White Truffles in Winter (14 page)

“I can boil a bird.”

“You can barely boil water. Bobo is a good man. He will take the care needed to make sure the geese do not go tough. When done correctly, the meat will flake away when poked with a knitting needle.”

“But I can boil a bird.”

“No. You can pick the meat from the bones, cover them with the duck fat and a layer of salt, and pack it into jars for the cellar. You can also convince Bobo to give you the rendered goose fat to brown potatoes. He will do anything for a beautiful woman, he meets so few of them.”

“What of Madame?”

“She need not know you did not cook the bird. We won't mention it.”

“No. I meant should we not make a dish for her with the goose? Something special?”

“She enjoys confit.”

While that might be true, Sabine was not sure that she did. It sounded horrible. She was hoping for something more—something, perhaps, with veal. “Confit
is so common. Perhaps you could create something for Madame that includes champagne?”

“A dish in her honor?”

“Yes. Maybe not with the goose, but, perhaps, with champagne. And maybe oysters.”

“No.”

“We still have several cases of champagne. And it would be simple to get oysters. The fishmonger willingly brought langoustines . . . ”

“No.”

“Caviar?”

“No.”

“Veal? Veal can be so lovely.”

“Yes. Veal is lovely. But no.”

“Madame so wants a dish: something with her name on it. Something rich, expensive and complicated so that we must make it many times and taste it to be sure that it is correct.”

Escoffier looked at Sabine closely. “She has told you this herself?”

Sabine nodded.

“Well, it is impossible,” he said and then walked out of the kitchen.

Hours later, Sabine had packed the geese away in the spiced salt mixture and baked the
foie gras d'oie.
Despite its rather tough and burnt brioche crust, she sold half of it to the first café she saw in Place d'Armes.
It was only worth a couple of francs to them.

“No one has money for such things anymore.”

“But Escoffier himself baked this.”

“I didn't know he was still alive.”

Heathens.

The shops were closing but Sabine reached the tobacconist just in time. “Lucky Strikes,” she said. “For the house of Escoffier.”

Being American, the cigarettes were more money than she had, more money than most had, but Sabine suspected that wouldn't matter.

“I have heard Escoffier is dying?”

Sabine conjured up the spirit of Sarah and nodded with such sadness she felt it in her bones. “And Madame also.”

The small thin man pushed the francs back across the counter. “Tell him his money is no good here.”

This could be easier than I thought.

That evening Sabine set the sideboard with three roast chickens, cold stewed tomatoes and what remained of the
foie gras
with bread
.
She had cut away the burnt crust and sliced it so cleanly that the truffles retained their shape. In the pantry, she'd found a bottle of oil marked “Olio di Tartufo” and drizzled some over the slices and tasted a bit. It had a complexity that she had never tasted before—darkness with a hint of chocolate. The richness of the
foie gras
, so like butter, and the earthy perfume of the truffle oil made her laugh with pleasure but it needed wine. In the cellar, there were four bottles marked
1932
Bordeaux “Grand Cru Classé.” Sabine had no idea what that meant or what it would taste like, but could see it was red and she liked red wine, so that was all that mattered.

She uncorked the wine and tasted it. It seemed bitter and weak.
Good enough for them,
she thought and poured two bottles into carafes, and set them on the sideboard, rang the dinner bell, and waited.

The dining room was still warm from the day. The
foie gras
quickly began to melt. She rang the dinner bell again. By twos and threes the family arrived, ignored the tomatoes, sniffed at the
foie gras
, and ate the chicken. While they were still eating, Sabine removed the liver and placed it in the icebox.

Idiots. How can the children of Escoffier not know fine food when they see it?

She opened another bottle of the Bordeaux and poured a glass. The doctor had given her strict orders not to enter Madame's room under any circumstances and so she sneaked up the backstairs with a plate and a glass of red wine. She opened Delphine's door slowly so that she would not be caught. The nurses were bathing her.

“Go away.”

Sabine took the tray to Escoffier's room. Knocked. “Supper.”

“Leave it by the door.”

“But it is wonderful.”

He opened the door. “Truffle oil?”

She nodded.

He picked up the plate and sniffed it. “Very nice element.”

“Perhaps you could name this for Madame.”

He took another sniff. “You burnt the crust, no?”

“I removed it. No one knew.”

“Did they eat it?”

“No.”

“Then they knew. And do not serve red wine with
foie gras
. Sauternes or Monbazillac. Something sweet.”

“I like red wine.”

“Unless you are Queen Victoria, no one cares. This is the Saint-Émilion?”

“Grand Cru Classé.”

“You have no idea what that means, do you?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then learn. Taste the wine. Study it. But do not drink it with the
foie gras
. Go. I am working.”

And then he closed the door.

By the time Sabine cleaned the kitchen and washed all the dishes, most in the grand house were either asleep or taking a late night walk around the square. La Villa Fernand was once again quiet.

Burnt crust or not, Sabine ate the remaining
foie gras
at the dining room table on the Canton blue plates and wondered what it would be like to travel to places like China where people spoke different languages and ate different things. The
foie gras
did not taste burned to her and she enjoyed the red wine with it. In fact, she drank the last bottle herself, the bottle that, surprisingly, was no longer harsh and thin but felt full and ripe in her mouth.

At
2
a.m., Sabine was still dressed, lying across the small bed in her room, dreaming of a China where all the houses and people were as blue as porcelain, when the service buzzer went off, just as it did every night. It was Escoffier wanting his nightcap, his “youth elixir,” as he called it.

