The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (46 page)

The chef was a tall, angular man who moved with arrogant grace. When he noticed me wandering in his kitchen, he walked toward me at a brusque, businesslike pace, and I knew who he was by the way the cooks parted before him to clear a path. He was a head taller than I, and I felt cowed by his bearing and his stony expression.
“¿Quién es usted?”
he asked, holding his head back and his neck stiff. I shook my head dumbly and produced my maestro’s hastily scribbled note, on which the Spaniard saw his own name.
He brooded over that for a long time, rubbing his clean-shaven jaw and eyeing me suspiciously. The kitchen staff continued work at a steady tempo and paid us no attention, an indication that this chef did not tolerate idle curiosity. He folded my note carefully and slipped it into his pocket. Then he took me outside.

We stood in a tiled courtyard next to an orange tree growing from a massive ceramic pot. He crossed his arms over his chest, saying,
“¿Qué quiere usted aquí?”
I didn’t understand, but I named Chef Ferrero of Venice as my maestro, and a glimmer of interest came into his eyes. Fortunately, Castilian and Italian are close enough in vocabulary and syntax that I was able to communicate the dismal news that my maestro had been arrested and most of his book lost.

The tall Spaniard studied me a long time. His gelid stare and aloof manner did not reassure me, and I pressed my fingernails into my sweaty palms. Eventually he said,
“Bueno, venga.”

His body language conveyed an order to follow him into the kitchen, which I did, but he didn’t acknowledge me. He took provisions from a food locker and set a pan on a wood-burning stove. I waited while he melted butter and added a smooth white slab of meat to the pan—fresh calf’s brains. I assumed he meant for me to observe, so I watched him sear the brains, add wine and stock, and then reduce the skillet liquid to an aromatic liqueur. I clasped my hands behind my back and sniffed at the air as he folded in beaten egg yolks and cream. He covered the pan and tempered the fire to let the delicate meat poach in a smooth sauce.

While the meat simmered, he turned his dispassionate stare on me, and I began to wonder whether I had misunderstood, whether I had been dismissed and should leave. But I had nowhere to go, so I stood there, hoping to meet his measure, while his unblinking stare chilled my marrow.

After a minute, my teacher removed the pan from the heat and laid sliced calf’s brains in cream sauce on two earthenware plates.
He set one plate on a table and handed me the other. The tall man motioned me into a chair opposite him and said,
“Usted ha venido a mí para conocimiento. Bueno. Empezamos compartiendo estos cerebros.”
He nodded decisively and cut into his meal.

I didn’t understand his words, but he clearly wanted me to dine with him. The dish was rich and satisfying, and after we finished, he sat back and smiled. He had opalescent teeth and a friendly over-bite that nipped his bottom lip. When I saw that smile I understood that our sharing of brains had affirmed the beginning of our joint quest for knowledge. Guardians love culinary metaphors.

It took twelve years for me to become a Guardian, and every day with my teacher was a privilege. After I became a master chef, I married. As it was with Chef Ferrero, maturity brought me an appreciation of qualities beyond flaxen hair and caramel skin. Even with her hair turning white, my wife is a light-footed goddess with a knowing smile. I have three children, including one son who was never interested in culinary art. He’s a bookish fellow who likes numbers. Although I was briefly disappointed, I learned that allowing him to show me where his natural talents lay is more rewarding for us both. But I taught my daughters to cook—and more. Their husbands feast and are beguiled. Ah, those lucky men. I never taught my children what to think, I taught them
how
to think. I never made them go to church either; I made them go to school.

Bernardo found a mate, too, a silken, sloe-eyed minx, and after he died, I adopted one of his daughters. Now his great-granddaughter Marietta prowls my kitchen, flirting shamelessly for tasty morsels. Chef Ferrero would have liked Marietta; she’s impossible to resist.

The chef would also have liked to see that
stamperie
and quick-books have spread across Europe; printing methods are continually improving. More books mean more literacy, which will in turn mean more books. Even now, hand-copied books are beginning to be regarded as quaint. It looks promising.

