White Truffles in Winter (25 page)

She held herself away from him. He pulled her closer and whispered, “One. Two. Three. Can you hear it?”

“No.”

“Then you aren't trying.”

He brushed his lips against her cheek; the softness of his kiss surprised her. Through the maze of hurt and anger, she could indeed feel his heartbeat, their heartbeats.
Quick. Quick. Quick.

“One. Two. Three.”

Quick. Quick. Quick.

“One. Two. Three.”

On the edge of the cliff they danced. Small stones gave way beneath their feet, tumbled into the darkness.

“Turn. One. Two. Three. Turn.”

Quick. Quick. Quick.

“Madame Escoffier,” he said and kissed her with the grace and heat that they had both remembered. The kiss tasted of the langoustines, the ragout, and the undertone of cocoa. “My dear Madame Escoffier.”

Quick. Quick Quick.

He slipped her robe away.

Quick. Quick. Quick.

Then her dressing gown.

And when she was pale and naked in the moonlight, he ran his hands along her, memorizing each scar, each turn, each soft part of her. She unbuttoned his shirt, slipped off his jacket.

For a moment she thought of their children, although they were hardly children anymore. The boys would soon have families of their own. Her daughter was eight now and nearly as tall as Escoffier. What would they think if they looked out the window?

“Madame Escoffier.”

Delphine looked back at the house, and then at the neighbor's. No lights were on. And so she kissed him and the world fell away around them. All that remained was the wolf moon and the sea and time.

He was so filled with her that he thought his heart would break.

She was silent, her skin cold.

He had fallen asleep and was dreaming when she said, “Don't wake the children when you leave.”

“Perhaps I won't leave.”

“You don't know how to stay.”

He watched as she walked away from him. Her dressing gown and white lace robe made her seem ghostlike. He said nothing; there was nothing to say. He looked over the sea; the wolf moon was sinking; soon it would be morning. He dressed and took the hamper back into the house, replaced the jelly jars with a single crystal glass, and added a wedge from the
Caprice des Dieux
,
an
intensely rich triple crème that he bought for The Savoy and had the cheesemaker ship to Southsea, Portsmouth, to Escoffier's warehouse, where someone would inspect it, resell it to the hotel at a comfortable profit, and repackage the rest to be placed on the next boat to Monte Carlo for Delphine addressed, of course, from Mr. Boots. He took the figs, too. Then went into the guestroom to pack his suitcase.

Escoffier did not move quickly. He folded each shirt, each sock, with the greatest of care. At every point, he had hoped that Delphine would come out of her room, take his hand, and lead him back to her room, but she did not.

The first train to Paris left the station at sunrise. From there, he would have to catch another to London. The journey was long, longer than the time he'd stayed. Outside of the children's rooms, Escoffier kissed the tips of his fingers and placed each kiss on each door. He didn't want to wake them.

At the station, he boarded the first train to Paris and sat by the window of his compartment: a small proper man in his small proper suit. He watched the sun rise over the Cote d'Azur with its yacht-filled harbors, millionaires' villas and his own grand house, which he might never see again. He opened the food hamper and on the small table before him, set out a white linen napkin, the crystal glass. He angled the perfect slice of cheese and placed the two purple figs next to it. He poured some wine, tore off a chunk of the
pain de seigle
he'd made, and ate as the world sped by his window. He was not sure if he'd ever had such a lovely breakfast before.

When Escoffier finally returned to The Savoy, it was well after midnight. He came in through the alleyway. Everyone had gone, the morning shift had yet to arrive. Without windows, the main kitchen was very dark, lit only by the blue flames of the stoves. He sat on the stairs in the silence and watched the flames burn, unending, as if in their own layer of Hell. There was an odd comfort in it.

How long he'd been asleep was difficult to tell.

“Papa,” the boy shook him gently. “Papa, you need to go. Get some rest. We'll take care of this.”

