The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (14 page)

My mouth watered as I carried the gnocchi up to the dining room. I’d tasted one dumpling in the kitchen, and I loved the earthy flavor as well as the way it resisted when I sank my teeth in. The butter and sage coated my mouth so that the taste lasted even
after I swallowed. I liked the way it felt in my stomach, solid and nourishing, and I looked forward to learning how to make it.

When the maid placed the two plates of unadorned gnocchi on the table, the doge arched one white eyebrow at her. “Dumplings?” He turned to his guest. “I apologize for the commonness of this food. I’ll send it back at once.”

But Behaim placed a hand on his arm. “Please, my lord. Your chef’s reputation is well known. I’m sure these dumplings are delicious.”

An embarrassed smile crept over the doge’s face. “I’ll admit it; I love dumplings.” He snickered. “Under our noble clothing we have the stomachs of peasants, eh?”

They shared a smile, less polite and more authentic than earlier, and dove into the gnocchi. I heard little hums of pleasure as their teeth sank into the lumps of buttered potato pasta. Behaim murmured, “Perfect. And as I suspected, not ordinary.”

The doge spoke around a full mouth. “
Sì, sì, al dente
, and, yes … different.”

Polite conversation ceased while they ate their peasant food. I heard wet chewing and silver clinking unceremoniously on china. They washed their food down with the unpretentious wine, and both of them mopped up stray drizzles of butter and cheese with the last pieces of gnocchi. Camaraderie replaced courtly manners and friendliness joined the table like a third diner.

The doge sat back and knit his fingers over his belly. “So, we’ve eaten dumplings together. I won’t mention it if you won’t.”

“A secret I’ll be happy to keep if I may rely on being invited to do it again.”

Hearing the word “secret,” I moved closer to the door and strained to catch every word.

The doge said, “If one wishes to learn a secret from a friend, one must offer that friend a good reason to share it.”

“My lord understands the ways of the world.”

On the landing, one of the maids slapped the back of my head and whispered, “It would be easier to hear the conversation if you joined the doge at his table. Shall we set a place for you? Or will you, perhaps, honor us by bringing up the next course?” I started down the stairs, chased by the sound of clucking tongues.

When I returned with the fish course, the maid whisked the two plates out of my hands and pushed the door open with her hip. As she stepped into the dining room, the doge was leaning toward his guest as if about to speak confidentially, but seeing the maid he sat back in his chair and blotted his lips with a napkin.

After the simplicity of the gnocchi, the fish course was astonishing. Pellegrino had spent the entire day preparing the two red mullets. He had partially removed the heads and cleaned the fish through those small openings, leaving the bodies intact. Then he massaged each fish to loosen the flesh and bones, which he painstakingly removed without breaking the skin. The mullet flesh was combined with chopped spider crab, cream-softened bread, finely minced shallots, and a whisper of garlic, thyme, nutmeg, and butter, and then carefully stuffed back into the skin. Pellegrino returned the heads to their natural position and patted each fish into its original shape. He surrounded the stuffed mullets with vegetables and herbs and sealed all of it in parchment to poach gently in its own flavorful steam.

On the plate, they looked like simple baked mullets surrounded by a frill of lemon slices. The maid set a plate before each man, and the doge said, “More plain food?” But when his first cut revealed the unexpected medley inside, he laughed out loud.

Herr Behaim said, “Your chef has a sense of humor.” He took a bite, held it in his mouth, and rolled it on his tongue. Pleasure suffused his face. “
Mein Gott im Himmel
, I don’t know what I’m eating, but it brings me closer to God.”

The doge chewed thoughtfully. “Crab?”

“Perhaps, but more. Appearances deceive.”

“As in life,” said the doge.

“Well said, my lord. You wouldn’t believe the ridiculous things people expect me to know simply because I’m the pope’s astrologer. They expect occult knowledge of every description. The groping of small minds; they embarrass themselves.”

The doge leaned toward his guest. “My friend, we’ve eaten dumplings together. You don’t mean for me to believe that your knowledge is limited to astrology?”

“Herbal remedies.” Behaim shrugged. “And I dabble in alchemy, that’s no secret.”

“All men have secrets.” The doge smiled.

“My lord, my secrets interest only my confessor. I think even he’s bored.”

“Impossible.” The doge leaned closer. “You’re known as the most learned man in Europe.”