Chef Ferrero anticipated the success of printing, but he never saw it. I discovered his fate ten years later, after the danger had passed and I was able to return to Venice for a visit. Those ten years were tumultuous. The doge died in 1501, Castelli killed Landucci in 1502, and Borgia was murdered by one of his many political rivals in 1503. After Borgia and the twenty-six-day papacy of Pius III came Pope Julius II, a warrior-priest determined to extend the power of the papacy through battle. Hearing of his election, I remembered the chef saying, “Beware the man who uses the words ‘holy’ and ‘war’ in the same sentence.”

Pope Julius joined the League of Cambria for military support against Venice. Castelli, feeling threatened and desperate, redoubled his efforts to find the elusive book that might discredit Rome. It was not until 1509, when Castelli was killed at the battle of Agnadello, that Julius turned his attention to defeating France, and the search for a mysterious book passed into legend. Finally, it was safe to return to Venice.

I went to the chef’s house, hoping Signora Ferrero might have come back, but she was gone—dead or retired to a cloister for widows, I never discovered which—and the girls, I suppose, all married and dispersed. I stood in front of the house, staring at the blue front door, remembering my Sunday dinners with the family and the night I spied on their balcony. Without the chef’s family there, it was just another house, so I strolled around the neighborhood noting that nothing had changed but the people. The same fruit cart stood on the same corner overseen by a different man. In a nearby
trattoría
, I stopped for a glass of wine. The barkeep was an old man, and I asked him whether he remembered the chef to the last doge. He poured his wine, saying, “The last doge died, what, ten years ago? I barely remember him, much less his chef.”

He started to turn way, but I held his arm lightly, saying, “He lived right around the corner, in the house with the blue door. He had four daughters.”

“Oh,
that
fellow.” He set the bottle down. “That fellow was beheaded.”

I swallowed hard. “What was his crime?”

“Probably no crime.” He pulled his eyelid. “They said he knew something about a book of heresy and dark arts. But if he did, he didn’t talk. He was in the dungeon three months before they gave up on him.
Sì
, now I remember. He was an ordinary fellow. I don’t know why they thought he knew anything about sorcery. It was a treacherous time. That chef and his apprentice were beheaded together.”

I murmured, “The apprentice, too.”

“
Sì
, I was in the crowd and I can tell you that boy was terrified, weeping and trembling. He kept sobbing, “You made a mistake.” I have to admit, he pulled at my heart. He was young, eh? But he was raving. Why would they care if they made a mistake? He was nobody. Poor boy. They had to hold him down.

“But that chef, he was dignified to the end. He was skin and bones, no teeth, a broken man in shackles, and yet before he put his head on the block he said, ‘I die victorious.’” The barkeep shrugged. “Maybe he was raving, too.”

“It sounds like he didn’t tell them what they wanted to know.”

“Could be. But a man separated from his head doesn’t look victorious to me.”

“There are many kinds of victory.”

The barkeep gave me a cynical look, then shuffled off to attend another customer.

On that same visit, I went to the convent and asked after Sister Francesca. A new and equally formidable Mother Superior said they had no such nun in that house. I said, “She was a novice here ten years ago.”

“Novices come and go,
signore
.”

“This one tatted dragonfly lace. I understand it brought a good price.”

The nun’s face closed up tight. “I told you,
signore
, we have no Sister Francesca.” She went to the door and held it open for me. “Good-bye,
signore
.”

I walked through the cloister and paused there, remembering the times I’d come to that place to meet Francesca. As I made to leave, a priest entered and stopped short, surprised to see a man in that female bastion.
“Signore,”
he asked. “May I help you?”

“Sorry to intrude, father. I came to visit a nun, but she’s not here. A Sister Francesca.”

“Nuns don’t keep their given names. How else might she be known?”

“I have no idea. I only know she tatted dragonfly lace.”

“Ah, you must mean the beautiful widow of Verona.”

“Widow?”

“I understand she was a novice here once, but she ran away with a young nobleman from Verona.” He chuckled. “I think the nuns were not so scandalized as they were envious. But, alas, her young man died soon after the wedding, and his family turned her out. She sold the jewelry he’d given her and opened a lace shop. She has an endless series of suitors and, I’m afraid, a rather wicked reputation as the maker of, well, shall we say provocative lace undergarments. Her costumes are popular with noble ladies all over Europe, though few will admit it. The widow of Verona is quite shameless.”

I had to smile. “Perhaps not shameless, father. Perhaps only practical.”

“Perhaps.”

