The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (36 page)

I scratched my head again.

“
Ecco
. Pay attention. A soufflé is magical. It rises out of the pan like a golden cloud, and it has an ephemeral nature.”

“A what?”

“It doesn’t last, Luciano—like life. That’s what makes it precious.”

The chef assembled sweet butter, cream, amaranth, flour, cheeses, eggs, a brown spice, a chip of salt, and a white peppercorn. He said, “Amaranth gives it a pleasant flavor, but the old symbolism has caused confusion. Forget all that; it’s just a rare grain. Lovely flavor. Now prepare a fire. Very low and very even.”

Chef Ferrero separated eggs with one hand, dropping yolks in one bowl and whites in another, and then he set both bowls aside. He gave me a mortar and pestle to crush the salt chip and peppercorns.
As I ground them down to powder, the chef said, “Very fine. No lumps. Attention to detail makes the difference.”

I grated cheeses while the chef combined melted butter, amaranth, and flour in a pan, whisked it to a paste, and set the pan on a high grate over the fire. He added cream gradually with one hand while whisking with the other. His face grew ruddy from the heat, and he looked basted in sweat, but he never varied his stroke. After removing the pan from the fire, he beat in half the egg yolks, sprinkled in the salt and pepper, and reached for the brown spice. “Nutmeg,” he said. “There must always be some spice.” He chuckled.

The chef stirred in the grated cheeses, then set the thick mixture aside. He added a pinch of salt to the egg whites, tilted a copper bowl in the crook of his arm, and began whisking with a quick, steady rhythm. I’d seen him do this before, and I enjoyed watching the egg whites thicken and expand into a fluffy cloud. He folded whipped egg whites into the cheese mixture and poured the whole concoction into a straight-sided dish. He slid it onto the highest grate of the brick oven and said, “Gently. You can never be too gentle.” He wiped his hands on his apron, saying, “Now we wait.”

I groaned at the thought of a long wait, and the chef said, “Much of life is waiting. It helps if you can do it with grace.”

“
Sì
, Maestro.” I made a pillow of my arms on the table and laid my head down. The firelight, the quiet, the warmth, the gathering aroma, the whisper of pages being turned, all of it enfolded me in a sense of peace, and I dozed. A soufflé takes an hour, but it seemed only seconds before the chef woke me with his announcement.
“Finito!”

The soufflé looked just as the chef said it would: a golden cloud rising magically out of the dish. He cradled the hot dish between two towels and lifted it off the grate tenderly. Keeping it level, he set it down on the table, stepped back, and said, “Behold. A soufflé.” He looked like a proud father.

We admired the burnished crust, inhaled the rich perfume, and
wondered at the domed architecture. Then a dimple appeared at the center of the soufflé. The dimple deepened to a crater, and wrinkles began to spread out around it. I said, “Maestro, it’s collapsing.”

“Of course it’s collapsing. Just think, Luciano, that soufflé will never rise again, and you saw it. If you weren’t paying attention, you would’ve missed it.” He shook his head. “One of the silliest rumors I’ve heard is that the addition of amaranth prevents it from falling. As if that would make it better.
Boh
.” He gestured grandly at the shrinking soufflé and said, “Impermanence. Exquisite, eh?”

I strained for the comprehension that would take a lifetime.

The chef handed me a spoon, but before we dipped into the soufflé, he said, “Right here, right now, there’s only us and the soufflé. The time is always now; we merely need to inhabit it. Can you do that?”

“I think so, Maestro.”

“
Bene
. Now we eat.” The chef broke through the delicate crust and scooped out a serving for each of us. He offered me a plate and a smile. “Savor the crisp simplicity of the moment, Luciano.”

The soufflé was light and lush. The first taste burst inside my mouth, and I gave myself over to the smooth flavor and silky texture; the amaranth did indeed give it a rich nutty undertone. The second taste coated my tongue with luxury, and my worries retreated. The chef had been right—fully inhabiting that present allowed nothing else to intrude. The soufflé consumed me.

As the last bite slid down my throat, the chef smiled. He said, “You know, Luciano, sometimes I think the rumors about alchemy might also have been started by this soufflé.”

