheerfully, “but for me the summit of female perfection is Emma,” and he raised his glass as if to toast her. The young man who had spoken raised his glass, and his eyebrows, too. Soyer ignored him. “But though a dinner without ladies is like a garden without flowers, tonight we dine among only trees and shrubs—though most distinguished ones.”

  The company laughed. “You have met Lord Alvanley, epicurean and devotee of haute cuisine,” said Soyer. “And this is Monsieur Louis Eustache Ude, the great chef at whose feet we all kneel.” He made a small bob before the white-haired man, who gave a small, imperious nod back.

  The rude young man was another chef, one Giovanni Francobaldi, not French but Italian, formerly in the employ of some duke but now, Soyer informed us, running the dining room of the Union Club. Something about Soyer’s introduction annoyed Francobaldi, and he gave him a surly look. On Ude’s other side was Monsieur Morel. Two more guests now appeared in the doorway. Soyer introduced one as Thomas Blackwell, proprietor of Crosse & Blackwell, according to Soyer, “makers of the finest relishes and pickles by appointment to the Queen.” Blackwell had brought a splendid jar of vivid green peas, which he deposited on Soyer’s sideboard. The other was John Joseph Prestage, co-owner of the engineering firm of Bramah and Prestage, which had manufactured some of the novelties in Soyer’s kitchens. Another man rushed into the room, looking rather harried and bent in an ill-fitting black frock coat.

  “Mr. Douglas Jerrold, our friend from the worlds of theater and journalism! Our wit and conscience for the evening. Welcome!” said Soyer.

  “Jerrold!” I cried.

  Jerrold gave a small wave and made his way over to me. “Avery! You must have made a very good impression,” he muttered. “I have been hoping for an invitation to one of these for months. They are said to be extraordinary.”

  Behind him came two peacock-like figures dressed in brilliant colors with exaggeratedly cinched waists and rings on every finger.

  “Do you know this man?” Jerrold muttered, gesturing at the first, older man. “Tommy Duncombe MP, ‘the dandy demagogue’ himself. Interesting specimen: universally acknowledged to be the best-dressed man in the House of Commons, incorrigible gambler, ladies’ man and spendthrift, said to be at least forty thousand pounds in debt—not, of course, that this prevents him from living extravagantly: his credit apparently stretches on forever, unlike the rest of us. At the same time, he is a famous radical, and the Chartists’ most active supporter in Parliament. Behind him is Mr. Charles Rowlands MP, a rich young Whig. They are fast friends, divided by politics, united by a love of gambling, I’m told. But then, Tommy is famous for getting on with everyone.”

  Rowlands’s long hair had been curled into ringlets; he wore a burgundy velvet coat lined with purple satin, a blue silk cravat in a pigeon’s-egg knot, a veritable jewelry box of watch chains and rings, and carried a cream-colored top hat. Duncombe, however, surpassed him. A little heavier and a good deal older than his friend, he wore a tight-waisted gray velvet frock coat with black silk lapels and gilt buttons, perfectly cut, inside which one glimpsed a red velvet waistcoat with gold thread, adorned with two gold watch chains. Beneath this was a French cambric shirt with ruffled cuffs which extended just beyond the sleeves of his coat onto his knuckles. He also wore a pair of tight yellow trousers and carried a gold-tipped cane and a pair of canary-yellow gloves.

  As a junior officer in Calcutta, I had fancied myself a dandy, poring over five-month-old issues of the society journals for details of the latest London fashions. I still appreciated a well-cut waistcoat, but there was little call for red velvet in rural Devon, and my own black frock coat, discreetly checked trousers, Indian paisley waistcoat and cream silk cravat, ordered in London the autumn before, seemed perfectly drab by comparison.

  “Now, my dear friends”—Monsieur Soyer tapped his glass—“introductions! May I present Captain William Avery. You will recall that he fought with the sainted Mountstuart in India at the hour of his death at the hands of the nefarious Thugs! And that he also saved a maharajah from a tiger!” There was a murmur of recognition. “More recently, he saved from certain death a poor young girl, whom I am glad to say is now one of our kitchen maids.”

  I smiled as gracefully as I could, but I increasingly found such introductions embarrassing.

  “I am afraid you exaggerate, Monsieur Soyer, I was merely aiding Mr. Blake.”

  “The mysterious Mr. Blake. Does he really exist?” said the rude Francobaldi.

  “I assure you he does,” I said.

  To my surprise, Mr. Duncombe wafted up to me, Mr. Rowlands trotting along behind him.

  “Captain Avery,” said Duncombe, making a deep bow and smiling charmingly, “I am delighted to have the opportunity to meet you. It is rare to meet a real man of action in London, and I was a great admirer of Xavier Mountstuart.” He had a small, almost feminine mouth, a thin, prominent nose and full and luxuriant dark hair which grew down to long, neat sideburns.

  “The pleasure is mine,” I said, a little awkwardly.