He looked at his watch. Five a.m. The kitchen was getting ready for breakfast service. Escoffier gathered his bags and went into the cool gilded lobby and sat for a very long time watching people come and go. There were the disadvantaged royals and fabulous pretenders chatting with the lately rich and the fashionably entitled. There was a New York heiress with a broken leg wheeled in on a rosewood chair with a handful of tiny yapping Pekingese trailing behind her, “the little darlings.” There were cardinals and bishops in all their grave glory eyeing the Prince's consorts parading about in respectable clothes. He even saw Mr. Gilbert, without the shadow of Mr. Sullivan, sitting in the American Bar making copious notes.

Eventually, the fight, which began in the kitchen, erupted into the dining room and then spilled into the lobby. The rest of Escoffier's belongings were delivered at his feet and the police escorted him out of The Savoy and into the bitter March day. Once outside the door, they handed him a note of dismissal. It was addressed to both Messrs Ritz and Escoffier, the two primary partners of the Ritz Development Company, and was quite clear. ‘“By a resolution passed this morning you have been dismissed from the service of the Hotel for, among other serious reasons, gross negligence and breaches of duty and mismanagement. I am also directed to request that you will be good enough to leave the Hotel at once.”‘

“A disagreement has developed,” Escoffier wired Delphine.

“The Savoy Hotel Mystery” appeared as an item in
The Star.

“During the last
24
-hours The Savoy has been the scene of disturbances which in a South American Republic would be dignified by the name of revolution. Three managers have been dismissed and
16
fiery French and Swiss cooks (some of them took their long knives and placed themselves in a position of defiance) have been bundled out by the aid of a strong force of Metropolitan police.”

More than two hundred telegrams were sent to show support. The Prince of Wales had wired, “Where Ritz goes we follow.”

Escoffier had not read a single one.

It was raining in Southsea when he arrived, which made the port town seem even drearier. They were surprised to see him at the warehouse. “I'm afraid there has been a change in the situation,” he told Jérôme, the manager.

The man's father and Escoffier had been prisoners of war together. The son had that same look about him; a look that said he was ready for almost anything and sometimes was.

“Divide whatever food and goods are left among the men and sell the building quietly,” Escoffier told him.

Jérôme took a bottle of rare Napoleon cognac from his desk drawer and poured a fistful into perfect Baccarat snifters. Escoffier immediately recognized both as coming from a shipment that he had approved payment for months ago and assumed he'd received. Jérôme could see that on his face. He shrugged and laughed as a young boy would, caught in the act.

What did I expect,
Escoffier thought.

“We had a good run, did we not?” Jérôme said and drank the cognac in two gulps.

Escoffier looked at the stone church across the courtyard. Its graveyard overlooked the sea.

“Perhaps
good
is not the word.”

He thought again of La Villa Fernand
and all the family and extended family who lived there. The monthly bills were staggering.

Jérôme poured himself another. Lifted his glass. “To profit.”

Escoffier's remained untouched.

The man slid a package of letters across the desk to him. They were unopened, tied with string. He recognized the handwriting immediately.

“These came for Mr. Boots.”

“Of course.”

Escoffier put his wife's letters in his satchel. Left without another word.

The Complete Escoffier: A Memoir in Meals

POULARDE ÉMILE ZOLA

Fatted Chicken and Ortolan Presented on a Bed of Foie Gras and Surrounded by Truffle Stuffing

It is important to note that identification is a wildly popular strategy when naming a dish. My
Consommé Georges Sand
was beloved by many who, upon ordering, would sometimes tell the waiter how much they enjoyed reading “Monsieur” Sand's books. Some had even claimed to have met “Monsieur” Sand. One woman, a society matron, had even confessed that she had danced with “him” and found herself slightly in love with “his” keen wit.

As Georges Sand was, and had always been, a woman—the Baroness Dudevant who had passed from this life in 1876—these emphatic declarations initially confused the waiters. However, I instructed them always to agree. And they did. The very best of our staff would often agree so fully that he could, quite convincingly, praise Sand's “manly prose” and “dashing good looks” at great length.

“The customer,” as Ritz said, “is always right.”

