White Truffles in Winter: A Novel

by N. M. Kelby

  “No pins.”

  “May I?”

  “No” was the answer, she had spent a very long time curling it so that it looked just so.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said and gathered Sabine’s long red hair and twisted it gently as if it were a bit of frayed rope and then tied it in a knot on the top of her head. “It will stay.” The knot tipped to one side.

  “I look even more lopsided.”

  “That is true. But you cannot cook with that hair everywhere.”

  That is true? Cook?

  Things were not going the way Sabine had hoped. “Madame said that you were quite odd but I now have decided that you are not odd at all, but fearless in your stupidity.”

  He handed her a large chef’s knife.

  “Amazingly fearless in your stupidity,” she said.

  “Clean the veal from the shins and then break the bones into small pieces, as small as possible.”

  Sabine put the knife down and began to undo the knot of her hair.

  “Your hair,” he said.

  “I look ridiculous.”

  “That is because you are not working. A chef must always work.”

  He re-tied the hair knot, and then removed his best suit coat, rolled up his sleeves and took another chef’s coat from its hook. He filled a large pot with cold water.

  “What are you waiting for?” he said gently, “Wash your hands. Then hurry with that bone.”

  “We really are cooking?”

  “Not until you wash your hands.”

  He had that same look that Escoffier always had when it came to cooking—a “mad-eyed twinge” is how Sabine thought of it. She knew that if she wanted to eat it was clear that stock had to be made first. Sabine suddenly thought of Madame Escoffier. Papa must have driven her insane. She washed her hands and sliced the tender pink meat away from the bone. It was soft. It didn’t smell like flesh at all but grass and cream.

  “It’s very good veal, no?” he asked.

  “It will be overwhelmed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s too mild for stock.”

  “It is veal,” he said. “It is fine.”

  “Too mild.”

  “It is veal stock.”

  “It is brown veal stock. The type of veal used is important.”

  “I am a student of Escoffier and directeur de cuisine—”

  “I am very pleased for you but a stock this light can have no soul.”

  “It is meant to be quite neutral in taste.”

  “Then why are we making it?”

  “You cannot poach quail without it.”

  “Are we planning to poach quail?”

  “That is not the point. No kitchen is complete without veal stock.”

  “Do you have veal stock in this kitchen? Does your neighbor?”

  “It is the foundation of all sauces. It adds a complexity. Deliciousness. Has Escoffier not told you of this theory of five tastes? A Japanese chemist proved it, and called it ‘umami,’ which means deliciousness.”

  “If the stock is neutral, then it is a good deal of work for nothing because something neutral does not taste delicious. It merely tastes neutral.”

  “But the stock brings out the savoriness in food.”

  “Unless it is magic that makes no sense.”

  “It is based on Brillat-Savarin’s concept of osmazome, but Escoffier took that idea and refined it. It is a great discovery.”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “Escoffier says it is so.”

  “I did not take you for a sheep, following blindly, but I obviously was mistaken.”

  Still, Sabine began to chop the bones, splintering them, not cutting. Shards flew.

  Bobo took the knife from her. “Do you not know how to use a knife?”

  “It is not sharp enough.”

  “Pay attention.”

  He held the knife firmly and chopped the bones into small pieces. The knife was indeed dull, his knuckles were white from leaning on them, but he had the strength and skill to overcome it. “We are looking to make the stock as gelatinous as possible, so the marrow must be exposed but the bones cannot be splintered.”

  “I sincerely thought we were having dinner.”

  “Please tie the celery around the leeks.”

  She looked at the celery and then at Bobo. “Non.”

  “The age of the celery won’t harm the broth. Veal stock is never as clear as beef stock, so don’t worry if this is not as pristine as other stocks you have made.”

  “Please listen. I will not tie the celery around the leeks, nor will I chop it, nor will I put it into a pan.”

  “There is absolutely nothing to worry about. We will remove the celery later. It will just infuse the stock with a subtle undertone.”

  “Good night,” she said and unbuttoned the chef’s coat.

  “You are taking the freshness of this celery to an extreme degree, which I admire but—”

  She handed him the coat. “I am leaving.”

  “Why? The celery—”

  “Does not matter to anyone except you. I have had only three hours sleep a night every day this week. And tomorrow, despite the fact that it is Monday and the only day I am to have to myself all week, I will only have three more because both Madame and Monsieur are dying and I am the only person, except for an insolent nurse and an ignorant housekeeper, who is keeping the household running. And, by the end of the week, La Villa Fernand will once again be filled with hungry, screaming, arguing, confused members of an enormous heartbroken family who will expect me to be everywhere at once. I do not want to cook. I came to eat.”

  The two stood in the kitchen, not knowing what to say, watching each other, wary, surprised that they were quietly exposed in ways they did not plan for. The sound of the orchestra at the Grand, a waltz, someone else’s waltz, filled the silence.

  “Why do you stay at La Villa Fernand?”

  The question surprised her. She could leave; it was true. She had thought of leaving. Her father would be angry, but he was always angry so it mattered not. But somehow, she couldn’t. “I don’t know. No place else to go, perhaps.”

  “Or you are fond of them.”

