by N. M. Kelby
“Take the car.”
“There is no gas.”
“Put gas in it.”
“Money, Madame.”
“Open my dresser. The pearl inlay.”
Sabine opened the carved mahogany dresser with its lions’ heads and leaping fish. In the top drawer was a gold cigarette case with pearl inlay squares.
“Sell it.”
The gold case was monogrammed DDE. It wouldn’t bring less than a franc, if anything at all. Sabine removed the Gitanes and sniffed them. They were stale but they were still cigarettes. She put them in her pocket and put the case back into the drawer.
“The sun will set soon. I’ll check the outdoor markets first.”
“He’s at the Grand.”
“Marché de la Condamine on Place d’Armes. Those cafés, I’ll look there. Marché de Monte-Carlo on St-Charles, he has a friend there, the fishmonger.”
“He is at the hotel.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. I always know.”
The night nurse opened the door to the room; Sabine pushed past her and into the hallway. Rain began to pelt the roof, the windows: a quick shower. She knew she would need an umbrella, her raincoat. And if she was going to the Grand, her red shoes again. She stopped by her room. Slid underneath the door was a thick envelope from the Carlton. It was addressed to her. The familiar handwriting, shaky and yet still elegant, was unmistakable. The stationery was so old it was yellowing. He’d obviously taken boxes of it when he’d retired from the hotel.
“The Grand. 19:00 Hours. Formal dress.”
He hadn’t even bothered to sign it. Sabine looked at her watch. She had just enough time to change.
SHE BARELY MADE IT, AS SOON AS SABINE ENTERED THE hotel, the rain showers burst into a storm. The doorman welcomed her. The bellman took her coat and umbrella. “You can refresh there,” he said and pointed to a door marked “Lounge” where she found soft towels to dry herself and perfumes from many countries. When she was finally presentable, she walked back to the lobby and stopped. The hotel was indeed, grand. Unlike its hellish kitchen, the dining room was opulent and of another time—Victorian, to be exact. That fact did not escape Sabine. Every wall was gilded. The curtains were red velvet. The ceiling was painted with frescos. The carpeting was brocaded in deep red and gold. Thousands of candles cast warm light on the faces of the diners and the crystal chandeliers shone like the tears of a widowed queen.
It was the kind of room that demanded formal dress but Sabine had none. Her cream blouse and black linen skirt were plain, and still a bit damp, but she wore her unruly red hair as Sarah would have, swept into place. After all, that was obviously what Escoffier wanted—supper with Miss Bernhardt.
But Bobo was waiting for her.
“The likeness is remarkable,” he said.
Sarah, again.
The directeur de cuisine was not at all what Sabine had expected. Madame Escoffier said he was tan, and that was true, but he had the bearing of someone well born. He was not in chef’s whites, but was wearing a double-breasted suit, obviously hand tailored. He had alarming eyes; they were too blue and were wild as the storm itself.
He offered his arm to her. “I am to show you to your table, Mademoiselle.”
Sabine hesitated, imagined herself limping across the elegant room and everyone turning to look at the crippled girl.
“Lean on me a bit,” he whispered, as if entering into a waltz.
He knew. Of course he knew. Escoffier obviously told him about the polio. She wondered what else had been said but she took his arm anyway. Leaned into him. His skin smelled of woodsmoke. They only live forty years. Madame had told her this. If that were true, ten years and he’d be gone. Pity, she thought as if it didn’t matter but she could feel her heart break, just a little.
They walked together across the vast dining room; it was nearly empty. The few couples that were there seemed to have fallen out of time. The men were old, mostly white-haired; most wore white dinner jackets, many of them covered with medals from wars that could never be remembered or forgotten exactly.
The women all seemed to be wives, not mistresses, and each couple resembled each other in that way that couples often do, the same grinding of life leaving similar scars. Some wore tiaras and gloves that buttoned up to the elbows. Their gowns were long and tarnished. Some of them wore feathers and pearls wrapped over and over again around their necks, making them look like overdressed ostriches. Earrings pulled their lobes down low.
Sabine was staring. He could see that. “They are dusty,” he said underneath his breath. “The rich have become dusty.”
They reminded Sabine of that picture of Escoffier’s staff about to board the Titanic. She wasn’t sure why.
And while she was staring at the diners, they were staring back. Every head turned when the directeur de cuisine escorted her to her table, not because she was the crippled girl—but because she was beautiful and he was handsome and on such a stormy night, there was not much to talk about. The Germans were momentarily forgotten; the world had not yet burst into flames.
“Have you known Monsieur Escoffier long?” she asked.
“All my life.”
“I am told you are not to be trusted, as you are very fond of the ladies.”
“Have you also been told that I am a madman?”
“Non.”
“Very good. Something should be saved for the wedding day.”
The table was a two-top overlooking the sea. It was lush with silver and white linens and a row of crystal wine glasses but it was only set for one. He pulled out the chair for her. Sabine sat and looked out over the stormy waters. The rain that had followed her to the hotel was beginning to slow. Low gray clouds hung over the cliffs uncertain; lightning did not strike the ground but spun a web inside of them. The air felt close. Everyone around her spoke in whispers as if waiting for the thunder that did not come.
