White Truffles in Winter (19 page)

Sabine had no idea if this was true or not, but the thought pleased her greatly and her answer would have been the same in any case.

“Yes. He is working on a dish for Madame. And you can help. He will need lobster. And Russian caviar. And truffles from Italy—they are very good; I had no idea. I'm sure you can get this all from the hotel.”

“And why do I believe that you are suddenly crafting this fiction?”

“It was your suggestion, not mine.”

“Very true. Well, then. What do you think of
foie gras
? It is his Holy Trinity, after all. Truffles, caviar and
foie gras
.”

“I am very unsure about it. He has made ice cream of
foie gras
. Did you know that?”

“If one could escape the color, the fat would provide an interesting—”

“What is wrong with you men? No. It would not. Goose liver is the liver of the goose. It is not ice cream.”

“But with wild black currant to flavor. The tartness, that nearly lemon-like edge to the fruit could provide a balance to the richness of the
foie gras
. I think it would be wonderful.”

“Wild strawberries or Belgian chocolate for a sweet after a meal. Not liver. Never liver. Please, do not encourage the making of liver ice cream.”

“Very well, mademoiselle. And what else is on your shopping list for Papa?”

“Plenty of champagne. And Lucky Strikes.”

“Lucky Strikes? Papa does not smoke.”

“They are needed.”

“He is trying to make a stew of Lucky Strikes?”

“I cannot say for sure. These artists are secretive. However, it is safe to assume that if one can make ice cream from liver, tobacco could go very well with a saddle of venison. Or, perhaps, they could be added to the grapevines to smoke sturgeon. In any case, we will need plenty of cartons of Lucky Strike. As you know, Papa is a great experimenter.”

“Lucky Strike is the brand you smoke?”

“
Oui.
It is a happy coincidence.”

She moved away from him, took the lid off the casserole that held the
pot-au-feu. Marrow, ribs, bread and wine.
“It is time to eat. How long does the veal stock need to simmer once the bones have been browned?”

“Seven to eight hours.”

She checked her wristwatch. “About two a.m. Just in time for Papa's nightcap.”

“It is, as you say, a happy coincidence.”

And then he kissed her and she him.

“You are very beautiful.”

“I know.”

And so as the veal bones turned from pale to deep caramel brown, the wax from the candles on the table at the top of the stairs melted completely, covering the bases of the silver candlesticks and solidifying into the gray linen tablecloth. They snapped and spit alone, and finally extinguished themselves. The cabbages wilted. Bobo laid out an old lamb's wool blanket on the kitchen floor. It was cream, not gray, but it was soft to sit on. After all, the bones in the oven had to be watched so they did not burn. Instead of the fine china, crystal and silver that he had borrowed from the hotel, he set the blanket with forks and knives that did not match, two coffee cups for wine and the least-chipped plates that he could find.

“I'll plate.”

For her, he placed a thin slice of both the brisket and the chicken breast next to a slight strip of cabbage, a single potato and the smallest turnip Sabine had ever seen. On his plate, there were several ribs, sausage, chicken legs and thighs and a heaping mound of cabbage and potatoes. She took both plates from him and emptied them back into the casserole and did not plate the
pot-au-feu
again. Instead, she set the entire dish on an iron trivet and placed it in the center of the blanket. He poured the wine. She turned off the lights. The flames in the oven cast the room in blue; it was like dining in the clear azure sky of a lonely heaven. They were still wearing the starched white chef coats. She picked up a marrowbone with her fingers. He ripped the heel from the bread.

“Brillat-Savarin said tell me what you eat and I will tell you who you are.”

Bobo took the bone from her and spread the marrow onto the warm bread. The weight of its fat, the earth of it, its rich unctuous mushroom earth, melted slightly and mixed with the rosemary and olives that he'd baked into the baguette.

He held it out to her, that first taste, although he knew what it would exactly taste like just by looking at it.

