The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (38 page)

“Sì,”
said the greengrocer. “Bandero walks into walls, and Clementi has blood on his hands. But did you hear about Ficino?”

“Ficino of Florence? Are you sure?”

“Don’t get too excited.” The greengrocer pulled his eyelid. “It’s just for show.”

Marsilio Ficino, a humanitarian scholar under the patronage of Giovanni de’ Medici, was a teacher of Plato and poetry and a theory he called cosmic love, which, he claimed, governed order in the universe.

The root merchant said, “Ficino’s a virtuous man. Too bad he can’t be doge.”

The council had only named Ficino as a gesture of respect to the powerful de’ Medici family (and probably as an overture to join their quest for the book), but everyone, even Ficino and his patron, knew he would never be elected. Although he was old enough and sick enough, he was neither stupid enough nor corrupt enough.

One day, while seasoning a complicated love-apple sauce for his stuffed pasta, the chef idly remarked, “It would be interesting to stir a wicked pot with an innocent spoon.” He straightened his toque, and that odd half smile lightened his face while he stirred cream into the pot. Marrone, I thought,
he’s at it again
.

Although the doge was not yet dead, the council decided he was dead enough to proceed with the election. On voting day, the chef prepared an elaborate menu for the council’s dinner meeting and gave every course his personal attention. He rushed around the kitchen all day, sometimes serious, sometimes wearing his half smile, stirring this, tasting that, giving orders, straightening his toque. A huge, unidentified haunch of meat had been soaking in
a pungent marinade all night, and that morning the chef hung it on the rotisserie. As he basted it with a dark, salty marinade, he mumbled to himself like a mad alchemist. Watching him, I had the uncomfortable feeling that my maestro was somewhere far away from the here and now.

CHAPTER XXVIII
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
EASTS

T
he Council of Ten filed into the dining room through double doors held open by white-gloved footmen. Oh, how rich and solid they looked—well-fed men with soft hands and rings on their fingers. They wore Oriental silks, Turkish brocades, and fine Florentine wool. Some wore wide fur collars and heavy gold chains that lay on their shoulders as if carefully placed to balance the weight, front and back.

They all wore hats. The most stylish were a purple velvet cloche banded in gold, and a burgundy silk pouf with silver tassels. The others wore feathered caps, linen coifs, oversized berets, stuffed turbans, and one rolled-brim affair with a cockscomb trailing over the shoulder. Marching into the dining room in their fabulous hats, they looked like an assemblage of fantastic poisonous mushrooms.

Dinner began with a simple salad of clover dressed in extra-virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and a drop of honey. Clover was believed to enhance sluggish appetites, and the chef wanted that important meal to be fully appreciated. When the plates of clover had been set before each diner, portly Signor Castelli, who fancied himself an epicurean, adjusted his blue beret, frowned, and pushed the leaves around his plate. “Grass?” he asked. “Are we rabbits?”

Landucci grabbed his fork and stabbed the clover. “Don’t whine about the food. We’re here to do business.”

Munching a mouthful of clover, Signor Cesi flicked back the silver tassels of his hat and said, “This is delicious.” When Landucci glared at him he shrugged. “We might as well enjoy the food. Our business won’t take long.”

Landucci grunted, “I suppose it doesn’t matter which of the two old fools we choose. They’re equally pliable.”

As the maid cleared the salad plates, Signor Abruzzi addressed the table. “
Sígnori
, shall we save some time and simply put the two names in a hat?” He lifted the red fez off his head and offered it to the other men with a mischievous grin.

“Abruzzi, you dog!” Signor Bellarmino slapped the table with a hairy hand and laughed out loud. “Are you suggesting we have so little respect for the office of doge that we make a game of the election?”

All the men laughed. Even Landucci smiled.

They were still laughing when the maids brought in the next course. As they set a plate before each man, the laughter dwindled to throat clearings and then silence. Each man examined the intricate creation in front of him.

Quail are very small—no more than a bite or two per bird—and one man can eat several. That’s why quail were usually served headless and heaped on a huge platter that needed two maids to carry it. But that night, each man found himself facing one tiny quail, head intact and beak open as if to warble, with wispy wings spread as though it had just that moment alighted on its airy pastry nest.