The yolk of one fresh egg beaten with several spoonfuls of sugar, mixed with a pony of champagne and a glass of hot milk. Sabine could barely stomach it. She was dry-mouthed and dizzy from the wine. A few minutes later, she held the tray in her shaking hand and knocked softly. “Monsieur Escoffier?”

He opened the door in a panic. “She's crying again.”

The house was quiet. All Sabine could hear was the sound of the sea, the waves crashing along the shore.

“Madame?”

“Yes. Can't you hear it?”

Sabine could not. “We'll call the nurse.”

“She is sleeping. You can hear her snoring.”

Sabine listened for a moment. “I hear nothing.”

Escoffier took her by the arm and roughly pulled her into his room. Tapped the wall. “Listen here.”

She put her ear to the wall.

“I hear nothing, Monsieur. Perhaps you fell asleep at your desk. Perhaps you were dreaming.”

Escoffier sank back into his desk chair, held his head in his hands. Sabine placed the tray on the desk next to him, glancing around the room. She had never been inside of his room before. It was worse than the kitchen, a jumble of things.

On top of the bookshelf was a reproduction of a passenger train sculpted in sugar. Over the desk was a picture of a tiger created with tiny kernels of rice pasted on canvas. There were menus everywhere, too, richly painted as if greeting cards. Some with geishas bearing Moët, some were obviously for royalty painted with jeweled crowns, ermine and red velvet, and some were funny—one had a group of monkey chefs cooking atop a camel in the desert sun.

There were stacks of newspaper clippings in several languages and hundreds of photographs piled on the floor, under the windowsills and on the top of every surface. At her feet was a photo of the Australian opera star Nellie Melba signed:
“À Monsieur Escoffier avec mes remerciements pour la création Pêche Melba,”
and dated
1914
, the year of the Great War. Next to it was another war photo, this one of a very young Escoffier tasting a Christmas pudding with a group of soldiers. There was also a picture of Escoffier in the midst of a kitchen brigade of a hundred men, all dressed in white, standing in front of the luxury liner the RMS
Titanic
.

Sabine had heard all the stories but never imagined them to really be true. But here was the proof.

She looked at the small shaking man. Still holding the tray, she patted his back awkwardly, like one who is childless trying to comfort a lost boy. Tears fell into his lap. He put his hand to the wall, as if to reach beyond it into Delphine's room.

Sabine set the tray down, popped the champagne and poured it into a glass. “Monsieur, you must sleep.”

“What did she say to you about the dish that she wants?”

Sabine fingered the box of Lucky Strikes in her pocket. “You have named a dish for everyone except her. She does not wish to be forgotten by history.”

He picked up the photo of his lost brigade in front of the
Titanic
. He stared at it, touching each face as if remembering each name, each family that the loss of their lives left behind.

Sabine poured the beaten egg mixture into the champagne and handed the glass to him. He drank the warm milk instead.

“Sleep well, Monsieur.”

“Goodnight, Sarah.”

Sabine did not correct him.

IN THE MOMENTS
before dawn, Delphine was sure that she heard his voice quite clearly. She wasn't sure where it was coming from. It seemed to rattle around inside her head. But it was Escoffier. There was no doubt.

“Which contains potatoes, apples, gherkins and herring fillets? German Potato Salad? Muscovite Apples? Herrings à la Russe? Or Herrings
à la Livonienne?
”

“German Potato Salad. Equal parts of all four.”

“Correct. Which contains onion, powdered curry, white consommé and cream? Indian Curry? Mutton Pudding? Salt Cod in the Style of India? Coulis
of Rabbit?

“Indian Curry.”

“
Non
. Couils
of Rabbit. There is no cream in Indian curry.”

It was their game. And so she said, “Which contains King Edward potatoes, garlic, butter, Cantal cheese and pepper?”

“That is too simple.
Aligot.
”

“It could have been gnocchi. The King Edward is well known as the finest potato for gnocchi.”

“Madame Escoffier. If it were anyone else, it could be gnocchi.”

“Yes, well.
Aligot
is wondrous.”

“True. But it is still just mashed potatoes, garlic and cheese.”

“Is it? But what if you add white truffles? What did Brillat-Savarin say? ‘Truffle awakens erotic and gastronomic ideas . . .
'
”

“Madame. There are children about.”

“And that is thanks to my
aligot.
”

“Fine cuisine, only.”

When they were first married, Escoffier and Delphine would each lie in the dark, each in their own tiny bed, and tally their scores. They were too tired to sleep. Too worried to make love.

Two months after the wedding, Delphine's father suddenly died. Four months later, her baby sisters contracted diphtheria. The publishing house failed. Faisan Doré was a distant memory. The newlyweds moved back to Paris to be close to Delphine's mother, who would not eat or speak or sleep but spent her days silently wandering the house, walking from room to room, looking. Just looking. As if she were waiting her turn.

Delphine and Escoffier's lives had unraveled around them and so the game was born. That was back at a time when food wasn't about balance sheets and bottom lines, the dance of profit and loss, but when a
meule
of vintage Comté with that distinctive Gruyère taste of nuts, small ripe pears, and a perfect glass of Pomerol would be enough to bring them both to tears.

And now the game had begun again. It was still Delphine's turn.

“Which contains currant, apricot jam, custard and Grand Marnier? A Cabinet Pudding? Trifle? Apricot Mousse? Rice Pudding?”

“Cabinet Pudding. Very clever,” Escoffier laughed. “A trifle could contain Grand Marnier but usually it is either port, sweet sherry or Madeira wine. Sometimes there is fruit juice. But a Cabinet Pudding always contains ladyfingers soaked in liqueur.”