The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (28 page)

Marrone
. Until then I hadn’t understood I’d be opposing Borgia and Landucci, but the chef’s passion was infectious. I said, “
Sì
, Maestro. I am.”

CHAPTER XIX
T
HE
B
OOK OF
T
HINGS
U
NSEEN

W
e returned to Venice after five grueling days in a carriage, bumping over rutted roads. There were stretches when the road was so rough we got out of the carriage to walk in order to save ourselves injury from the violent jostling inside. On the way to Rome, anticipation had sustained me, but the return would have been no more than an uncomfortable trip if not for the chef’s stories. He spoke of writings and illuminations saved from places as remote as Babylon and repeated the imperative to acquire knowledge wherever it might present itself.

Late in the evening, the horses clopped into the central courtyard of the palace, and I disembarked, weary and grateful to be home. I expected the chef to continue on to his family, but he climbed down after me, beating dust from his clothes and mumbling about seeing how Pellegrino had treated his kitchen.

We made our way to the back courtyard, and I followed the chef into the deserted kitchen. He lit an oil lamp and walked down the long room, nodding approval at the clean chopping blocks, surveying the well-swept floor. He checked the simmering stockpots and
then wandered back to the cistern and peered inside. He shouted, “
Madre mia!
The water hasn’t been changed.”

It was then that I noticed the buckets. Instead of being turned upside down near the hearth they stood behind the cistern, each partially full of fetid water—a blight in the otherwise pristine kitchen.

“Get to work, Luciano.” The chef pointed to the offending buckets and I gathered them up while he pulled the plug at the bottom of the cistern; it came out with a wet sucking sound and he watched it drain into the trough with a look of disgust. I hauled the buckets out back and dashed the stale water onto the cobbles. As always, it looked like perfectly serviceable water to me, and I grumbled to myself about the chef’s unreasonable fetish. I longed to stretch out on my straw pallet.

Inside, I found him stacking wood in the fireplace that held the sturdiest swing arm. He pointed to a large round iron pot, saying, “Fill that with fresh water while I build up the fire. No telling how long that water was standing. We’ll have to scald the buckets.” He moved with heaviness in his arms, there was a strained, haggard cast to his face, and the dust of our journey was caked in his clothing. He looked as tired as I felt. I said, “Maestro, can I do this in the morning?”

“No.” He pushed the iron pot at me with his foot.

I went out muttering and yawned while cold water gushed into the pot. Full to the brim, it was too heavy to lift by the handle, and I carried it in my arms, staggering under the weight. The chef helped me hang it on the swing arm, saying, “We can’t take any chances.”

“Chances on what?” I was breathing hard from the exertion.

“Aside from the fact that rats may have been pissing in that water?”

“Oh.”

The chef poked the fire and blue-tipped flames licked the bottom
of the pot. He said, “Have you ever heard the name Roger Bacon?”

“No, Maestro.”

He grunted. “Of course not. No one remembers Doctor Mira-bilis.”

“Doctor who?”

“It means Astounding Teacher. He was a possessor of forbidden knowledge—the rogue magician.”

“What has he to do with scalding buckets?”

The chef sat down on the hearth. He said, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

Marrone
. After five days in the carriage he wanted to tell another story? Now? But he was the maestro, so I sat and listened.

The chef said, “Bacon was born three hundred years ago in England. He was a Franciscan friar, and as such, he was restricted from publishing anything without the approval of the church. Naturally, any studies that elevated science over theology were prohibited, and Bacon, who was a brilliant scientist, was prevented not only from publishing, but also from teaching.”

“A teacher who couldn’t teach?”

“
Sì
, a travesty.” The chef opened his hands and crooked his head as if to say “What can you do?” “But Bacon had an ally. At that time, a French intellectual held the papal throne—Pope Clement IV—and they circumvented the restriction by having Bacon write his findings in the form of letters to the pope. He sent Pope Clement treatises on logic, mathematics, physics, and philosophy. Those papers got to Rome but were never published. And when Pope Clement died, Bacon was arrested.”

The story sounded like some of the others I’d heard over the past five days; they always had the same theme—knowledge being squelched.

