White Truffles in Winter (28 page)

He was at work again. Happy.

Escoffier took the bones of the fish and the head, a bit of minced onion, leek and then thyme, and added to it a glass of white wine and a pint of water.

Sarah came into the kitchen. “How long?”

“Go away.”

He tossed a handful of pink peppercorns into the boiling fumet, and then set it to simmer.
Cream for the sauce,
he thought, but was not sure what else.
The reserved fumet enriched with butter, of course. More wine? Champagne? Anchovies
? Each time he found a possible ingredient, he imagined it combined in every possible way; he could taste it without tasting a thing. And with each ingredient, he thought of the Sarah of the stage, not the woman in the next room. The Divine Sarah with her pink lips, pink cheeks, the opulent river of copper hair, and the impossible silver tone, like a flute, of her voice.

Slightly less than half an hour had passed when Escoffier arrived in the dining room with a platter of four perfect pink fillets in a delicate sauce of cream and onion-and-black currant jam.

“For you, madame.”

“C'est très magnifique.”

“It is magnificent—as you are,” he said and served her as if she were dining at The Savoy. He plated the fish and then draped sauce over it. He stood and waited for her to taste it.

“It is as magnificent as the Divine Sarah is,” she said. “Rosine Bernardt,
veuve Damala,
is another matter.”

She knew him so well.

“Eat,” he said.

“And if I eat, tomorrow we will make the
cassoulet
? Together?”

“Together.”

“And that is a lie, of course.”

“A tender one.”

“Are you happy?”

“I am.”

“And yet?”

“If only you were not Sarah. Just Rosine. How lovely our lives could be.”

“There's never been a lie told so sweetly before.”

“Sarah—”

“Here I am known as
Veuve Damala.”

“But this is not the world we live in.”

“It is tonight.”

And so she took his hand in hers and kissed it gently. “I have always loved you, Cook,” she said. “And I will love you until the very day that I die.”

Chef,
he thought,
not “Cook.”

The Complete Escoffier: A Memoir in Meals

MIGNONETTES D'AGNEAU SAINT-ALLIANCE

The Circles of Peace

I have given this a great deal of thought and I now believe that Saint Fortunat should depose Saint Laurent from his position as the patron saint of butchers, cooks in general and the rôtisseur in particular, although I am not sure whom to speak to about this.

Saint Laurent has always been an imposter in the representation of gourmandise for he often was given to fasting and his only culinary experience was that he was broiled to death over a rather large grill. There is no record of his ever cooking anything. Although, according to Saint Ambrose, he apparently did tell his torturers, “This side is done. Turn me over and have a bite.” Perhaps that is why he is also the patron saint of comedians.

The feast day of Saint Laurent is August
10
and is always celebrated with cold cuts—how unimaginative. Impossible, in fact. There must be a better representation of cooks in heaven because while I have grilled many types of meat on what the Americans call the “barbecue,” including the weenie that was made famous in France after the Great War, I would not want to pray to a weenie for culinary intervention.

Saint Fortunat, however, has always done his very best for me, and despite the fact that he is now the patron saint of male chefs exclusively, I am sure he would gladly intervene for the ladies who brave this profession. He did, after all, have many close friendships with females, the nature of which church writings define as “chaste, pious, delicate friendships that included the type of charming child's play usually marking feminine friendship.”

I have no idea what the church means exactly by that but Fortunat was known to deliver baskets of exotic foods to women with personal poems for their eyes only—and we all know where that sort of behavior leads.

While known for temperance and stability, he was also as competitive as any modern chef. When the sisters of the convent would deliver their milk and eggs they would sometimes include dainty dishes and savory meats artistically arranged on plates they had actually made themselves from clay. Not to be outdone, he would amaze them with flowers, filling an entire room with lavender and roses, or delicate glazed chestnuts presented in a sugar basket that he had woven to look like fine Belgian lace. And he was totally blind. I know many sighted men who could not do the same. If this is not a miracle, I am not sure what is.

I also believe it is fair to say that Saint Fortunat created the basis for the modern menu. Although he could not see, he was a great wanderer who traveled through Italy and France in search of fine food and drink. He often paid for his supper with poetry that he wrote in honor of the meal, praising each dish. Think of it. If a menu is not poetry what is it, then?

His many excellent poems extolling the virtues of gastronomy, although unfortunately all in Latin, have been transcribed by Monsieur Gringoire, the secretary of
La Ligue des Gourmands
, an organization of the greatest living French chefs in London, which I created and of which I have served as president. And so, being founder and past president, I have announced that upon Saint Fortunat's feast day, the
Ligue des Gourmands
will feast forever more.

There is nothing noble in hunger. During the Great War, twice a week everyone was forced to give up meat and potatoes. To buy meat or chicken, you had to have a coupon. And, perhaps most crushing of all, the government set the price of fish so high that few could afford it and so my supplier would stock very little.

Of course, all adversity presents opportunity.

Venison was exempt, as were eggs, fish, giblets, and bacon. However, the only deer that we could procure was quite old. No matter. With the help of Saint Fortunat and a
daube à la Provençale
featuring a sauce made from anchovy, garlic, capers and a touch of tomato, we served the old meat on a bed of noodles with a chestnut puree. It made for a charming stew. And since we needed at least thirty to forty salmon a week to remain open, we would travel to Scotland and Ireland many times a week, making friends with the fishermen there and buying their catch for a fraction of what it would have been through the distributor. Opportunity was everywhere.

