White Truffles in Winter (13 page)

“The results given out by the Propaganda Ministry early this morning show that
89
.
9
percent of German voters agreed that the offices of President and Chancellor should be joined into one. This endorsement gives Chancellor Hitler, who became a German citizen just four years ago, power unequaled since the days of Genghis Khan. It is interesting to note that the Ministry also reported
871
,
056
defective ballots, which they attribute to protestors attempting to sabotage ‘Germany's Golden Age.' ”

Escoffier turned off the radio, touched the wall. “Soon.”

By morning, Delphine had let go of dreaming. She had decided that all she required was the deep cool darkness of sleep. Dreams were too untrustworthy. They could turn quickly, without warning. She was no longer willing to accept their mercurial ways. There was no need. Her stillness allowed her to live between time. She was no longer a slave to it. She could be young or old. She could pass into the next world or stay in this one. With the taste of the langoustines still on her tongue, she could feel her husband's soft hand against her thigh and the tangle of their bodies, the heat of it.
Quick. Quick.
Dreams had become unnecessary.

T
HE
FOIE GRAS
AND THE JOLLY ROUND FIGURE OF M.
Heursel of the Maison Bruck, whose calling card announced that they were the makers of the finest
pâtés de foie gras de Strasbourg
in the world, arrived by motor car early the next morning along with a slab of larded pork and two geese that were, thankfully, quite dead. M. Heursel was also kind enough to bring six black truffles wrapped in brown paper that to Sabine were unimpressive as rocks.

“Le grand mystère!”

The stylish round man picked up a truffle and held it in his doughlike hands, offered it to Sabine as if it were a rare diamond.
“Voilà!”

Sabine took the truffle in her hand gingerly. Sniffed. Squinted. It had a strange piquant odor and looked like a dirty walnut. She held it away from herself as if it were a small dead mouse.

“What should I do with these?”

“Whatever you want.”

“These are a type of mushroom?”

M. Heursel was crestfallen. He puffed his chest again and said, “Mademoiselle, truffles are the great ancient mystery of the vegetable kingdom. They are said to be the children of thunder.”

Sabine frowned. “And so what does one cook thunderous children in? Butter?”

A look of panic passed over M. Heursel's well-fed face. “You are the cook?”

“I am the cook.”

“Is Monsieur Escoffier here?”

“Non.”

Sabine could see that the man wanted to pack the food back into his perfect wicker baskets and run back to Paris, back to the famed Maison Bruck where people understood how to enjoy the finest
pâtés de foie gras de Strasbourg
in the world, but it was too late. There was no graceful way to leave now and save face. He offered Sabine the truffles again, hopeful that she misunderstood what he was saying.

“These are from Périgord.”

“And I am from Paris.”

Sabine did not misunderstand. She just did not care.
How can I feed an entire household with six dirty mushrooms?

“Perhaps his son, Paul? We have dined together on many occasions. His lovely wife . . . ”

“Everyone is gone,” she said and yet the house was filled again with the voices of children and adults.

“I see.”

M. Heursel wiped a thin sheet of sweat from his shiny head with a white silk handkerchief, looked at his pocket watch. “Will Monsieur Escoffier return soon?”

“Non.”

Above their heads, the old man coughed. It was clearly Escoffier. Unmistakable. They both knew it. Sabine smiled.

“When Monsieur Escoffier arrives home, I will give him your card.”

“Is Madame in?”

Sabine held up the man's calling card. Waved it in the air. “I will tell them both that you called. They will be sorry to have missed you,” she said, hands on her hips.

“His assistant?”

“Dismissed.”

“The butler?”

“Gone.”

“The head housekeeper, then?”

“Only on Tuesdays now.”

“A nurse, perhaps?”

Sabine picked up a half-plucked chicken from the sink and shook it. “I am very busy, but I will tell everyone that you have left a bounty of gifts,” she said and handed him the empty wicker baskets and held open the back door so that he could easily take his leave. There was not even the offer of a single glass of wine.