I’d watched the chef construct the nests himself. He pressed out pastry circles with a wineglass and then overlaid them with pastry rings that fit precisely. He brushed his creations with madly beaten eggs and watched them closely while they baked. The instant they puffed up, golden and glossy, he pulled them out of the oven amid
a rush of steam. He monitored each step as the cooks assembled the other elements on the dish. He tasted the pâté as if he were meditating, examined and sniffed each sprig of thyme, then sliced the quail eggs three quarters through and fanned them out. For the clear brandy sauce, he banished the sauce cook and stirred the pot with frightening intensity.

Bellarmino said, “First grass and now one quail? Is this a joke?”

“Madonna!”
Signor Castelli had tasted the pastry nest and its sauce. He spoke with a full mouth. “This pastry could float on a breeze. And the sauce! Taste this sauce.”

As the men took their first bites, a round of appreciative murmurs and hums filtered through the cracked-open service door. A few paused to admire the artistry on their plates. The quail, boneless except for the outspread wings, was stuffed with a rich goose pâté. Each little bird sat atop its own eggs, which were sliced and fanned out around it to create a scalloped platform. The buttery-light pastry nest had been drizzled with a clear sauce that glistened like dew. On the sky blue plate, sprigs of fresh thyme had been arranged to resemble a forked tree branch supporting the nest; selected thyme leaves shimmered under carefully placed droplets of sauce.

Castelli licked pâté off his fork. “The presentation is delightful. Like a poem.”

Signor Gamba pointed to a tiny wing with his fork and said, “Looks like he’s about to take flight. Puts me in mind of my prized falcons.”

“Makes me think of music.” Castelli poked at the open beak. “Like the little fellow died singing, eh?”

“
Sì
. The chef is clever.” Landucci frowned and prodded the body of his quail. “Somehow he managed to remove all those little bones the way he does with mullet. This chef takes the bones out of everything. He must have a miniature catacomb in that kitchen.” Landucci pressed his finger into the boneless quail, and his frown
deepened. “I’ve never understood the catacombs. Why keep the bones of the dead?”

Signor Gamba answered absently while he chewed. “A priest once told me they keep the bones to remind us.”

“Remind us of what?” Landucci’s complexion darkened.

Gamba raised a forkful of quail to his mouth. “He didn’t say.” Chewing with his eyes closed, he murmured, “Mmmm. A very clever chef.”

“Indeed he is,” said Landucci. “I have a fellow in the kitchen who tells me suspicious things about that chef.”

He had a fellow in the kitchen? A spy? A sense of dread gripped me.

Landucci gestured at the elaborate quail. “Why does he go to such lengths? It’s only food.”

“He’s an
artiste
, Landucci.” Castelli was irritated. “Can’t you enjoy a good meal? Our business isn’t pressing. You said it your-self—one old fool is as good as the other. I like the idea of names in a hat. The irreverence is appealing.”

“Sì.”
Gamba smiled. “Let’s take a lesson from our excellent chef and do things differently for once.”

“Indeed.”

“One’s as stupid as the other.”

“Why not?”

Conversation stopped abruptly when the chef himself surprised us all by appearing with the next course. A maid held the door open, and Chef Ferrero, a man on a mission, marched into the dining room bearing a tray with his enormous haunch of roast meat still on its skewer. After the fanciful little quails, the brutishness of the dripping joint of meat impaled on an iron skewer was jarring, as was the presence of the chef acting as a waiter. The chef said, “
Signori
, this joint is too unwieldy for the maids. It will be an honor to serve you myself.”

The chef flourished a wickedly glinting carving knife, then
wrapped a towel around the top of the hot skewer and hoisted it off the tray. He planted the point of the skewer on one plate at a time and, just inches from each man’s face, he sawed off large, uneven strips of meat that fell onto the plates in ragged heaps. While the council watched this shocking presentation, the chef explained, “It was my good luck to be in the Rialto just after a ship from East Africa arrived. This animal was alive and snarling just yesterday. It was supposed to be delivered, still breathing, to His Holiness and butchered in the Vatican kitchen. But a mistake was made, and they butchered it right there on the docks.”

“But what—”

“I was fortunate enough to acquire this cut for you,” the chef continued. “The rest of the beast was put on ice for the trip to Rome.”

