White Truffles in Winter (15 page)

“Correct. One hundred points.”

They went on like this until dawn, when the moon paled and the sun began to push its way through the surface of the azure sea, staining the sky red.

“But what kind of red?”

“Strawberry?”

“Beet?”

“Theater curtain. They are always red, are they not?”

“Food only. Currant. It is that particular tone of red.”

“Then why not cherry?”

“Ripe?”

“Of course. The sky turned as ripe as cherries.”

“
Non
. Overripe. On the page, it would read—‘The sky is stained, overripe.' The cherry need not be mentioned; it is implied.”

“Better.”

“Of course. You forget that I, too, am Escoffier.”

And then they laughed as if they were young again, lying in the dark, holding each other's hands and wanting so much more from a world that seemed to have forgotten them. And then he said, “Which contains egg, butter, truffle and cream?”

“Everything should, but what are my choices?”

“It is something you have not made me in a very long time.”

And then there was silence. The game was over.

“
T
ODAY WE SHALL COOK
,”
DELPHINE SAID
.

Sabine did not like the sound of that at all. In just a night, the old woman seemed to have become transparent. Her voice was a mere whisper, rough and raw as open water. She was fading away. The nurses had carried her into the kitchen and placed her on her hospital gurney and left her there as if she were a plate that needed washing.

This would not do. Sabine was wearing her red dancing shoes again. Cooking was not what she had in mind.

“Madame, should you be—”

“Dead?”

“—in your room.”

“I should be dead and in my room but I am neither and so we will cook.”

Sabine could hear children crying in the house and the ineffectual whispers of their parents. In the garden, gray rabbits were chewing at the new shoots of carrots, chicory and the young roquette. “Madame, there must be twenty or more for the midday meal today.”

“Do we have eggs?”

Sabine had hoped to lay a plate of warm bread, almond butter and fig jam in the dining room, ring the dinner bell, and, before anyone arrived, slip out the back door and down to the docks where most of Monte Carlo spent their days watching the sailors of the French navy on their battleships polishing the endless rows of guns, and waiting. Every one was waiting: the sailors on shore leave, the young men who fled to neutral Monaco to avoid conscription, the priests hoarding sacramental wine, and the doctors quietly tearing bedsheets for bandages.

Führer und Reichskanzler
. Every newspaper, every radio carried news of him.

Prince Louis II, who in his younger days had enlisted in the French Foreign Legion, often joined them on the docks. Dressed in his old uniform, black patent boots and saber, he would listen to the stories of those who, like him, had fought in the first war, but shared none of his own. After a time he would address the crowd.

“The French navy is here to protect you. I am here to protect you. Go back to your homes. You are safe.”

And yet he would linger, watching the coastline, waiting.

There was a reckless air about the world. Anything could happen. Anything was possible. On the docks there were hearts to be won or broken. And so Sabine wore her shoes. It was oddly thrilling.

But the old woman wanted to cook. Sabine could not understand why. She was obviously too ill. When she spoke Sabine could barely hear her.

“Eggs?”

“Yes.”

“We have a bucketful.”

“Bread?”

Dough had been rising in long thin baguette tins on the counter. “Soon.”

Sabine turned on the gas to warm the oven. There was the familiar whoosh. She lit the gas; the flame shot up and spread out like a blue wave.

“Now. Knock on every door,” Delphine said. “Tell them I am cooking. Tell everyone in the house. The children, the grandchildren—knock on everyone's door, but do not tell Escoffier. There is no need to bother him. When the meal is ready, he will come.”

“He did not eat last night.”

“He will eat today. Set the table. Then we shall cook.”

The rasp and ragged edge of the old woman's voice unnerved her. “Go.”

She did. Sabine placed the bread in the oven and then knocked on every door in the house. The response was quizzical. Madame did not have the use of her hands or legs. How could she cook?

“Where are the nurses?”

“Whose idea was this?”

“Does Papa know?”

But no one offered to help.