  “I have heard about your exploits. Captain Avery helped to solve the Holywell Street murders last year, Rowlands.”

  “And sent Lord Allington round the twist,” said Mr. Rowlands, raising his glass to me. He had a lazy, drawling voice which rather belied his pink, milky complexion and innocent blue eyes.

  “I am the chief supporter in Parliament of the Chartists and their demands for the universal vote,” said Duncombe. “We are few, but we are active. O
f course, I entirely abjure physical force. Rowlands, meanwhile, is a dyed-in-the-wool Whig. He has no time for radicals like me, though I hope, eventually, to bring him round. After all, we are all part of the liberal party now.”

  “Never,” said Rowlands, laughing into his drink. “We’ve had quite enough progress for one decade.”

  “Are we to meet Mr. Blake?” Mr. Duncombe said hopefully.

  “I am afraid he is not at liberty—” I said, “—I mean, to be here.”

  “Too bad, I should very much like to make his acquaintance.”

  “Gentlemen,” Soyer called, “pray be seated. I have an amuse-bouche upon which I would like your opinion and a fine white burgundy which will complement it perfectly.” He unlocked a small cabinet and extricated a bottle chilling in a bucket of ice.

  Mr. Percy, the steward, whom I had met earlier, arrived and poured the wine—a deep, transparent gold—into eleven small glasses. A waiter served each of us with a morsel of lobster in a buttery sauce flavored very gently with Indian spices laid inside a small, crisp, layered pastry case or vol-au-vent. It was so light, one almost inhaled it. The wine, scented with butter and honey, was gone all too soon.

  “Gentlemen, what do you think?” Soyer asked. “I am planning to serve it, along with a number of other dishes we shall eat tonight, at our banquet for the Prince of Egypt next week. I wish my dishes to be perfect, so I rely on your opinions.” He bowed low. “Is the spicing correct? Is the sauce too heavy?”

  The chef Francobaldi laughed. “Another of your butter sauces, eh, Alexis? A mite safe, I’d say.” But there was ice in his laugh, and I should have said he was envious.

  Soyer’s colleague, Monsieur Morel, stiffened, but Soyer waved it off. “Giovanni likes to tease.”

  “It is a masterful combination, Alexis,” Ude, the elderly chef, pronounced imperiously. “Quite classical.”

  “Quite heavenly,” said Mr. Jerrold.

  “Of course, I am not the first to produce a lobster vol-au-vent,” said Soyer, “but I am pleased with the spicing and the delicacy of the dish. I think no one can rival me there. And, may I say, several distinguished persons have commented upon its refinement. The Duke of Leinster said so only last week, and the Marquess of Ailsa, too.”

  Francobaldi rolled his eyes.

  “Now for our simple supper.” The door opened, and Mr. Percy ushered a troop of footmen into the room, carrying dozens of plates.

  How shall I describe it? Vivid, surprising, complicated, delicious. I had never tasted the like. We began with a soup of early asparagus, light yet intensely flavorful, then turbot in a delicate pink sauce of lobster roe, then a whole salmon trout, remarkably suspended in aspic as if at the moment just before it took the hook.

  Then the first of the “removes,” or relevés, arrived: braised pigeons with asparagus and peas, and an extraordinary construction made of pastry in the shape of a crown, stuffed with small poached chickens, which had in turn been stuffed with mushrooms, ox tongues and sweetbreads. Into the pastry crown’s sides had been stuck little golden skewers on which were strung slices of truffle and pink crayfish tails. We applauded wildly. Soyer described it as his little trompe l’œil, and said again that he was confident no one had ever seen anything like it and it would astonish the guests at the banquet.

  There was a short pause while we were entertained with hors d’œuvres—among them a fresh salad of celery, young onions and sliced radish, another of haricots verts, early green beans dressed in a warm brown butter, and tiny crab rissoles.

  It was at this moment that Francobaldi suddenly looked across Monsieur Ude at Morel and said with an anger that took us all by surprise, “What the fuck did you say?”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “Jo! That is no word for this company!” said Monsieur Ude.

  Morel frowned. “Nothing, Jo, it was nothing. Calm yourself.”

  Francobaldi threw down his napkin furiously and stood up. He seemed so angry that I thought he might strike Morel. “No. I wish to know what you meant by it.”

  Ude placed his hand on Francobaldi’s arm. “Jo, tais-toi, we want no disagreements here. You will apologize to the company.”

  With some difficulty, Francobaldi mastered himself, grunted an apology and sat down, pointedly ignoring Morel.

  “Francobaldi is said to be the up-and-coming chef,” Jerrold murmured to me. “More worked up than coming up, I should say.”

  Soyer said, “Messieurs, I give you: the roasts and the entrées.”

  Under Percy’s supervision, the napery was removed to reveal a new, fresh white tablecloth, then the footmen brought the dishes. First came a plate of crisp white duckling with a sauce of sour oranges, a capon stuffed with black truffles and dressed with watercress, and a ham in a Madeira sauce.