“But what—”

“Lion meat. I know you gentlemen must become bored with the same lamb and veal dishes all the time.
Signori
, I’m pleased to present you with the symbol of our own Most Serene Republic. Who better to eat this powerful beast than the most powerful men in Venice?”

I remembered the leopard in the Vatican kitchen. The chef knew perfectly well of Borgia’s taste for exotic meat. He must have paid dearly to find out when that animal would arrive, and even more to have it butchered in Venice.

Signor Farelli watched bloody hanks of meat fall onto his plate, and he pulled his green wool cap down more securely on his head. He said, “I don’t think I—”

“Lucky is the lion that the human eats, for thus will the lion become human.” The chef beamed as he carved. “Jesus said that.”

“He did?” Farelli looked around the table for confirmation, but everyone looked as blank as he.

“Tastes something like beef, but better. It has the flavor of power.” The chef kissed his fingertips. “It’s especially delicious with
the heavy red wine I’ve selected; it’s a rare vintage. Be sure to enjoy it.” The maid poured great goblets of wine while the chef hacked thick strips of meat onto the last plate. Then he bowed to the table, said,
“Buon appetito,”
and took his leave.

As he rushed past the maids, he mumbled, “Keep the wine flowing,” and then he bustled down to the kitchen.

Signor Gamba fingered his wineglass and said, “That quail was uncommonly filling. I don’t think I want—”

“Coward!” Castelli stabbed a piece of lion meat and held it up. Blood and grease dripped onto the lace tablecloth. “The chef said it tastes like beef.”

“But it’s a lion.” Signor Cesi diddled his tassels and stared at his plate with distaste.

“
Boh
. Look at you. Cowards.” Castelli took a bite. The other men watched him chew and swallow. He looked Cesi in the eye and said, “Excellent. Tender, flavorful, plenty of garlic, nice and salty.” He gulped his wine.

“All right …” Signor Gamba picked up his fork. “If it’s seasoned well enough …”

“Nice and salty.”

One by one, they tasted the lion meat. Owing to long marination, the lion meat was tender and flavorful. The council ate with zest, exhilarated by their culinary daring. They drank the robust wine, joked about their barbarism, and drank more. The maids kept the glasses full to brimming, as the chef had instructed. Some men put down their forks to hold the meat with greasy fingers; they roared before tearing into it with bared teeth. Only Landucci nibbled the food in a brooding sulk, but he, too, drank heavily. The meat was quite salty.

By the time the lion was finished, a wild sort of hilarity had come over them. They called each other savages, laughed, and demanded more wine. Signor Perugini flung his stiff, dome-shaped hat merrily onto the table, where it wobbled before coming to rest like an
upended bowl. Bellarmino called for parchment and ripped off two strips on which he wrote two candidates’ names. He dropped the grease-smeared scraps into the hat, and they laughed. They had eaten a lion. They felt powerful. They
were
powerful.

Landucci reached out to draw a name from the hat, but—“Wait!” Castelli held up a greasy hand. “Let’s make it interesting. We eat wild beasts. Why should we shrink from a decrepit old man who drones about love?” He wrote the name of Marsilio Ficino and held the third strip of paper in the air for approval.

Signor Cesi laughed. “Why not? Should we fear a weak little philosopher?”

“We fear no one.”

“Of course not.”

After Ficino’s name had been thrown in, Landucci put his hand in the hat of nominees and withdrew a scrap of paper. With noisy, high spirits prevailing at the table, the councilmen didn’t immediately register Landucci’s mute displeasure as he stared at the piece of parchment in his hand. Gradually, the laughter shrank to unsure chortles. Landucci reached for the hat to draw another name, but Signor Abruzzi said, “Ah, leave it. He’ll be dead in a year.”

Landucci sat back and looked around the table.

“Sì.”
Castelli slapped the table and his potbelly jiggled. “Leave it. We eat wild beats. Should we worry over a sick old man?”

“No.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Here’s to Doge Ficino.” Bellarmino raised his glass.

I looked at the maid standing next to me on the landing. Her mouth hung slack, and her eyes were wide and fixed. I whispered, “Doge Ficino?” She laid one palm on her cheek and smiled. I could hardly wait to tell the chef.