  “They do not pay me very well.”

  “Then you are fond of them. As you are of me.”

  “You are very arrogant.”

  “Yes. And the kitchen of La Villa Fernand needs veal broth, so what will you do?”

  Sabine, too weary to stand any longer, sat down on the chair and began to put her shoes back on.

  “You can’t leave now,” he said.

  “I can. I am,” she said but did not move.

  “Why?”

  “Why? You have no idea, do you? Perhaps this is the reason why you are not unattractive, and yet old and not married.”

  “I am old?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “That’s because you are always cooking. Let me see your hands.”

  He held out his hands for her as a young child would. Sabine examined them. “Look how red and raw they are.” She held them to her lips. For a moment he thought she would kiss them, and she knew that, but she merely gave them a sniff. “Onions, garlic, leeks.”

  “And yours?”

  She offered them to him. “The same.”

  He took her hands in his and smiled. Then kissed them—slowly, gently—they were not chef’s hands at all. He kissed them for so long, she began to think that he hoped to make her shy, but he could not. She was merely bemused.

  “Frankly, I am not very surprised that you have no wife.”

  “Perhaps I had a wife and she ran away.”

&nb
sp; “That would be likely. All you speak of is food.”

  She slipped her hands away from him and went to undo the knot of her hair, but he caught her wrist. “And you? Do you not dream of food?”

  “Non,” she said and it was true but suddenly felt like a lie.

  “Then I have overstepped,” he said. “Forgive me.”

  He kissed her hand once more, this time as one would a maiden aunt’s, and then let it fall.

  She could see that he was tired, too. She imagined his feet hurt; hers did. All that standing. The crook of her back was always sore. Her short leg throbbed so she often couldn’t sleep, even when she had the time to. She noticed that Madame Escoffier was right; he had the eyes of a gypsy. There were gypsies everywhere in Monte Carlo these days. Refugees. If the Germans had their way, they’d all be dead. Or soon will be.

  “There is an entire world outside of this kitchen.”

  “And it is an awful place. When we cook, we know perfection: we can touch it; we can create it. We are like gods. How can you not dream of your own personal heaven?”

  The orchestra at the Grand was playing a waltz from Chopin; it made her feel as if they were in an American movie; the world went black and white around them. A slight smile crossed his face like a bit of smoke. She imagined that he wanted to be back at the Grand Hôtel, in that kitchen filled with all that is perfect, and in perfect order, that heaven. Not here with her in the dust. She suddenly felt very sorry for Madame Escoffier.

  “Is it lonely in your heaven?” she asked.

  “Escoffier says it lacks a certain respectability.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “There are women, but . . . ”

  “But.”

  The distant orchestra went silent.

  “I should go.”

  The simmering pot-au-feu, the fresh baked bread with olives and rosemary, the salt air of the ocean tinged with the scent of lavender from the garden—all spoke of such promise. They searched each other’s faces for lies, for truth, for some glimmer, a spark.

  “Stay.”

  “You will break my heart.”

  “And you will break mine. That is the human condition, as is forgiveness.”

  And then he kissed her, gently, quietly.

  Sabine put the chef’s coat back on and wrapped the limp celery around the young leeks. Bobo placed the veal bones in a deep pot to boil.

  “Roast them first,” she said.

  “But Escoffier—”

  “Is not here. If you roast them they will bring out a caramelized flavor. Do not be a sheep.”

  Sabine took the pot from his hands; turned up the oven and patted the bones dry.

  “I thought you didn’t know how to make stock.”

  “I know how to make it the way my grandmother did. Housewife cooking is very good.”

  She rubbed olive oil on the bones, meat, carrots, leeks and onions. Put them in a large roasting pan. Placed it in the oven.

  “They will burn.”

  “They will brown.”

  “It will be too forward a taste.”

  “It will have taste. Once they’re roasted, we cover with cold water and then simmer. It will be fine. Escoffier will have his stock.”

  “He’s working on a new dish, isn’t he? I saw him today; he had that look he gets. That distracted faraway look.”

  Sabine had no idea if this was true or not, but the thought pleased her greatly and her answer would have been the same in any case.

  “Yes. He is working on a dish for Madame. And you can help. He will need lobster. And Russian caviar. And truffles from Italy—they are very good; I had no idea. I’m sure you can get this all from the hotel.”

  “And why do I believe that you are suddenly crafting this fiction?”

  “It was your suggestion, not mine.”

  “Very true. Well, then. What do you think of foie gras? It is his Holy Trinity, after all. Truffles, caviar and foie gras.”

  “I am very unsure about it. He has made ice cream of foie gras. Did you know that?”

  “If one could escape the color, the fat would provide an interesting—”

  “What is wrong with you men? No. It would not. Goose liver is the liver of the goose. It is not ice cream.”

  “But with wild black currant to flavor. The tartness, that nearly lemon-like edge to the fruit could provide a balance to the richness of the foie gras. I think it would be wonderful.”

  “Wild strawberries or Belgian chocolate for a sweet after a meal. Not liver. Never liver. Please, do not encourage the making of liver ice cream.”

  “Very well, mademoiselle. And what else is on your shopping list for Papa?”

