White Truffles in Winter by N. M. Kelby

Author:N. M. Kelby
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2011-10-09T16:00:00+00:00

WHEN ESCOFFIER ENTERED his wife’s room she was asleep. He took off his shoes and lay down in the bed next to her and kissed her forehead.

“Chef?”

“Hen bones, carrots, shin and shoulder of veal, onions, cloves, celery.”

“Stock?”

“Stock.”

THE NEXT DAY A NOTE FOR SABINE ARRIVED IN THE midday post. The handwriting was unmistakable. She didn’t need to go to Escoffier’s room to know he was not there.

“The car will arrive at 19:00 hours.”

There was a return address that she did not recognize. It was near the Grand, a residential district. This did not surprise her at all.

On the other hand, Bobo was keenly surprised to see his mentor sitting in the kitchen of the Grand when he arrived that morning.

“I need to see your house,” Escoffier said.

“Is there something wrong?”

“How old are you now?”

“Thirty.”

“Then there is something very wrong.”

Outside, the day was cool. There was a crispness that made the sky seem even more brilliant. The two men slowly made their way down the street, mostly in silence. The old man seemed unsteady on his feet, but determined.

Bobo lived alone in a tall thin house that overlooked the hotel. As directeur de cuisine he made a respectable living. The house was plain, tidy, but since he spent most of his time at the hotel, a thick layer of dust covered everything. The kitchen was the largest room; the walls were the color of sunflowers, which gave it a cheerful feeling but the room itself was cramped. Against one wall there was a large black stove that was discarded from the Grand; it took up most of the room. It had several burners and a grill. Copper pots and pans hung from a ceiling rack alongside cords of braided garlic and dusty lavender that was set to dry too many years ago. There was a marble-topped sideboard and a small round table with a checkered cloth and two chairs. Except for the outsized stove, it looked like every other household kitchen on the French Riviera.

“Mundane,” Escoffier said. “Dining room?”

“If you would tell me what we are looking for?”

“When I see it I will know. Dining room?”

In the dining room, the red walls were the color of ripe peppers. Escoffier ran a hand along the wall. “Better,” he said.

In the center of the room there was a wide walnut table and twelve delicate chairs painted white. “From the neighbors. They moved to Spain.”

“What does your attic look like?”

“Empty.”

“And yet romantic, would it not be? Romantic and exotic.”

“You want to see my attic?”

“Of course.”

The spiral staircase leading up to the second floor concerned Bobo. The rosewood railings were beautifully curled and turned and the stairs themselves were wide, but so steep, it would be difficult for Escoffier to manage. And it was dark. The walls were the same shade of crimson that the dining room was. The floors were made of terracotta tiles. The only respite from red was the bright green tile baseboard and a long tall window on the second floor landing. Escoffier stood at the bottom of the stairway for a moment and looked up.

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