“Because of the golden color?”

“No. Because once you learn to live in the present, you’re as rich as anyone can be. We must embrace each moment.”

“Even the bad ones?”

“Especially the bad ones. Those are the ones that show us who we are.”

While I tidied up, thinking about my lesson, the chef went to his desk and perused his book. The spine was broken; some of the pages were worn almost to transparency while others were so brittle they crackled when turned. The rest were loose, creased, stained, torn … the book had clearly been in a state of flux for many years, constantly being revised and enlarged. It came to me then that the book must have grown considerably as it passed through countless hands over the centuries. When I finished the dishes, I sat with him at his desk. I asked, “What did the original book contain?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Originally, there was no book, only scrolls. Some believe undiscovered scrolls still survive in desert caves.” He thought for a moment. “It’s possible. Hot, dry deserts preserve things quite well. Some writings say there are royal tombs in Egypt where ancient kings are still preserved, along with piles of gold and even some of their slaves.”

“Marrone.”

“Our tradition started with a grain of knowledge that one person wanted to destroy and another wanted to save. Some wily scholar rolled up a controversial parchment, stuffed it into a clay jar, and hid it in a cave. Others followed his example, and the custom, along with the body of knowledge, grew like yeast. In time, certain scholars organized their effort and agreed to embed concepts in recipes so they could pass the knowledge along in the guise of cooking lessons. We preserve what we have and we also add to it when new ideas come to light. Much as you did with your cheesecake. That will be a fine addition to our book, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it became a favorite.

“Of course, some recipes are more valuable than others. If I had to choose, I suppose I could select the ones I consider most important—the Gnostic gospels and the letters of Roger Bacon. But to do that would be like paring down an artichoke to the heart, and it would be a shame to lose all those meaty leaves, eh?”

“It’s amazing,” I said. “To think all these writings survived centuries of war and politics.”

The chef smiled. “In times of crisis, people become clever about protecting what’s important to them. But our first duty is to preserve the tradition and protect the Guardians.”

I imagined the ghostly image of a long line of chefs stretched out behind my maestro, their tall, white toques trailing away into antiquity, blurring and morphing into hoods and turbans and biblical headdresses. His was a clandestine lineage of chefs who were much more than chefs, each having preserved what was given and adding to that body of knowledge. I felt humbled to think I’d become heir to this ancient trust. I asked, “How is it managed, Maestro? One book passing through so many hands over so much time … it seems impossible.”

“One book? That
would
be impossible. And foolish, don’t you think? No, each Guardian has his own book, and none are identical because they’re always changing and growing. Like life, eh? Each Guardian looks after his book until the time all things can be revealed safely. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, no seed sees its flower.”

Excitement swelled in my chest and filled my head with a tumult of questions. “Do the Guardians know each other? Are there others in Venice? How many are there? Are they all over Europe? Where do you get your knowledge? Do you have secret meetings?”

“Slow down,” said the chef. “Patience and vigilance are our watchwords.”

“But do you know any other Guardians?”

“Each Guardian knows the names of two other Guardians in different countries. If a book is in danger of exposure, it must be destroyed.” The chef clutched at his heart. “
Madonna
, what a thought.” He shook his head. “Sadly, it did happen once. A Sicilian chef came into possession of diagrams that showed how the Great Pyramid of Giza had been built. He was working on an elaborate
recipe that encoded that incredible feat of engineering—I heard it used huge amounts of marzipan—but somehow he was discovered. The pyramids were thought to glorify pagan gods and the chef was arrested as a heretic. The diagrams were destroyed, but he died honorably without betraying the Guardians.”

“You should hide the book, Maestro.”

“Nonsense. This is the safest place for it. Landucci and Borgia have no reason to look at a dilapidated cookbook. And they think themselves too intelligent to consult reclusive
adepti
like N’bali. They leave her to superstitious peasants. As for your young friend, he’s not likely to be believed by anyone. I think the Guardians are safe for the moment. In any case, the most important writings, like the Gnostic gospels, are recorded in multiple places. Threats come and go, but we remain quiet, and we wait.” The chef closed the book and passed his hand lovingly over its soiled cover. “Well then, what have you learned?”

