White Truffles in Winter (18 page)

T
HE INGREDIENTS WERE LAID OUT ON THE COBALT-TILED
countertop. Set in relief against the sunflower yellow walls, the tableau was an odd kitchen still life—a Vermeer, perhaps—the pink-skinned veal shin bones, skeletons from laying hens still bearing their heads, tiny peeled carrots, young pearl leeks, a soft stalk of old celery, white onions studded with fat cloves, a sprig of thyme, a rather attentive handful of parsley and a single fresh bay leaf.

“We are making stock?”

“
Oui.
Of course. Papa mentioned there was none at the house.”

The kitchen was empty except for a single chair. Sabine sat. Took off her red shoes. Obviously, there was no need for them now.

“I thought we were having supper.”

The
pot-au-feu
gently simmered on the stovetop. Rich roasted meats, the sweet air of caramelized cabbage, the dark note of garlic—she was so hungry, it made her ache. The horseradish sauce was plated in a silver bowl—she put her finger in it, tasted it and proclaimed, “More horseradish and a pinch more salt.”

Bobo frowned, but tasted it. She was, unfortunately, correct. She grated the root and added the salt.

Upstairs on the landing the windows were open slightly. The night air was cool and fragrant—the salt of the ocean mixed with the perfume of lavender growing in the crooks and crevices of the cliff below. In the distance, music from the Grand Hôtel could be heard. The orchestra was playing waltz after waltz while the lonely moon shone on the small round table elegantly set with crystal and silver. The candles were lit. Wax dripped onto the gray linen. The potted purple and green cabbages were gathering dust.

It was all gathering dust.

“Soon,” Bobo said and handed Sabine a clean chef's coat. “You may need to roll up the sleeves.”

She did, but it didn't help. The coat itself hung down to her knees. Barefoot, she looked like a lost child.

“Your hair,” he said and made a winding motion, which Sabine took to mean that he wanted her to wind it into a bun on the top of her head.

“No pins.”

“May I?”

“No” was the answer, she had spent a very long time curling it so that it looked just so.

“I won't hurt you,” he said and gathered Sabine's long red hair and twisted it gently as if it were a bit of frayed rope and then tied it in a knot on the top of her head. “It will stay.” The knot tipped to one side.

“I look even more lopsided.”

“That is true. But you cannot cook with that hair everywhere.”

That is true? Cook?

Things were not going the way Sabine had hoped. “Madame said that you were quite odd but I now have decided that you are not odd at all, but fearless in your stupidity.”

He handed her a large chef's knife.

“Amazingly fearless in your stupidity,” she said.

“Clean the veal from the shins and then break the bones into small pieces, as small as possible.”

Sabine put the knife down and began to undo the knot of her hair.

“Your hair,” he said.

“I look ridiculous.”

“That is because you are not working. A chef must always work.”

He re-tied the hair knot, and then removed his best suit coat, rolled up his sleeves and took another chef's coat from its hook. He filled a large pot with cold water.

“What are you waiting for?” he said gently, “Wash your hands. Then hurry with that bone.”

“We really are cooking?”

“Not until you wash your hands.”

He had that same look that Escoffier always had when it came to cooking—a “mad-eyed twinge” is how Sabine thought of it. She knew that if she wanted to eat it was clear that stock had to be made first. Sabine suddenly thought of Madame Escoffier.
Papa must have driven her insane.
She washed her hands and sliced the tender pink meat away from the bone. It was soft. It didn't smell like flesh at all but grass and cream.

“It's very good veal, no?” he asked.

“It will be overwhelmed.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's too mild for stock.”

“It is veal,” he said. “It is fine.”

“Too mild.”

“It is veal stock.”

“It is brown veal stock. The type of veal used is important.”

“I am a student of Escoffier and
directeur de cuisine
—”

“I am very pleased for you but a stock this light can have no soul.”

“It is meant to be quite neutral in taste.”

“Then why are we making it?”

“You cannot poach quail without it.”

“Are we planning to poach quail?”

“That is not the point. No kitchen is complete without veal stock.”

“Do you have veal stock in this kitchen? Does your neighbor?”

“It is the foundation of all sauces. It adds a complexity. Deliciousness. Has Escoffier not told you of this theory of five tastes? A Japanese chemist proved it, and called it ‘umami,' which means deliciousness.”

“If the stock is neutral, then it is a good deal of work for nothing because something neutral does not taste delicious. It merely tastes neutral.”

“But the stock brings out the savoriness in food.”

“Unless it is magic that makes no sense.”

“It is based on Brillat-Savarin's concept of
osmazome
, but Escoffier took that idea and refined it. It is a great discovery.”

“It makes no sense.”

“Escoffier says it is so.”

“I did not take you for a sheep, following blindly, but I obviously was mistaken.”

Still, Sabine began to chop the bones, splintering them, not cutting. Shards flew.

Bobo took the knife from her. “Do you not know how to use a knife?”

“It is not sharp enough.”

“Pay attention.”

He held the knife firmly and chopped the bones into small pieces. The knife was indeed dull, his knuckles were white from leaning on them, but he had the strength and skill to overcome it. “We are looking to make the stock as gelatinous as possible, so the marrow must be exposed but the bones cannot be splintered.”

“I sincerely thought we were having dinner.”

“Please tie the celery around the leeks.”

She looked at the celery and then at Bobo.
“Non.”