From the convent I went to the Rialto and saw Domingo, heavier and happier, supervising a thriving fish stall. I bought a smoked trout from him and as I laid the coppers in his hand, the light of recognition came into his face. He smiled and I nodded. He handed me the trout, and I said, “
Grazie
, Domingo.”

“
Niente
, Luciano.”

I left Domingo to his happy life and went back to mine. I’ve been a master chef for many years now. With the aid of my Spanish teacher, I’ve built on the kernel of knowledge the chef gave me and I believe he would be proud to see my book. I’ve had several apprentices, one not smart enough, one too smart for his own good, one dishonest, and one too frivolous. Recently, I found my heir. He’s a local boy, a salami maker who, though already gainfully employed, came looking for something better. I liked that. I’m happy to say he’s intelligent and inquisitive, and he has a spontaneous sense of humor, indispensable qualities that cannot be taught. One day, I caught him just as he was about to throw away the skeleton of a magnificent salmon. I grabbed his arm and said, “Are you out of your mind?”

He said, “Maestro?”

“The bones, my boy, they encase the essence. We’ll extract all the flavor and nourishment this fish has to give. We’ll make soup.”

He handed over the skeleton with its fleshy bits clinging here and there. I filled a stockpot with fresh water, then added the salmon bones and hung the pot over a high flame. While it heated, we chopped onions and carrots and celery. He added them to the pot and I called his attention to the harmony of colors and the music of the boil as the vegetables danced in the water. When the boiling water started to render the bones, the broth took on substance, and the aroma engulfed us.

“Pay attention,” I said in my most tutorial manner. “The bones provide a noble base to which we need only add a soupçon of salt, a dash of dill, and a handful of parsley. Thus we create a full-flavored nectar through which the strength of this fish may pass into our own bones.”

A careful look in his eyes and the stillness about his face told me he understood that we were talking about more than soup. My bright apprentice watched the broth simmer, pensive and wondering.
He doesn’t quite know what to make of his lesson yet, but he’s thinking.
Bene
.

I, too, have been thinking for a long while now. I considered writing this memoir as early as 1521, when a fiery German named Luther used
stamperie
and quick-books to expose the corruption in Rome. Luther was a hard man, but my maestro would have enjoyed his plain-talking comparisons between Rome and Babylon. Emboldened by the success of quick-books, as well as by the freethinkers who have flourished in recent years, I dared to write this account. Perhaps it will find its way to a
stampería
soon, or perhaps not until the new age. Everything comes in its own season.

For time’s pendulum swings, and always, the teachers are the torchbearers. Thanks to my teachers, I’ve abandoned superstition and embraced an unfettered quest for knowledge. Now, I live every day alert to discovery. Only yesterday, I overheard a German traveler discussing a new idea called celestial physics, and I turned, as if the chef had called my name.

The Chef’s Apprentice

Chapter I: The Book Of Unholy Mischief
Chapter II: The Book Of Beginnings
Chapter III: The Book Of Luciano
Chapter IV The Book Of Dreams
Chapter V: The Book Of Heirs
Chapter Vi: The Book Of Cats
Chapter VII: The Book Of Visitations
Chapter VIII: The Book Of Amato
Chapter IX: The Book Of Desires
Chapter X: The Book Of Nepenthes
Chapter Xi: The Book Of Landucci
Chapter XII: The Book Of Forbidden Writings
Chapter XIII: The Book Of Marco
Chapter XIV: The Book Of Suspicions
Chapter XV: The Book Of Herbs
Chapter XVI: The Book Of Thieves
Chapter XVII: The Book Of Growing
Chapter XVIII: The Book Of Borgia
Chapter XIX: The Book Of Things Unseen
Chapter XX: The Book Of Francesca
Chapter XXI: The Book Of Forbidden Fruit
Chapter XXII: The Book Of Half Truths
Chapter XXIIi: The Book Of Seduction
Chapter XXIV: The Book Of Tears
Chapter XXV: The Book Of N’bali
Chapter XXVI: The Book Of Immortality
Chapter XXVII: The Book Of Now
Chapter XXVIII: The Book Of Beasts
Chapter XXIX: The Book Of Fugitives
Chapter XXX: The Book Of Struggle
Chapter XXXI: The Book Of Opium
Chapter XXXII: The Book Of Illusions
Chapter XXXIII: The Book Of Revelations
Chapter XXXIV: The Book Of Bones
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note