“To pay attention to the present moment.”

“Bene.”
He held me with his eyes and said, “It’s time to be a man now, Luciano. No more games with Marco. When the doge dies and the rumors subside, you have to be ready to buckle down to a long, hard course of study.”

“I’m ready.” That book would make me worthy of both the chef and Francesca.

The chef shelved the book and said, “First you’ll learn to read and write—many languages. Then you’ll study history, science, philosophy.” He smiled. “But all anyone will see you learning is culinary art.”

“That’s a lot of learning.”

“You can do it. You’re better than you think. Let’s have your first lesson now.” He took a parchment from his desk and wrote a word. “
Ecco
. See this? It says, ‘Guardians.’ Can you memorize the letters and their arrangement so that you’d recognize this word again?”

I considered each letter alone and then the pattern they made together. I ran my finger under the word, pausing at each letter.
G-u-a-r-d-i-a-n-s
. With the thrill of sudden literacy whistling up my spine I whispered, “
Marrone
, I can read.”

The chef crumpled the parchment into a wad and said, “Don’t be too impressed. You have a long way to go.”

He tossed the balled-up parchment into the fire. It blackened and disappeared with a whispery crackle, but I could still see that word—“Guardians”
—
in my mind’s eye, the word that would save my life.

CHAPTER XXVII
T
HE
B
OOK OF
N
OW

T
he chef pulled a hand down his tired face. “That’s enough for one night. Think about what you’ve learned, and we’ll talk more after he’s gone.” He glanced up at the ceiling to indicate the upper floors where the doge lived. “Remember, Luciano. These are the times to be present and alert. Practice the lesson of the soufflé. Be here, not there.”

But that was easier said than done, for next came the time of chaos. I’d been in the palace almost six months by then, and the doge’s obsession had escalated with his disease; his quest for immortality had reached a full rolling boil. The doge was finally succumbing to his syphilis, and in some quarters gossip about the book took second place to wagers about how long the old fellow would last. The chef said, “The doge is like a flounder on a chopping block, thrashing for his life.” Indeed, his ruffians were running wild through the city while the
Cappe Nere
quietly observed and made arrests. Meanwhile, the Swiss mercenaries monitored the
Cappe Nere
. Everyone spied on everyone.

No doubt Marco and Francesca had seen the swarms of soldiers and were full of questions. For that reason, I stayed close to the palace and continued to avoid them. Before I left food scraps
for Marco, I peeked out the back door to be sure he wasn’t there. I didn’t miss him (especially since he’d lost his sense of humor) but, oh, Francesca. I’d saved twenty coppers by then; in a few more weeks I’d have enough to rescue her.

Fortunately, events in the palace kept me busy. As the doge deteriorated, I heard Teresa gossiping to Enrico about what she saw in his private rooms. Apparently, the doge urinated in corners and sat on the floor weeping. Teresa, Enrico’s gossip-mongering counterpart, had taken to visiting the kitchen more frequently, and the two of them often conferred in whispers near the brick oven. Once, I stopped her at the service door, on her way out, and asked how long the doge might last.

“Who knows?” She blinked excitedly. “He wanders his rooms naked and bewildered. The stains on his bed clothing would make you gag.” She pulled a face full of disgust. “It can’t be long now. At least we hope.” She winked and hurried off to gather more news.

We in the kitchen found ourselves preparing meals for a series of physicians visiting the palace. The first doctor, from the medical school in Padua, gave the doge a thrice-daily dose of sarsaparilla. When that proved useless he offered his apologies and moved away with his family to Milan. The next one, a Roman priest and the pope’s personal physician, brought greetings from His Holiness and an offer to administer the last rites. He was sent back to Rome without thanks.

Then they began arriving from far-flung places: an herbalist from Paris; a professor of medicine from Frankfurt; an English physician who brought mercury that turned the doge’s sores a deep blue; and from Persia, a hoary old man with a long white beard, dressed in purple satin and carrying incense and leeches.