  “Plenty of champagne. And Lucky Strikes.”

  “Lucky Strikes? Papa does not smoke.”

  “They are needed.”

  “He is trying to make a stew of Lucky Strikes?”

  “I cannot say for sure. These artists are secretive. However, it is safe to assume that if one can make ice cream from liver, tobacco could go very well with a saddle of venison. Or, perhaps, they could be added to the grapevines to smoke sturgeon. In any case, we will need plenty of cartons of Lucky Strike. As you know, Papa is a great experimenter.”

  “Lucky Strike is the brand you smoke?”

  “Oui. It is a happy coincidence.”

  She moved away from him, took the lid off the casserole that held the pot-au-feu. Marrow, ribs, bread and wine. “It is time to eat. How long does the veal stock need to simmer once the bones have been browned?”

  “Seven to eight hours.”

  She checked her wristwatch. “About two a.m. Just in time for Papa’s nightcap.”

  “It is, as you say, a happy coincidence.”

  And then he kissed her and she him.

  “You are very beautiful.”

  “I know.”

  And so as the veal bones turned from pale to deep caramel brown, the wax from the candles on the table at the top of the stairs melted completely, covering the bases of the silver candlesticks and solidifying into the gray linen tablecloth. They snapped and spit alone, and finally extinguished themselves. The cabbages wilted. Bobo laid out an old lamb’s wool blanket on the kitchen floor. It was cream, not gray, but it was soft to sit on. After all, the bones in the oven had to be watched so they did not burn. Instead of the fine china, crystal and silver that he had borrowed from the hotel, he set the blanket with forks and knives that did not match, two coffee cups for wine and the least-chipped plates that he could find.

  “I’ll plate.”

  For her, he placed a thin slice of both the brisket and the chicken breast next to a slight strip of cabbage, a single potato and the smallest turnip Sabine had ever seen. On his plate, there were several ribs, sausage, chicken legs and thighs and a heaping mound of cabbage and potatoes. She took both plates from him and emptied them back into the casserole and did not plate the pot-au-feu again. Instead, she set the entire dish on an iron trivet and placed it in the center of the blanket. He poured the wine. She turned off the lights. The flames in the oven cast the room in blue; it was like dining in the clear azure sky of a lonely heaven. They were still wearing the starched white chef coats. She picked up a marrowbone with her fingers. He ripped the heel from the bread.

  “Brillat-Savarin said tell me what you eat and I will tell you who you are.”

  Bobo took the bone from her and spread the marrow onto the warm bread. The weight of its fat, the earth of it, its rich unctuous mushroom earth, melted slightly and mixed with the rosemary and olives that he’d baked into the baguette.

  He held it out to her, that first taste, although he knew what it would exactly taste like just by looking at it.

  When she put it in her mouth, the richne
ss of the marrow made her laugh with pleasure. She undid the knot of her red hair; it unraveled slowly. To Bobo the blue of her eyes was as blue as the sky to birds. It was all he could see, and all he needed to see. She then fed the marrow to him and kissed the crumbs from his lips.

  Chicken legs, beef ribs—they ate the food with their fingers, dipping into the horseradish sauce, feeding each other greedily. Laughing. They rolled leaves of cabbages and chewed on them like monkeys. They ate the golden potatoes as if they were apples. By the time they returned to the making of stock, and took the roasted veal bones from the stove and put them into the pot and filled it with enough cold water so that it could slowly simmer, their own legs no longer ached, their feet felt as if they could stand the weight of their bones for yet another day and they tasted of garlic and wine.

  “Thank you, chef,” he said.

  “Thank you, chef.”

  She opened his cheese larder and took out a wedge of runny Camembert, which she covered with a handful of white raspberries that he had draining in a colander by the sink. He opened a bottle of port.

  The dishes could wait. They sat on the back stairs of the tall thin house and looked over the lights of the steep city of Monte Carlo and out into the endless sea. The air was cool, the cheese and raspberries were rich and tart; the port was unfathomably complex with wave and wave of spiced cherries, burnt caramel and wild honey.

  “The darkness feels so blue, it is as if I am flying,” he said and put his arm around her.

  “You talk too much,” she said and kissed him.

  The next day, shipments from Mr. Boots began to arrive again at La Villa Fernand. Inside the boxes there were wild strawberries, chocolate, oysters, champagne and a package of Lucky Strikes.

  “How do you know Bobo?” she asked Escoffier.

  “He was left on my doorstep when he was a boy. I put him to work, of course.”

  “What an interesting doorstep you must have had.”

  The Complete Escoffier: A Memoir in Meals

  FILETS DE SOLES RACHEL

  It is not a simple task to name a dish for someone. It is an art that combines the telling of impossible truths and the chemistry of memory that only cuisine can provide. Some dishes expose the chef’s inner feelings for the recipient and that is not always desirable. Some dishes fall short of the profound love that a chef feels and that is insulting. Some dishes are merely named after people because a chef once made it for them—if they liked it or not it is no matter. Some are named as a way to make money, and that is all. This can be a very sound business practice. And some are purely born of convenience—this often is the best dish of all.