So you see, with the eyes of Saint Fortunat upon you, you can master all setbacks. There was no butter and so I cooked in cocoa butter. There was no fish to be had and so we made do with “fish” of our own creation: finely minced chicken patties dipped in egg and rolled in breadcrumbs. No one knew the difference and so we charged as if they were the real thing. We had no choice. It was our patriotic duty to create a world where there was not a war going on, because to dine at the Carlton made people quite happy and made them feel quite normal. Even when the bombs were crashing all around the city and the sky threatened to become dark with the Zeppelin airships the Carlton could still serve sole on a bed of macaroni
à la Napolitaine
, as if the Germans did not even exist. And so the people came and opened their hearts to us and, luckily, their purses, too.

To feast is to live. Saint Fortunat
knew that to be true. And every single time I have invoked him in prayer, he has blessed me with a great success.

Armistice Day. November 11, 1918. 1 p.m. The terrible nightmare was over and I suddenly had 712 reserved for dinner service at the Carlton. Rationing had ravaged my kitchen. I only had six legs of lamb, two small veal haunches, fifteen kilograms of fresh pork and ten chickens. By most standards, this was not enough for a meal for so many but there was such joy in the streets that I could not bear to turn anyone away.

The terrible years were over. Everyone was hungry.

I knew from the Prussian War that if a horse is properly seasoned it can make a fine meal. Along with the limited meat that I had, which I minced together, I had twenty kilograms of canned pâté de foie gras, some minced truffles, ten kilograms of bread mixed with sterilized cream and a few moments to run to the cathedral and light a candle in honor of Saint Fortunat.

Never lose your head, even when faced with great difficulty—that must be the motto of every
chef de cuisine
. I prayed to the saint and I could feel him listening to me. On the way back to my kitchen I created in my mind a dish of small noisettes and called it “
Mignonettes d'agneau Sainte-Alliance,
” which, despite the fact that it was actually named after a concept offered by Brillat-Savarin in his
Physiology of Taste
as a way to honor the jewels of haute cuisine—foie gras, ortolans and truffle—it was translated by my manager as “Mignonettes of Lamb of the Holy Alliance,”
and suggested to be my brilliant metaphor regarding peace.

Who am I to argue?

And was the dish lamb? It was lamb enough. That is all that can be said.

Even though we were short on supplies, to celebrate peace all one needs to do is to name a few dishes for Allies, such as “Canadian Potatoes” and “Englishwoman's Peas,” and serve for the finale something that appeals to the sentimental heart as did my “Bombes of Conviviality” and “Symbols of Peace.” Everyone is happy because the war is over and though they don't speak the French language and only recognize a few words, such as “peace” and “English,” food always sounds better in French.

This meal eventually brought me great acclaim. The next year, on the anniversary of the day that peace was signed, Mr. Poincaré, President of the French Republic, held a reception in London and much to my surprise presented me with the famed
Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur
. The award was first given by Napoléon Bonaparte in recognition of excellence and achievement. This memory is engraved on my heart and it is all because of Saint Fortunat and a blessed sleight of hand.

Unfortunately, our dear Saint Fortunat shows us by example that how one speaks of food is more important than what is on the plate. This is incorrect, and perhaps is at the core of why the Vatican will not assign him the role of our patron saint.

Words, you see, are always inadequate.

The moment when you find your baby son sleeping on the kitchen floor, and you pick him up and carry him back to his own bed, and pull the soft worn wool blanket around his neck so that he does not grow cold, does not suffer, and he wakes and says, “God is hiding in my room,” and you say, sadly, “He is hiding everywhere” and kiss your small son and taste the salt of his tears—a moment like this cannot be explained because you cannot be certain that these words which engage you will engage someone else in the same way. Even many years later when you find yourself standing by your son's grave, there are no words that can describe that moment, the depth of it.

But a sauce can reflect that moment exactly. Nothing speaks more accurately to the complexity of life than food. Who has not had, let us say, a béarnaise, the child of hollandaise, and has not come away from the taste of it feeling overwhelmed?

At first, it fills the mouth with the softness of butter and then the richness of egg, and before it becomes too rich or too comfortable, the moment shifts and begins to ground itself in darkness with the root of a shallot and the hint of crushed peppercorn. But then, the taste deepens. The memory of rebirth is made manifest with the sacred chervil, sweet and grassy with a note of licorice, whose spring scent is so like myrrh that it recalls the gift of the Wise Men and the holy birth whenever it is tasted. And then, of course, the “King of Herbs,” tarragon with its gentle licorice, reminds us not to forget that miracles are possible. And just when we think we understand what we are experiencing, the taste turns again on the tongue, and finishes with shrill vinegar followed by a reduction of wine so that the acid tempers the sauce but never dominates. And, finally, in your mouth, you have the entire experience of father and child that you tried to put into words—from the fleeting comfort to the moment where you finally realize that life is beyond your control and everything needs balance, even faith.

A menu is the orchestration of that experience on a large scale—a world view, as it were.

If I were to create a menu in honor of spring, each and every dish would be some level of green, even the tablecloths would be replaced by soft new grass. To me, the spring is a soft gentle rebirth; it fills the heart with freshness. Even if the diner does not like lima beans, it matters not. A puree of lima beans cannot help but remind one of the fleeting nature of the season.

Unfortunately, and I believe this is because of the reign of Saint Laurent as our patron, many chefs have forgotten the power of a menu. I recently was the guest of honor at a very large dinner in America where they served ice in the water and no wine at supper. The menu was just bits and pieces of things to eat. And so when I was asked to address the group, I reminded them that they needed to do their best to preserve the high standards of French cuisine and not call themselves “cooks” but “
cuisiniers
.”

“A
cuisinier
,” I said, “is a man with professional competence, personal initiative and experienced in his craft: a cook is a man who, too often, has only one tool, a can opener.”