When she put it in her mouth, the richness of the marrow made her laugh with pleasure. She undid the knot of her red hair; it unraveled slowly. To Bobo the blue of her eyes was as blue as the sky to birds. It was all he could see, and all he needed to see. She then fed the marrow to him and kissed the crumbs from his lips.

Chicken legs, beef ribs—they ate the food with their fingers, dipping into the horseradish sauce, feeding each other greedily. Laughing. They rolled leaves of cabbages and chewed on them like monkeys. They ate the golden potatoes as if they were apples. By the time they returned to the making of stock, and took the roasted veal bones from the stove and put them into the pot and filled it with enough cold water so that it could slowly simmer, their own legs no longer ached, their feet felt as if they could stand the weight of their bones for yet another day and they tasted of garlic and wine.

“Thank you, chef,” he said.

“Thank you, chef.”

She opened his cheese larder and took out a wedge of runny Camembert, which she covered with a handful of white raspberries that he had draining in a colander by the sink. He opened a bottle of port.

The dishes could wait. They sat on the back stairs of the tall thin house and looked over the lights of the steep city of Monte Carlo and out into the endless sea. The air was cool, the cheese and raspberries were rich and tart; the port was unfathomably complex with wave and wave of spiced cherries, burnt caramel and wild honey.

“The darkness feels so blue, it is as if I am flying,” he said and put his arm around her.

“You talk too much,” she said and kissed him.

The next day, shipments from Mr. Boots began to arrive again at La Villa Fernand. Inside the boxes there were wild strawberries, chocolate, oysters, champagne and a package of Lucky Strikes.

“How do you know Bobo?” she asked Escoffier.

“He was left on my doorstep when he was a boy. I put him to work, of course.”

“What an interesting doorstep you must have had.”

The Complete Escoffier: A Memoir in Meals

FILETS DE SOLES RACHEL

It is not a simple task to name a dish for someone. It is an art that combines the telling of impossible truths and the chemistry of memory that only cuisine can provide. Some dishes expose the chef's inner feelings for the recipient and that is not always desirable. Some dishes fall short of the profound love that a chef feels and that is insulting. Some dishes are merely named after people because a chef once made it for them—if they liked it or not it is no matter. Some are named as a way to make money, and that is all. This can be a very sound business practice. And some are purely born of convenience—this often is the best dish of all.

For example, if your brother-in-law is an expert fisherman and gives you more sole than you can sell each week, then you should create a dish such as
Filets de Soles Rachel
. Named after the well-known Swiss-born tragedienne, this dish has been a remarkable success, a dish that will stand the test of time. It is the most simple of preparations. Place one tablespoon of fish forcemeat—a combination of raw chopped fish, herbs and stale bread mixed with cream and egg—and four slices of truffles on a fillet. Fold. Poach. Drape with white wine sauce. Garnish with one tablespoon each of finely chopped truffles and asparagus tips. Serve.

Mademoiselle Rachel has such a triumphant story. She came from being a child singing in the streets of Paris to being the Divine Sarah of her day. She was heroic and so a waiter can expound upon her story so elegantly, plates will fly out the kitchen.

This is crucial. No matter how a plate came to be named, the end result is that it must sell.

This is why there are hundreds of dishes named after Sarah Bernhardt. In fact, if you add pureed foie gras to the Rachel then you have Filets de Soles Sarah Bernhardt, a convenience which, on a slow night, allows the waiter to paint a long and poetic story about the two actresses and their mutual love of sole and how that created a bond between them. This, of course, is not true. It is unclear if they ever met. No matter. You must do what you need to do. Sole is not a fish that keeps well.

Impossible stories—they are the key to all good restaurants.

“How is the sole tonight?”

“Glorious as Mademoiselle Rachel herself was. Divine as Bernhardt. Just taken from the last boat moments ago.”

It could be frozen; it makes no difference. The diner will think it fresh, glorious. He pays for the story. If the story is told well, with imagination and conviction and the right amount of ego and embroidery, then it is true enough. And something that is true enough is all anyone can ever ask for.