You must always keep in mind that if one is to create a famous dish that the customers will fully embrace, it must be as magnificent as its namesake. I created
Poularde Émile Zola
after the great writer, although it is not something that he would have enjoyed eating. He would have despised it. It is, however, delightful. The sensation of velvety fatted chicken combined with the tiny ortolans is incomparable—like butter. And then, of course, foie gras! Who could not eat foie gras every day? Well, Zola. He was not fond of it at all. Still, I name this dish “Émile Zola” so that you will eat it in hopes of becoming a brilliant writer and thinker.

Who would not want to be Zola? He was a champion for the underclass of France—he told me this himself. At his funeral, crowds of workers gathered cheering the cortège with shouts of “Germinal! Germinal!” after his great masterwork. Who would not want to eat this dish in hopes of attaining such rabid devotion? Of course, those who opposed his political views had murdered him, but in retrospect that is merely a romantic detail and details are the death of art.

I find it most interesting to note that while doing the research for his books, Zola always stayed in a lovely suite of rooms at The Savoy. He would visit the poor during the day and then sleep in silken sheets at night. He also had excellent taste in suits. When I asked about his penchant for luxury, he said, “The scientist need not be a monkey to observe them.”

I had heard that in the beginning he was so destitute that he ate sparrows that he trapped on his windowsill. He denied this, but I cannot help but think it was true. Having been a prisoner of war, having been hungry myself, I understand hunger as one understands air. I have what I call a “bone wisdom,” it is something that is a part of every step I take in the world. I must believe that this is true of Zola. The bone wisdom in his work is unmistakable.

How he loved food!

Whenever I ventured into the dining room he would always call me to his table and regale me with exquisite recollections of what he had eaten during his travels; his
faiblesses de gourmandise
. Sardines! Oh, how he would speak of sardines! Fresh. Seasoned with salt, pepper, and olive oil—and then grilled over the dying embers of grapevine shoots! When still moist, they are placed into an earthenware dish that has been rubbed with garlic. The dish is finished with a mixture of fresh parsley and oil from Aix. Voilà!

To merely speak of sardines brought tears to Zola's eyes. And cassoulet! How he adored, worshiped, cassoulet prepared
à la Provençale
with tomato, eggplant and zucchini!

Pure rapture.

“When I think of it,” he once told me, “the memory of all these country meals brings me back to my childhood spent in Aix-en-Provence.”

But peasant food does not sell at The Savoy. It is understandable. Zola himself did not like to be seen eating such foods in public. The few times he did caused Paris to question his aesthetics and to refer to him as a gourmand, which can be, of course, synonymous with the word
glutton
. Since Zola was a man who obviously spent a great deal to cultivate a privileged air, the title profoundly shamed him.

And so I named
Poularde Émile Zola
for him. Originally I created the dish for a maharajah who was surprisingly quite an anglophile. He loved anything English, especially the ladies. “Little birds,” he called them. I later discovered that this dish also had a poetic resonance for the Duc d'Orleans, who lived at The Savoy after he was banished for being the rightful pretender to the French throne, a throne that no longer existed. It was a very complicated situation.

However, to me this dish will forever belong to Zola, even though he never ate it. I'm sure that if asked in a moment of weakness, he would instead say that a boule of crusty bread made with sweet cream butter and topped with coarse sea salt should forever bear his name.

But he would be wrong. And this is precisely the problem with creating a dish in someone's name. They feel that they should be consulted. They should not. No one cares how they see themselves. It is how the artist sees them that matters.

And so, it is best to create a dish for someone only after they are dead because feelings can, and will, be hurt.

To make
Poularde Émile Zola
carefully clean and peel eight large truffles. They should be as big as a lady's fist. Warm them in butter, season them quickly with salt and pepper, and then add a glass of aged Madeira and leave them to macerate in a clean jar for about ten minutes. While the truffles are soaking, find a good-sized pullet. You must be very careful with the size of the fatted chicken. If it is too large, it is too old, and it is mostly fat and the meat will be tough. It must be a young and supple size. You will know it when you see it. Your heart will leap.