“Flattering, but absurd. As my lord has observed, things are often not what they seem.” Behaim lifted his wineglass and took a sip of the well-chilled Tocai, which the chef had chosen to bring out every nuance of the mullet’s complicated filling. Behaim sniffed and sipped and held the wine on his tongue a second before swallowing. “Ah, your chef is an artist.”

The doge tasted his wine and nodded. “It’s true. This Tocai compounds the mystery of the food. I admit I’m puzzled.” He drained his glass and smacked his lips.

“All puzzles should be so delightful.” Behaim chewed a mouthful of mullet with his eyes closed. He said, “It’s like listening to a symphony.”

“Hmmm.” The doge sat back in his chair. He raised his right hand and I saw one finger uncurling. I glanced at the portrait of the Ugly Duchess and saw her brown eye narrow in anticipation. But instead of giving the signal, the doge only summoned a maid to refill his wineglass.

The other maid slapped the back of my head. “Do we have to
beg for every course?” As I started down the stairs, she hissed, “Too nosy for your own good.”

Chef Ferrero had taken charge of the main dish himself. Tender veal cutlets had been dipped in beaten eggs and seasoned flour, then lightly seared and served in a dark brown sauce. The presentation was completed with a sprinkle of lavender leaves and marigold petals—green and gold, like a spring morning—and served with a loaf of crusty bread rather than the customary glazed onions.

“Veal,” Behaim said. “What a luxury. One wonders how many calves are torn from their mothers so that we might eat well.”

“That’s the luxury. We ingest the innocence of childhood.”

Behaim swirled his fork in the glossy sauce. “This sauce is uncommonly dark. It swallows the light.” He took a taste. “
Mein Gott
, what is that flavor?”

The doge took a bite and chewed slowly. “I confess it’s new to me. My chef is endlessly inventive.”

I kept the service door ajar with my toe and watched them eat the milk-fed veal tender enough to cut with a fork. They nibbled the marigold petals and soaked up the dark sauce with fistfuls of spongy bread. I watched the doge’s index finger and waited for the gesture that would bring out the guards; the one brown eye watched as well, and it never blinked. The men raised their glasses and toasted innocence with a decisive, wood-aged cabernet.

Behaim said, “This sauce is magnificent. I believe His Holiness would enjoy it.”

The doge leaned sideways and gave him an elbow in the ribs. “If Borgia enjoys as much variety in his food as he does in his women, I’m afraid only one marvelous sauce will not suffice. Still, we try to accommodate.…” The doge twisted in his chair and raised his hand. I thought:
This is it!
But he only called to the maid. “Woman,” he ordered. “Fetch this sauce recipe for my guest.”

She hurried out onto the landing and slapped my head again. “You heard,” she snapped. “Get the recipe.”

I found the chef assembling cookies on a dessert platter, but before I could speak he asked, “Are they eating the veal sauce?”

“
Sì
. They’re polishing their plates with the bread.”

“Good. Good.” The chef seemed nervous; one might have thought he was serving the Council of Ten. He said, “Keep your eyes open and tell me what happens.”

“Maestro, the doge wants the sauce recipe for His Holiness.”

“The sauce? Are you out of your mind?” The chef shook his head emphatically. “I’ll be happy to prepare my Sauce Nepenthes for His Holiness, but I cannot divulge the recipe. If everybody could cook like Amato Ferrero, what value would I have?”

I relayed this answer to the maid, who brought it to the doge. Upon hearing that the chef had declined to share his recipe, the doge hit the table with a fist. “Insolence!” he roared. But again Behaim restrained him with a diplomatic hand on his arm.

He said, “Your chef is right. An artist must protect the secrets of his trade. Perhaps you’ll allow him to come to Rome and prepare the dish himself for His Holiness.”

“Of course. But … what were we talking about?”

Behaim sat back, sipped his cabernet, and knitted his brow. “Sauce Nepenthes. Odd name. I believe Nepenthes was a Greek god—the god of sleep? No, that was Morpheus. Was Nepenthes the god of remembrance, or forgetfulness?” He gave a futile wave. “I can’t recall.”

The doge stared absently at the portrait of the Ugly Duchess and said, “What would I know of Greek gods? You’re the scholar.” He blinked quickly, then looked around the room and sighed. “Strange. I never noticed that the Ugly Duchess had one brown eye.” He slumped back in his chair. “Perhaps I’ve had too much wine.”