“Champagne?”
Before she could answer, he raised his hand and a white-gloved waiter appeared with a bottle of Moët and a glass. Another brought a silver-domed plate. When he lifted the lid, she could see a mound of small gray eggs, glistening.
“Escoffier says that all meals worth eating begin with caviar.”
“Of course.”
The third waiter had brought a menu for her. It was handwritten by Escoffier himself with a drawing of a peacock in the corner.
“Sweetbreads with fresh noodles served on a puree of foie gras and truffles? Will I like this?”
“Papa made it.”
“I assumed he’d be dining . . . ”
“Madame Escoffier’s illness prevents . . . ”
Sabine nodded.
“He asked if I would keep you company while you dined. Is this agreeable?”
Sabine looked around the vast elegant room, expecting to see Escoffier, in his black Louis-Philippe dress coat and striped pants, his white mustache freshly waxed, his thin white hair swept into place, standing behind a column watching. He was not.
“Do you know how to make stock?”
“But of course. Papa taught me himself.”
“Then I apparently have no choice.”
WHEN ESCOFFIER ENTERED his wife’s room she was asleep. He took off his shoes and lay down in the bed next to her and kissed her forehead.
“Chef?”
“Hen bones, carrots, shin and shoulder of veal, onions, cloves, celery.”
“Stock?”
“Stock.”
THE NEXT DAY A NOTE FOR SABINE ARRIVED IN THE midday post. The handwriting was unmistakable. She didn’t need to go to Escoffier’s room to know he was not there.
“The car will arrive at 19:00 hours.”
There was a return address that she d
id not recognize. It was near the Grand, a residential district. This did not surprise her at all.
On the other hand, Bobo was keenly surprised to see his mentor sitting in the kitchen of the Grand when he arrived that morning.
“I need to see your house,” Escoffier said.
“Is there something wrong?”
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty.”
“Then there is something very wrong.”
Outside, the day was cool. There was a crispness that made the sky seem even more brilliant. The two men slowly made their way down the street, mostly in silence. The old man seemed unsteady on his feet, but determined.
Bobo lived alone in a tall thin house that overlooked the hotel. As directeur de cuisine he made a respectable living. The house was plain, tidy, but since he spent most of his time at the hotel, a thick layer of dust covered everything. The kitchen was the largest room; the walls were the color of sunflowers, which gave it a cheerful feeling but the room itself was cramped. Against one wall there was a large black stove that was discarded from the Grand; it took up most of the room. It had several burners and a grill. Copper pots and pans hung from a ceiling rack alongside cords of braided garlic and dusty lavender that was set to dry too many years ago. There was a marble-topped sideboard and a small round table with a checkered cloth and two chairs. Except for the outsized stove, it looked like every other household kitchen on the French Riviera.
“Mundane,” Escoffier said. “Dining room?”
“If you would tell me what we are looking for?”
“When I see it I will know. Dining room?”
In the dining room, the red walls were the color of ripe peppers. Escoffier ran a hand along the wall. “Better,” he said.
In the center of the room there was a wide walnut table and twelve delicate chairs painted white. “From the neighbors. They moved to Spain.”
“What does your attic look like?”
“Empty.”
“And yet romantic, would it not be? Romantic and exotic.”
“You want to see my attic?”
“Of course.”
The spiral staircase leading up to the second floor concerned Bobo. The rosewood railings were beautifully curled and turned and the stairs themselves were wide, but so steep, it would be difficult for Escoffier to manage. And it was dark. The walls were the same shade of crimson that the dining room was. The floors were made of terracotta tiles. The only respite from red was the bright green tile baseboard and a long tall window on the second floor landing. Escoffier stood at the bottom of the stairway for a moment and looked up.
“That window. What can you see from it?”
“If you lean just right, you can see the sea.”
“If you open it, can you hear the orchestra from the Grand?”
“Of course.”
He considered this for a moment. “The landing appears round?”
“It is.”
“And big enough for a table? The one in the kitchen?”
“La potée d’amour?”
The old man smiled. “But of course. What did you think this was about? Cover the table with fine linen. You will also need china, silver and candles; they should be the same tone of gray, the color is very important. And, of course, several perfect cabbages.”
“Cabbages?”
“Several. Four or five at the very least to place in terracotta pots.”
“And the potée d’amour?”
“More cabbage.”
“Cabbage? Are you sure?”
“About romance, I am never wrong.”
The two men returned to the kitchen. Escoffier sat at the table and wrote out the recipe. “Begin with a pot, deep and mysterious, and add to it veal shank, beef ribs, brisket. Cover with cold water and salt. Simmer one hour. Skim. Add spice bag with thyme, parsley, bay and peppercorns and a clove-studded onion, garlic. Simmer two hours. Skim. Add marrowbones, a supple young chicken, very supple, a half bottle of white wine, and of course cabbage, potatoes, leek and turnip. Simmer another hour.”