When naming a dish after someone your goal should be to create an opportunity for a story that would fill the American showman Phineas Barnum with professional envy. He was an unparalleled promoter, unrepentant liar and public dreamer—a man with a chef's heart.

However, one must understand that there are serious considerations in this grave undertaking.

First, not everyone is pleased by having a dish named after them. Carpaccio was given the name after the painter Vittore Carpaccio, because of a striking similarity of the color of the thinly sliced raw beef to the red paint he was known for. By the time the dish was named he was dead, so it made no difference.

On the other hand, Crêpes Suzette was actually an accident, and then an international incident. Its creation is claimed by a then-fourteen-year-old assistant waiter, Henri Charpentier, who was preparing a dessert for King Edward, who at the time was the Prince of Wales, and his companion du jour, Suzette. The waiter wrote in his memoir,
Life à la Henri
, “It was quite by accident as I worked in front of a chafing dish that the cordials caught fire. I thought it was ruined. The Prince and his friends were waiting. How could I begin all over? I tasted it. It was, I thought, the most delicious melody of sweet flavors I had ever tasted . . . ”

Nonsense.

He then claims that he at that very moment decided to name the dish after the Prince, which given the feminine nature of crêpes would have been indiscreet, at best. The boy would have been fired on the spot. But he goes on to turn the story in his favor.

“ ‘Will you,' said His Majesty, ‘change it to
Crêpes Suzette'
? Thus was born and baptized this confection, one taste of which, I really believe, would reform a cannibal into a civilized gentleman. The next day I received a present from the Prince, a jeweled ring, a panama hat and a cane.”

It is a very nice story, is it not? I especially like the promise that it will “reform a cannibal into a civilized gentleman.” Such flourish. Can you not hear this story being told and retold by waiters all across the world? Still, I doubt it is true. The incident happened in 1895 at Café de Paris, right here in Monte Carlo. I know from experience that it is not the type of establishment where an assistant waiter serves a prince.

It makes no matter. This dish will probably not outlive Suzette or me.

Ingredients are always crucial. While Dear Bertie loved the crêpes, his association with such a feminine creation would have been inappropriate. You can also go wrong if your ingredients are too humble. For example, King George V loved the American Philadelphia brand cream cheese, but you cannot create a dish of cream cheese in honor of a king. It would be rude. So change the name. Say the cheese came from a remote island off the coast of Iceland—no one travels there or cares to. It will make it seem quite exotic.

You would be surprised at how many names you can give such a lowly ingredient and when properly named how much you can charge for it.

The basis of our profession is two parts skill, one part ingredient and one part legerdemain, the “lightness of hand.” The English call it “sleight of hand.” If you do not understand that, you have no place in the kitchen.

I was once asked what I thought of the suicide of François Vatel, who impaled himself on his sword because a shipment of sole did not arrive in time for a banquet in honor of Louis XIV at Château de Chantilly. There were reported to be two thousand hungry guests. It was a problem. Yes. And yet, the moment of his defeat was also the moment of his greatest triumph. It was on that very same night that he created
crème chantilly
, which is now used in éclairs, cream puffs and pastry all over the world. Defeat, and yet triumph. And yet he killed himself.

And so what can a reasonable person think about such a sinful and untidy act?

One can only come to the conclusion that Vatel was not such a great chef. He had no understanding of the lightness of hand. I, however, am a master of legerdemain. No fish? That is not a problem. I have taken the tender white meat of chickens—very young chickens—and made fillet of sole with it on numerous occasions.

It is simple. You crush their flesh with a pestle, add breadcrumbs, fresh cream, egg white and salt. Pass it through a fine sieve, shape into convincing fillets, dip in beaten egg, coat with breadcrumbs, sauté until brown in clarified butter, serve with anchovy butter spiced with paprika and a garnish of a single truffle slice, more butter and chicken fat.
Filets de Soles Monseigneur
. No one ever knew the difference.