“I see,” he said again.

Sabine didn't want another mouth to feed, not even for one meal, and if he stayed one more minute, lunch would have been expected. And that was impossible. The family—all the children, grandchildren, grandnieces and grandnephews—had returned to the house. She had been baking bread and cleaning chickens since dawn.

“I'm sure Monsieur Escoffier sends his profound gratitude,” she told the Frenchman whose wrinkled linen suit smelled of duck fat and garlic, and then locked the door behind him.

“Au revoir,”
she shouted out the window.
“Ciao!”

Monsieur Heursel turned back for a moment. He looked confused, and so she waved. It was a dismissive wave—more like a shooing away—but it was the best she could do. She didn't want to encourage the man. He did not wave back, but huffed rather loudly and then made his way through the garden and then out into the street, weaving back and forth, walking from one shaded area to another.

He must be from Provence,
she thought.
They hate the sun so much there that they all walk sideways, like crabs.

His motorcar started with a bang. He drove away in a cloud of exhaust.

Finally.

And yet, when Sabine turned back to the table, she regretted sending the man away so quickly.
What is to be done with all of this?
Geese, she understood. Rub with salt, cover with lard, and roast with potatoes. At what temperature she would roast the birds was a mystery, but she was quite sure that an hour would be long enough. An hour seemed like an eternity to wait for anything.

But to roast geese in the spring was unheard of.
Maybe in Provence,
she thought.
They do many odd things in the countryside.
But Monaco was the playground of the rich, of royalty, and with the warmth of February most began taking
la sieste
in the afternoon again.
To eat roast goose with the promise of summer on everyone's mind would be absurd.

And truffles. She had never eaten them nor could she understand why anyone would want to. They were so black it seemed as if you'd have to scrub forever to get them clean. She sliced one in half. It was black inside, too. It had a fine grain, like marble.
The provinces are filled with fools.
And while she had indeed heard of
foie gras
, and knew it was a delicacy, it looked disgusting. Huge. Pale. These particular lobes of fatted liver were as big as her foot, at least two pounds. And Sabine was supposed to touch them.
Ridiculous.

She knocked on Escoffier's door. Silence. Then knocked again.

“I can hear you breathing.”

“I am working.”

“I will feed it to the cats.”

Sabine could hear the old man's chair slide away from the desk, hear the floorboards of his room creak. Escoffier slowly opened the door. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night. His eyes were red-rimmed and dull.

“You are an impossible woman.”

“It is true.”

Soon, under Escoffier's watchful eye, Sabine was chilling her hands in ice water, so she could handle the liver. It made her wish she'd fed it to the cats after all.

“
Foie gras
is sensitive to heat,” he told her. “It must be kept at a constant temperature of about three degrees Celsius.”

Her fingers were certainly
3
°. They were white, numb and shriveled. “I hope this is worth the suffering of the cook.”

“As a chef, it is your job to suffer.”

Escoffier leaned against the counter as if trying to keep his balance. He coughed into his handkerchief.
More blood,
she thought and looked at him closely. His skin was gray. His hands shook. He was obviously unwell. He quickly stuffed the handkerchief into his coat pocket. He washed his hands in scalding hot water, then cold.

“Ready?” he said.

“Non.”

“Good.”

The lobes were packed in ice. Escoffier ran his fingers over the surface with a series of quick taps. And then gently pressed the liver, holding it with his thumb underneath and four fingers on top.

“Now, see how I touch? If it is firm, it has too high a fat content and it will shrink when you cook it. If it is spongy, it has too little fat and it will burn. It must have the appropriate amount of give when you touch the flesh.” He tapped it quickly again. “This is perfect. See how there is a slight imprint of my thumb? Now you.”

Sabine's fingers were so cold that she could barely feel anything. She tapped the liver once, with her thumb. “Perfect.”

Escoffier frowned. It was clear why people called him “Papa,” he had her father's look, a disappointed look that Sabine knew well. He took her hand in his and tapped her fingers against the liver repeatedly.