“They accused Bacon of witchcraft, and he was held in solitary confinement for ten years. Some thought he welcomed the chance
to continue his research unmolested, but he told a confidant he went willingly only because they showed him the torture devices they would use if he resisted. He was a practical man. He planned to write a comprehensive encyclopedia but only fragments ever appeared, and after his death his name was quickly forgotten.”

“Then how do you know—”

“Bacon may have been confined, but he had to eat. One of the few people who had contact with him during those productive years was his cook, who, as you might have guessed, was a Guardian.

“The writings that brave chef saved are astounding, Luciano. Roger Bacon calculated the position and sizes of celestial bodies. He predicted flying machines and ships powered by steam. He explained the manufacture of gun power before Polo brought it back from China. He studied optics and designed instruments to look into the heavens as well as into a glass of water.”

“What is there to see in a glass of water?”

“Bacon said there are tiny creatures, minute organisms too small to see or touch that multiply in standing water. These unseen demons can enter the body through the mouth and make people ill. They carry plague and pestilence and can even cause death. That’s why I always use fresh water.”

I looked at the water buckets and imagined minuscule creatures wriggling in malignant glee, writhing over the bottom and slithering up the sides, oozing their loathsome humors. The thought alone made me ill, and my stomach convulsed.

“But,” the chef continued, “Bacon’s writings say that boiling water will kill the creatures and render the buckets clean and safe.”

The chef went on, elaborating on the marvelous ideas and theories hatched by this medieval genius, until we heard burbling from the iron pot and saw the first tendrils of steam rising.

As we scalded the buckets, I felt a palpable sense of relief. I pictured the vile little creatures disappearing in the steam, and for the
first time, I upended the buckets with a sense of accomplishment rather than irritation at a useless chore. The chef said, “Tomorrow, scald the cistern before you refill it.”

“
Sì
, Maestro.” I would do it gladly.

“And now, good night.”

He shuffled out the back door and I sat on the hearth, marveling at his knowledge. Someday, wise men would study the writings of Roger Bacon and build those flying machines, and steam-powered ships, and devices to measure the heavens, and instruments to shine light on the infectious things squirming in water. They would benefit from Roger Bacon’s brilliance because of his chef, a Guardian, and they would use that knowledge to remake the world. The realization that I might be part of this honorable society humbled me. The Guardians were … magnificent. They were
all
astounding teachers.

I wished for a fitting way to begin my training, to show the maestro I was worthy. Now, armed with what I’d learned from my culinary failures and knowing that the magic ingredients were eggs, I decided to attempt a recipe that would symbolize the Guardians themselves.

I would create a dish that looked ordinary, a simple thing that no one would look at twice. A deceptive dish that looked more innocent than it was, and it would be white as a cook’s jacket. It would look plain, but in the mouth it would erupt with surprising texture and flavor. There must be a clear contradiction between the sight and the experience of it. Above all, it must be delicious enough to impress the chef and possibly be included in his book.

Included in his book? Perhaps I was becoming self-important. Still …

Excitement refreshed me and I prowled the kitchen, hunting up my ingredients. First, of course, I scooped out the triple-cream cheese. In another bowl, I separated four eggs and beat the whites until they were frothy and thick. I drank the yolks rather
than take the chance that they might darken the cheese. I grated Indian cane sugar because it was sweeter than honey and I would need less, which in turn would lessen the chance of burning. For the unexpected undertone, the almond liqueur had been perfect, and I added it happily with a small congratulatory sip for myself. I added just enough cream to thin the cheese, then whisked it to a thick batter and folded in the beaten whites. I licked my wooden spoon and found it more luscious than it looked. Perfect.

Next came the camouflage. There would be no square pan, no need for clever rectangular slices announcing, “Look! Here’s something different!” This dish would not call attention to itself. I buttered and floured a round shallow pan, as I’d seen Enrico do with his most delicate confections, and then I poured in my creation. I banked the fire in the brick oven to a low even heat and set the pan on a high grate. I watched it closely and turned it every few minutes so that it would bake evenly. The egg whites did indeed make it expand and cohere. No bubbles and no pockmarks. The instant it began to acquire a hint of gold around the edge I took it out. After it settled and cooled, I turned it out onto a flat earthenware cheese plate and stood back to admire my masterpiece.