“The age of the celery won't harm the broth. Veal stock is never as clear as beef stock, so don't worry if this is not as pristine as other stocks you have made.”

“Please listen. I will not tie the celery around the leeks, nor will I chop it, nor will I put it into a pan.”

“There is absolutely nothing to worry about. We will remove the celery later. It will just infuse the stock with a subtle undertone.”

“Good night,” she said and unbuttoned the chef's coat.

“You are taking the freshness of this celery to an extreme degree, which I admire but—”

She handed him the coat. “I am leaving.”

“Why? The celery—”

“Does not matter to anyone except you. I have had only three hours sleep a night every day this week. And tomorrow, despite the fact that it is Monday and the only day I am to have to myself all week, I will only have three more because both Madame and Monsieur are dying and I am the only person, except for an insolent nurse and an ignorant housekeeper, who is keeping the household running. And, by the end of the week, La Villa Fernand will once again be filled with hungry, screaming, arguing, confused members of an enormous heartbroken family who will expect me to be everywhere at once. I do not want to cook. I came to eat.”

The two stood in the kitchen, not knowing what to say, watching each other, wary, surprised that they were quietly exposed in ways they did not plan for. The sound of the orchestra at the Grand, a waltz, someone else's waltz, filled the silence.

“Why do you stay at La Villa Fernand?”

The question surprised her. She could leave; it was true. She had thought of leaving. Her father would be angry, but he was always angry so it mattered not. But somehow, she couldn't. “I don't know. No place else to go, perhaps.”

“Or you are fond of them.”

“They do not pay me very well.”

“Then you are fond of them. As you are of me.”

“You are very arrogant.”

“Yes. And the kitchen of La Villa Fernand
needs veal broth, so what will you do?”

Sabine, too weary to stand any longer, sat down on the chair and began to put her shoes back on.

“You can't leave now,” he said.

“I can. I am,” she said but did not move.

“Why?”

“Why? You have no idea, do you? Perhaps this is the reason why you are not unattractive, and yet old and not married.”

“I am old?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't notice.”

“That's because you are always cooking. Let me see your hands.”

He held out his hands for her as a young child would. Sabine examined them. “Look how red and raw they are.” She held them to her lips. For a moment he thought she would kiss them, and she knew that, but she merely gave them a sniff. “Onions, garlic, leeks.”

“And yours?”

She offered them to him. “The same.”

He took her hands in his and smiled. Then kissed them—slowly, gently—they were not chef's hands at all. He kissed them for so long, she began to think that he hoped to make her shy, but he could not. She was merely bemused.

“Frankly, I am not very surprised that you have no wife.”

“Perhaps I had a wife and she ran away.”

“That would be likely. All you speak of is food.”

She slipped her hands away from him and went to undo the knot of her hair, but he caught her wrist. “And you? Do you not dream of food?”

“Non,”
she said and it was true but suddenly felt like a lie.

“Then I have overstepped,” he said. “Forgive me.”

He kissed her hand once more, this time as one would a maiden aunt's, and then let it fall.

She could see that he was tired, too. She imagined his feet hurt; hers did. All that standing. The crook of her back was always sore. Her short leg throbbed so she often couldn't sleep, even when she had the time to. She noticed that Madame Escoffier was right; he had the eyes of a gypsy. There were gypsies everywhere in Monte Carlo these days. Refugees.
If the Germans had their way,
they'd all be dead. Or soon will be.

“There is an entire world outside of this kitchen.”

“And it is an awful place. When we cook, we know perfection: we can touch it; we can create it. We are like gods. How can you not dream of your own personal heaven?”

The orchestra at the Grand was playing a waltz from Chopin; it made her feel as if they were in an American movie; the world went black and white around them. A slight smile crossed his face like a bit of smoke. She imagined that he wanted to be back at the Grand Hôtel, in that kitchen filled with all that is perfect, and in perfect order, that heaven. Not here with her in the dust. She suddenly felt very sorry for Madame Escoffier.

“Is it lonely in your heaven?” she asked.

“Escoffier says it lacks a certain respectability.”

“And what do you say?”

“There are women, but . . . ”

“But.”

The distant orchestra went silent.

“I should go.”

The simmering
pot-au-feu
, the fresh baked bread with olives and rosemary, the salt air of the ocean tinged with the scent of lavender from the garden—all spoke of such promise. They searched each other's faces for lies, for truth, for some glimmer, a spark.

“Stay.”

“You will break my heart.”

“And you will break mine. That is the human condition, as is forgiveness.”

And then he kissed her, gently, quietly.

Sabine put the chef's coat back on and wrapped the limp celery around the young leeks. Bobo placed the veal bones in a deep pot to boil.

“Roast them first,” she said.

“But Escoffier—”

“Is not here. If you roast them they will bring out a caramelized flavor. Do not be a sheep.”

Sabine took the pot from his hands; turned up the oven and patted the bones dry.

“I thought you didn't know how to make stock.”

“I know how to make it the way my grandmother did. Housewife cooking is very good.”

She rubbed olive oil on the bones, meat, carrots, leeks and onions. Put them in a large roasting pan. Placed it in the oven.

“They will burn.”

“They will brown.”

“It will be too forward a taste.”

“It will have taste. Once they're roasted, we cover with cold water and then simmer. It will be fine. Escoffier will have his stock.”

“He's working on a new dish, isn't he? I saw him today; he had that look he gets. That distracted faraway look.”