Behaim glanced at the portrait and wagged his head. “I don’t know the color of that lady’s eyes. I’ve never been inclined to look too long at any of her portraits.”

“Understandable.”

The meal finished with spiced wine and a platter of oblong cookies. The ends of the cookies had been dipped in another dark brown sauce, which had somehow hardened.

The doge said, “We call these cookies bones of the dead.” He held one up and rotated the coated end to examine it. “But I’ve never seen them with this … what is this?”

“Your chef is an artist with a sense of humor. He serves the bones of the dead dressed in mourning.”

The doge lifted the spiced wine. “We’ll eat the bones of the dead and toast life.”

Behaim drank the toast, then selected a cookie and took a bite. His face transformed like a saint in rapture. “Mmmm. The coating on this cookie is as erotic as the veal sauce was divine. It induces a lust for more.” He licked cookie crumbs from his lips.

The doge bit the dark end off a cookie, chewed, and muttered, “One thinks of one’s youth.” He swallowed. “Amazing. Even after the taste fades, the pleasure lingers like a tickle in the brain. Delicious as sex.”

“Mmmm. Irresistible as sin.”

They chewed in silence and ate their way through the entire platter. This time the maids eavesdropped as intently as I, and no one slapped me. The older one mumbled, “Sex and sin.
Boh
. Pigs.”

Behaim finished his spiced wine and sat back. “So, my lord, we’ve eaten innocence and death and are content. What cannot be done in life has been accomplished at your table.” He pushed back and stood. “I thank you for a memorable meal. My respects to your chef.”

The doge sat staring at the Ugly Duchess. “I feel I’m forgetting something. But food and wine and old age will do that, eh?” Once more his hand came up, but only to rub his eyes. He shook his head as if to clear it, then he stood and threw an arm around the astrologer. “Convey my regards to His Holiness.” He chuckled. “Borgia, that rascal.” They left the room laughing like the best of friends.

The brown eye of the Ugly Duchess followed them to the double doors. The eye blinked, swept the empty room, stared for a moment, and then, after a subtle swish of wood sliding against canvas, turned blue and still.

I helped the maids clear the table, then rushed down to the kitchen and dumped the dirty dishes into the soapy tub without scraping them. The chef didn’t seem to notice; he motioned me over with an anxious gesture. “So,” he asked, “did he arrest the astrologer?”

“No, Maestro. Just when I thought he would, they began acting like friends.”

The chef’s face relaxed. He sat down on a stool and said,
“Bene.”

“But, Maestro, it was strange. What did you feed them?”

He looked at the floor for a moment and then at me. “Food has power, Luciano. Each dish works its own magic, a kind of alchemy that changes our bodies and our minds.”

The chef put a hand on my shoulder. “Consider the effect of melted cheese. Soft, warm, comforting, so easy to eat you barely need to chew. It makes a man relax. Then came the dumplings. Plain, common food to inspire trust, to awaken a sense of shared humanity and the enjoyment of simple things. Dumplings breed camaraderie.”

I said, “They agreed to keep their love of dumplings a secret.”

“Sì?”
The chef smiled. “Then Pellegrino’s surprising mullet made them reflect on the folly of judging by appearances. The doge expected Behaim to know something based on his reputation, but the fish made him question his assumptions.”

“What did he expect Behaim to know?”

He waved the question away. “The important thing is that if he was mistaken, the doge would look foolish.”

Mentally, I slapped the back of my own head.
Stupido
. The book. The doge expected Behaim to know something about the book.

The chef continued. “The veal is obvious. No one can eat veal without thinking of innocence. I served it with bread instead of onions because bread is more human. Animals can dig onions out of the ground and eat them raw. Only humans settle down to grow grain. That means planning for the future, milling the flour, adding the magic of leavening, and careful baking. Bread reminds a man that he’s civilized.” He chuckled. “It also helps them eat all the sauce. I wouldn’t want them to miss the sauce.”

“They wiped their plates clean.”

“By the time dessert comes, hunger is tamed and the satisfied diner settles back to consider the human condition. Eating bones of the dead inspires thoughts of immortality. A mysterious and delicious black sauce suggests facing the unknown and loving it. It leaves nothing to fear. Taken together, the elements of this meal conspired to relieve the doge’s suspicions and leave him satisfied.”