As I’d hoped, it looked like a simple wheel of cheese. No one would guess that a heavy rich cheese had been lightened with meringue, and that Indian sugar and almond liqueur were hiding in that innocent white disguise. I covered it with a clean kitchen cloth and left it on the chef’s desk.

*

The next morning, I watched the chef furrow his brow as he lifted the cloth. “Who left this cheese on my desk?” The cooks shrugged, and I said, “It’s not cheese, Maestro. Why don’t you try some?”

The chef looked at me warily, then cut a wedge. I could see he was surprised at how easily the knife glided, how the “cheese” offered no resistance. He brought the slice to his nose and said,
“Almond?” Then he took a bite, and his face opened as the fragile white skin gave way to something creamy, rich, and fragrant in his mouth. “Why this is … what is this, Luciano?”

I moved closer and lowered my voice. “It looks ordinary, but isn’t. Like the Guardians.”

The chef took another bite and closed his eyes while he chewed. “You baked this?”

“I did, Maestro.” I was so eager for his verdict I caught myself shifting from one foot to the other. “Do you like it?”

The chef chewed slowly and nodded. “It’s very fine, Luciano. I believe this is worthy of … saving.”

“
Grazie
, Maestro!” I wanted to tell everyone I had created a clever new recipe, and what it signified; then I realized that was the one thing I could never do. That was my first indication of how it felt to be a Guardian.

The chef said, “Later you’ll tell me your method and I’ll write it down. I have just the place to keep it.” A look passed between us and I knew I had pleased him. He said, “What shall we call your sumptuous creation?”

“I don’t know, Maestro.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Something simple I think.” He took another bite and smiled. “How about ‘cheesecake’?”

“
Sì
, Maestro.” A small part of me had hoped he would call my first culinary success something a bit grander, like La Magnifica Torta di Formaggio da Luciano. But I grudgingly accepted that that might defeat the purpose.

That afternoon, the chef assembled the kitchen staff and, like a king conferring a knighthood, announced, “It’s been more than three months, and Luciano has completed his apprenticeship. Now he’s a vegetable cook.” He fitted a soft white toque onto my head. It felt like a crown, and I immediately tilted the hat at a cocky angle. I don’t remember smiling—I remember feeling joy transform my face. I felt my eyes crinkle, my ears push back, my cheeks tighten,
and my breath move over exposed teeth and gums. It must have been an alarmingly unbridled smile because the chef straightened my toque and said quietly, “Moderation, Luciano.”

The cooks nodded and resumed their work: Apprentice to vegetable cook was the expected progression. Teresa put down her mop to blow me a kiss, and Enrico gave me a kindly smile, but when the chef turned away, Giuseppe raised a hand with the index finger and little finger pointed at me and jabbed the air. I ignored him and took my place at the vegetable station next to Dante.

That same evening, I made a naïve attempt to placate Giuseppe. I waited for him in the back courtyard and when he came out I smiled and opened my palms, saying, “Giuseppe, what did I ever do to you? Come on,
paesano
, can’t we be friends?” I should have stopped there, but in my eagerness, I missed the darkness gathering in his face. I said, “Live and let live, eh?”

Giuseppe advanced on me until I could see the big, greasy pores in his face. Afraid to move, I cut my eyes back and forth, hoping to see someone coming out of the kitchen, someone who might stop a crazy drunk from snapping a boy’s neck and throwing him in a canal. He hissed,
“Bastardo!”
The slurred word spattered my cheeks with spittle and his foul breath made me flinch.

“You and Domingo make me sick.
Boh
. No fathers, no name, you’re nothing. But my fool brother and that fool chef treat you like sons. Like
sons
!” The sibilance produced a new volley of spit that made me blink. “And now you’re a vegetable cook? What’s so special about you, eh?” Giuseppe grabbed my nose between two knuckles, gave it a hard twist, and held it. I clamped my teeth down so as not to sob. He held on for a minute, squeezing while I struggled against him, and then he let go as if he were shaking off something foul. He stalked off, muttering, “Be careful,
bastardo
. Giuseppe is watching you.”