Bobo read the recipe over closely.
“Pot-au-feu?”
“The foundation of the Empire.”
“It is farm food.”
“I once served pot-au-feu to Adelina Patti, the great diva, at her request. Right here at the Grand. She asked for a family meal—something not too rich. And so I served pot-au-feu with horseradish sauce. It matched the dish perfectly. Of course, I did give into a small sin. I included an excellent chicken de la Bresse that was larded with bacon, roasted on an open spit, and served with a mixed salad of chicory and beets. And then, of course, a magnificent parfait de foie gras, which I called Sainte-Alliance because it was made up of Alsatian foie gras and Périgord truffle. Remarkable! I had served that also at Armistice Day—the French and German together in one dish—very naive, very poetic. I ended Patti’s feast with an orange mousse surrounded by strawberries macerated in curaçao. We could not have La Patti walk away hungry. Still, it was the most simple family meal found on any table in France.”
“But that is my point exactly. Pot-au-feu is a family meal.”
Escoffier tapped the side of his nose. “My son, have you learned nothing from me? Yes. A family meal. Romance is always about the promise, is it not?”
And then the two men smiled.
“You really are not good with the ladies, my dear Bobo. You will not become a great chef until you are.”
After the luncheon service at the Grand, Bobo returned home and moved his small round kitchen table to the landing at the top of the stairs. Once covered in a gray linen, silver and crystal it looked as romantic as any table in the Grand’s dining room. As directed, he placed several vibrant green cabbages in red clay pots on the landing. The colors were intense, intimate.
He bathed, even though it was not Tuesday, trimmed his mustache and carefully pressed his best linen shirt with lilac water and starch. He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
The night before, Sabine had left him confused. She was the most aggravating woman, opinionated about food in a way that he had never seen before.
“Eggplant? It has no taste.”
“It tastes like eggplant.”
“Eggplant is nothing.”
“If you fry it—”
“It tastes like oil. It has nothing to commend it on its own. Garlic. Olives. Tomatoes. They give it taste. Eggplant is a needy fruit.”
They had shared just one glass of champagne and yet he felt intoxicated by her. Or maybe just enraged.
“Green beans?”
“Green string.”
He hadn’t noticed when the waiter cleared their table completely. Or when the last couple left. At 11:30 p.m. the dining room, by law, was to be closed.
“Sea urchin?”
“Dirty sponge.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It’s sweet, briny and creamy.”
“It’s ocean spit.”
His maître d’hôtel brought fresh candles to the table, lit them, and then turned the hotel dining room lights off and locked the door behind him. They continued on.
“Lamb?”
“Too helpless to eat.”
Bobo looked at his watch. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. The kitchen had been closed for hours.
“It’s very late,” Sabine said, without asking the time, and stood. “Monsieur expects his nightcap at two a.m. Promptly.”
She thanked him with a handshake—and that left him sleepless.
“How did you know?” he asked Escoffier the next day.
“I always know.”
At the appointed time, the Grand Hôtel’s discreet black Citroën made its way down the winding
road and stopped at his door. He looked out the window. The driver tipped his hat.
Sabine saw him watching and smiled. Bobo’s hands began to sweat.
THE INGREDIENTS WERE LAID OUT ON THE COBALT-TILED countertop. Set in relief against the sunflower yellow walls, the tableau was an odd kitchen still life—a Vermeer, perhaps—the pink-skinned veal shin bones, skeletons from laying hens still bearing their heads, tiny peeled carrots, young pearl leeks, a soft stalk of old celery, white onions studded with fat cloves, a sprig of thyme, a rather attentive handful of parsley and a single fresh bay leaf.
“We are making stock?”
“Oui. Of course. Papa mentioned there was none at the house.”
The kitchen was empty except for a single chair. Sabine sat. Took off her red shoes. Obviously, there was no need for them now.
“I thought we were having supper.”
The pot-au-feu gently simmered on the stovetop. Rich roasted meats, the sweet air of caramelized cabbage, the dark note of garlic—she was so hungry, it made her ache. The horseradish sauce was plated in a silver bowl—she put her finger in it, tasted it and proclaimed, “More horseradish and a pinch more salt.”
Bobo frowned, but tasted it. She was, unfortunately, correct. She grated the root and added the salt.
Upstairs on the landing the windows were open slightly. The night air was cool and fragrant—the salt of the ocean mixed with the perfume of lavender growing in the crooks and crevices of the cliff below. In the distance, music from the Grand Hôtel could be heard. The orchestra was playing waltz after waltz while the lonely moon shone on the small round table elegantly set with crystal and silver. The candles were lit. Wax dripped onto the gray linen. The potted purple and green cabbages were gathering dust.
It was all gathering dust.
“Soon,” Bobo said and handed Sabine a clean chef’s coat. “You may need to roll up the sleeves.”
She did, but it didn’t help. The coat itself hung down to her knees. Barefoot, she looked like a lost child.
“Your hair,” he said and made a winding motion, which Sabine took to mean that he wanted her to wind it into a bun on the top of her head.