  “No one carves as skillfully as Mr. Percy,” said Soyer. “I yield to him the floor.” Percy set about his work. Soyer was right: he carved with great skill, every perfect slice finding its way faultless onto our plates.

  After this there was a warm terrine of quail and chicken; peas stewed with lettuces; small, buttery omelets flavored with herbs; and a delicious dish of tripe between unctuous layers of leeks, onions and carrots, which I would have thought would be far too rustic for the Reform’s table.

  From Soyer’s special cupboard, bottle after exquisite bottle emerged.

  The man himself was in perpetual motion: if not leaping up to oversee the arrival of a particular dish or to supervise the completion of another, then talking constantly. He told stories about his past. He boasted tirelessly of the dukes and countesses who admired his food. He showed off his latest invention, a “tendon separator” manufactured by Mr. Prestage, for dissecting meat and poultry that would “soon be available to purchase from reputable grocers.”

  We applauded. We tasted, we were transported, we asked for more.

  Monsieur Ude ate sparingly, nodding from time to time, his expression revealing nothing—and Soyer watched him constantly out of the corner of his eye. Lord Alvanley stuck his fork into dish after dish like a happy child surrounded by his favorite toys. Morel, Soyer’s deputy, watched us eat with a melancholy look upon his face and spoke only to mutter to his chef or to Ude. As for Francobaldi, within ten minutes of his outburst, he had completely regained his spirits and was making loud and occasionally boorish comments about the dishes. Mr. Blackwell asked questions about the ingredients between eager mouthfuls. Mr. Jerrold ate and smiled, teased Soyer and made passing references to Monsieur Ude’s apparently vast wealth. As for myself, whenever anyone addressed me I seemed to be in the midst of a glorious mouthful.

  “It’s not so much that the cat’s got your tongue, Avery,” said Jerrold, “as that Monsieur Soyer has taken it prisoner for the evening.”

  Everyone laughed, and I coughed and turned scarlet. Mr. Duncombe passed me a glass of a first-rate claret.

  He ate with great fastidiousness; not a drop seemed to have spattered his ensemble. Not so young Mr. Rowlands MP, who ate with remarkable greediness: dribbles of Madeira sauce flecked his cravat and waistcoat, and he asked for more glasses of the claret. By the time the entremets arrived, he was looking a little blotchy, and perspiring freely, too, though by then we were all beginning to glow. At one point, he extracted a small bottle from his waistcoat and took a discreet swig.

  I lost count of the entremets, but recall particularly tartlets filled with crystallized pineapple and an airy mousse that seemed to vanish as you tasted it. Once or twice, the vision of Blake sitting in the Marshalsea rose before me, but I forced the thought away, reminding myself he had chosen his fate.

  “Now,” said Soyer, “for another new invention, my pagodatique entrée platter, upon which we have been working for many months. The platter has a false bottom in which there is silver sand, which we heat up in order to keep the dish warm.”

  Once a
gain under the supervision of Mr. Percy, a large silver platter with its silver dome was brought in, held by two footmen.

  “Behold, a joint of British beef, turnips, apples and peas, and my special sauce Victoria!”

  Off came the dome. In silence we inspected the dish: it seemed to shine almost luridly. For the first time, my stomach lurched a little; I suspected my fellow guests felt the same. Suddenly, the room erupted in cries.

  “I see!” cried Mr. Blackwell. “It is a cake! Monsieur Soyer—quite extraordinary. Bravo!”

  It was true: the whole dish was a dessert, got up to resemble an entrée.

  “Another little illusion of mine to stimulate the eyes as well as the tongue,” said Soyer. “The beef is in truth a light sponge, carved and iced. Inside, there is fruit and whipped cream. The turnips and apples are frangipane, the peas are early green currants, the sauce is a crème aux fruits.”

  We cheered and set to, each with a little plate of dessert. To be honest, I was not at all certain my stomach would manage it.

  The young dandy Mr. Rowlands, who had eaten and drunk as much, if not more, than anyone, emitted a belch, apologized profusely and excused himself. Francobaldi laughed. “The first to succumb,” he said.

  Just in time, the footmen came round with a tiny spoon of refreshing rosewater ice, and Soyer announced that coffee and cigars would be served. I sat back—perhaps “slumped” would be a better word—inhaled my cigar and fell into an agreeably hazy state as I listened idly to Jerrold and Duncombe gossiping and Mr. Percy filled my glass.

  After a while I, too, succumbed—there is no more delicate way to put it—to the call of nature. Mr. Rowlands had not returned to the table. A footman ushered me upstairs into the club.

  • • •

  I HEARD HIM BEFORE I saw him: a long, awful moan. He had fallen to the floor outside the water closets and was clutching his stomach. I knelt to help him to his feet, but one look told me that it was not drunkenness or dyspepsia that ailed him. His face was gray, his skin was clammy and he could not move.