“Now. Do you now understand what texture we are looking for?”

“No.”

“Then you are not trying.”

“That is true.”

“Sabine . . . ”

“Why did you not soak your own hands in ice?”

“I am Escoffier.”

Apparently, that was all the explanation that was needed.

Sabine washed her hands repeatedly in hot water, rubbed them until the circulation returned to her fingertips, until any trace of the liver was gone. And then she washed them some more.

“If you are quite through—”

She wiped them on her starched white apron. Escoffier cocked an eyebrow and said, “That is unsanitary. You are a professional. Act like one. Clean towel always. Now wash again.”

And so she did. The old man joined her, filling the kitchen again with the scent of olive oil soap and lavender. When they were finished, “Let me see,” he said and inspected her hands closely.

“What are you looking for?”

“Some suggestion that you work for a living. Your hands are perfect. Your nails are meticulously manicured. No one trusts a cook with beautiful hands.

“Now, what do we do next?” he said.

“I boil the liver, as you have attempted to boil my hands, to make certain that it is cooked?”

Escoffier closed his eyes. Tapped the side of his nose. He seemed to be trying to compose himself.

“
Foie gras d'oie
is the liver of the goose and very fatty, more so than the duck. I have even made ice cream from it. You do not boil it. That would render the fat and make it tough.”

“Ice cream?”

“It was not green as you are right now and thereby appetizing to all.”

Escoffier lifted the large liver from the ice and placed it on the cutting board. Examined it closely. Sniffed it.

“Very good. This has very few veins. Most will be kept so that it retains its shape. A small knife, Sabine?”

Sabine pulled a paring knife from the block. It was the only sharp one left.

“Now,” he said. “Which way do veins run through the liver? Look closely. Can you tell? It is important that large veins be removed or the remaining blood will discolor the
foie gras
when it's cooked.”

He gently tapped the lobes of liver. “Think of this as if it were your own organ.”

“I'd rather not.”

“Then think of it as mine. Now, which way do the veins run?”

Escoffier blotted the liver with a clean towel. There were a few bits of white membrane clinging to the outside. He peeled them away gently and then trimmed a few green spots. He pulled the lobes apart with his hands and offered them to Sabine.

“See? A vein connects the two. Take the knife and cut it.”

Sabine held her breath and sliced the vein quickly.

“Good. Now pull it out. Slowly, gently, an even motion.”

“Out?”

“Out.”

“I am sure you could do this much better than me.”

“Pull.”

Sabine, squeamish, pulled the vein very slowly.

“Does it help to imagine that it is my liver you are dismantling?”

“It does, yes.”

“Good.”

He laughed for the first time that she could remember. The house was so quiet that his laughter rang through the room, slid under the door, pealed. She imagined the nurses thought it scandalous to laugh at such a sad time, with Madame so gravely ill, and so she laughed, too.

Escoffier opened his cookbook to
foie gras
cooked in brioche. “Read,” he said. “Then cook.” He was suddenly sweating but the room was cold. His hands began to shake again.

“And the geese?” she said.

“Confit. First, cure with one-quarter cup of sea salt for each pound of meat.” He took a pen from his pocket and began to write on the inside cover of the cookbook. Suddenly he coughed, long and hard. Sabine poured him a glass of rose hip tea that she had set out in the windowsill to steep. He drank, cleared his throat, and started to write again.

“To cure the goose, you must add salt, cumin, coriander, cinnamon, allspice, clove, ginger, nutmeg, bay leaf—make sure it's Turkish—thyme, and garlic. After two days, take it to the Grand and ask for—”

“Bobo?”

“How do you know Bobo?”

“Madame told me—”

“That he thinks he is a rogue?”

“Yes.”

“Of course she did,” he laughed. “Madame cannot keep a secret, that is why she is a poet. The truth is, Bobo never leaves his kitchen. He does not even come out to greet the ladies. Let us not hold that against him. Tell him to simmer this in duck fat.”