When the bread turned golden brown, Sabine set the table with the full service of Canton plates, from soup bowls to bread plates to the larger dinner plates. She took out the good silver and lace tablecloths. In the garden, she picked a bouquet of lavender and gathered the thin red limbs of apple blossoms from a neighboring tree. She placed them in a heavy cut glass vase and set it in the center of the table.

In the kitchen, Delphine lay watching a bevy of swans in a nearby pond.

“Finished, Madame.”

“Swan makes a fine meal.”

“Swan?”

“If you marinate them in vinegar and ginger, you can bake them into pies or
pâté
.”

“But they are so beautiful.”

“They are also temperamental. Listen to the hissing. Sounds like a bevy of chefs, does it not?”

“The children are quite clear that they would rather eat chicken.”

“If you are to feed this family when I am gone, you have to learn how to take what is offered. Rabbits are everywhere, why should they eat and my grandchildren starve?”

“No one is starving.”

“The war is not here yet.”

“Yet.”

“Show me the eggs.”

Sabine held the basket out in front of her. Delphine looked at it closely. Leaned her head in for a sniff. “This morning?”

“Yesterday.”

“Truffle?”

“There are still two left.”

“Good. Butter must be melted.”

Sabine scooped pale butter from the crock. It sizzled as it hit the deep copper pan. She turned down the heat to simmer. Began to whisk.

“Good. You're learning,” Delphine said. “Very nice. Now pay attention. There is a hierarchy to eggs—you must always remember this. The scrambled egg is the most difficult and so it is the most perfect of all gifts. If not worked with a masterful hand, they will be tough. The soufflé is next. It takes some skill but there is much room for error. All one needs to do is to whip egg whites and carefully fold them into the batter, it is quite simple. Any chef can coax air into eggs if he pays attention. The same is true of an omelet—again the air into the eggs is key, but it is not the work of an artist. The poached egg is about mechanics; there is no poetry.

“Today we shall make fried eggs.”

“What is the skill in fried eggs?”

“None. That is why I believe that if you follow instructions closely you will be able to make them correctly.”

“Monsieur will not allow me to make eggs at all. He mentioned specifically that the frying of eggs was prohibited.”

“This is my kitchen.”

“He says fried eggs are an insult.”

“And it is my kitchen.”

“He will be angry.”

“If you make them. If I make them they are something altogether different. You are merely my hands. Get out the earthenware bakers, three, the large ones.”

“To fry eggs?”

“How do you make fried eggs?”

“You place butter in a hot pan and crack eggs into it.”

“
Non.
That is the American way. And Escoffier served them with bacon and toast for a princely sum, but they are no good. You will learn the proper way—
Oeufs sur-le-Plat
. Place melted butter in the bottom of three dishes, enough to cover, and then crack the eggs into a bowl and gently, very gently, pour them in. Do not break the yolk.”

Sabine took an egg, cracked it along the edge of the bowl and broke the yolk.

“This is too difficult.”

“Cooking is the marriage of science and poetry. Has Escoffier not told you that? He says that all the time, perhaps you have not listened carefully enough. Crack the egg gently on the counter first. The laws of science prevent clean break if you use the side of the bowl.”

“I always crack the egg on the bowl.”

“And you are a very bad cook. Since I am cooking, we will do this my way.”

Sabine cracked an egg on the surface of the counter and poured it gently into the bowl. The yolk remained intact.

“Science and poetry.”

“Or luck.”

“Luck has no place in the kitchen. Science. It is always science.”

One by one, Sabine cracked the brown eggs on the surface of the counter, opened them into a bowl and then gently, carefully, poured them into the earthenware dishes. Each yolk remained perfect—firm and fat.

As Sabine worked, the voices of the family gathering at the table could be heard. The heat of the day and that of the oven made the house feel oppressive. The adults were sniping at each other. The children were fussy.

“I wonder where that stupid girl is,” someone said.

“The crippled one?”

“Who else is left?”

“Probably at the docks. She looks like the kind who sells herself to sailors.”

“She certainly can't cook.”

Delphine was quite surprised that Sabine's face colored. Perhaps the girl was not as much like Sarah as she thought.

“The eggs are ready to be cooked, Madame.”

Sabine presented the three dishes to the old woman. The uncooked yolks sat high, were the perfect shade of marigold. They were obviously fresh.

“Pour a tablespoon of cream over each and cook. Then shave the truffles over them.”

“What about cheese?”

“The dish has no cheese.”

“But we have Gruyère. Enough to cover. It would impart a nutty taste that would work quite well.”

“Fine. Good. You're learning. Spoken like a chef. Bravo. Cheese. Bake until warm. Then truffle.”

Sabine poured the cream and grated the cheese, then gently placed the dishes in the oven to brown.

Eggs, cream, butter, cheese—the aroma quickly made its way into the dining room. The family became quiet.

Above their heads, the old man pushed his chair away from the writing table. The floorboards in the hallway creaked. When Escoffier's foot hit the top stair of the back stairwell, “Sabine!” he said. “How many times must I tell you it is an insult to fry eggs? I can smell the butter all over the house. Fried eggs are for a family meal from one member to the other. Food has etiquette—”

“I should get some wine from the cellar,” Sabine said. “Champagne? Or maybe a red.”

“Beaujolais,” Delphine said but the girl was already halfway down the stairs.

“Champagne is better,” she shouted.

“Of course.”

When Escoffier entered the room he stopped at the sight of Delphine lying there.

“The eggs are your doing?”

“They are my gift to you.”

“You should be in bed.”

“I should be immortal.”

“Madame, how many times must we discuss this?”

That odd alchemy of married love—passion, betrayal, fury, kindness, and companionship—lay there exposed between them. Sabine stood at the doorway watching.

The eggs would take a minute or two, any more and they would be ruined.

“It is impossible,” he said.

“It was never impossible to name something for the Emperor.”

“Madame Escoffier, that was different.”

“Dish after dish for him, for Germany, and now war again. You should have poisoned him when you had the chance.”

It was time to shave the truffles over the eggs. Sabine could smell that they were being overcooked.

“Beaujolais
and
champagne!”

Her arms were full, a small cask of wine and two bottles of champagne. She limped her way across the room. The two did not look at her. She washed her hands quickly, wiped them on her apron, and then opened the oven. The eggs were just set and the cheese nicely browning. She shaved the truffles over it all and placed them back in the warm oven until the bread finished baking. Just a minute or two.

“I am serving now.”

“Very good,” Escoffier said.

Escoffier tugged at his ear; took a deep breath. There was a sorrow in his eyes: a look of profound loss, the weight of it was remarkable.

Sabine could not bear to watch any longer and the eggs were just starting to turn from golden brown to the color of old wood. “The eggs, Monsieur.”

“Sabine. Serve,” Escoffier said.

She quickly placed the hot bread and the earthenware dishes onto a heavy silver tray and carried them into the dining room.

“From Madame,” she said. Germaine and Jeanne burst into tears and held each other as if they were sisters, not sisters-in-law. Sabine arranged the food on the sideboard quickly.

The door to the kitchen opened.

“Papa!”

“There is wine, also,” Escoffier said. He was holding the small cask that he quickly tapped and poured into a carafe, a white linen napkin draped over his arm as if he were the
sommelier.
“Please. Eat. Food must be served piping hot, that is the way the nose prefers it. If cold, then all is left up to the tongue and that is a very dull instrument indeed. Eat while you can still smell that it is delicious.”

“I'll get Madame,” Sabine said.

He caught her by the arm. “I called for the nurse to take her back to her room.”

“But she—”

“The eggs, Sabine. The eggs are growing cold. Serve.”

Sabine served the eggs, spooning them gently onto the plates. Escoffier poured the wine, as if he were again at The Savoy. Wiped the rim of each glass. “A fine vintage,” he said, lifting the glass to the light. “Last week, I believe.” And everyone laughed. “It is a very old joke, but I am a very old man.”