John Saturnall's Feast by Norfolk Lawrence

Author:Norfolk, Lawrence [Norfolk, Lawrence]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Perseus Books Group
Published: 2012-09-03T16:00:00+00:00

‘You will work with me, John Saturnall,’ the Master Cook had told John as he stood before him in his chamber. ‘Every true cook carries a feast inside him. Your mother and I agreed on that. Why else would she send you to me? We will find your feast together.’

John had felt an excitement rise in him at Scovell's words. Why should the Feast not be for its cook? he asked himself, head bent over the pans and trays. Down here in the kitchens where the dishes reached their perfection. Here the kickshaws and confections that John prepared for the High Table appeared untouched and flawless. What returned were crumbs.

Now alongside Scovell, John eased preserved peaches out of galliot pots of syrup and picked husked walnuts from puncheons of salt. He clarified butter and poured it into rye-paste coffins. From the Master Cook, John learned to set creams with calves’ feet, then isinglass, then hartshorn, pouring decoctions into egg-moulds to set and be placed in nests of shredded lemon peel. To make cabbage cream he let the thick liquid clot, lifted off the top layer, folded it then repeated the process until the cabbage was sprinkled with rose water and dusted with sugar, ginger and nutmeg. He carved apples into animals and birds. The birds themselves he roasted, minced and folded into beaten egg whites in a foaming forcemeat of fowls.

John boiled, coddled, simmered and warmed. He roasted, seared, fried and braised. He poached stock-fish and minced the meats of smoked herrings while Scovell's pans steamed with ancient sauces: black chawdron and bukkenade, sweet and sour egredouce, camelade and peppery gauncil. For the feasts above he cut castellations into pie-coffins and filled them with meats dyed in the colours of Sir William's titled guests. He fashioned palaces from wafers of spiced batter and paste royale, glazing their walls with panes of sugar. For the Bishop of Carrboro they concocted a cathedral.

‘Sprinkle salt on the syrup,’ Scovell told him, bent over the chafing dish in his chamber. A golden liquor swirled in the pan. ‘Very slowly.’

‘It will taint the sugar,’ John objected.

But Scovell shook his head. A day later they lifted off the cold clear crust and John split off a sharp-edged shard. ‘Salt,’ he said as it slid over his tongue. But little by little the crisp flake sweetened on his tongue. Sugary juices trickled down his throat. He turned to the Master Cook with a puzzled look.

‘Brine floats,’ Scovell said. ‘Syrup sinks.’ The Master Cook smiled. ‘Patience, remember? Now, to the glaze . . .’

The tasks multiplied. Tasks which seemed more like riddles. Riddles which seemed more like tests. But every day added to the store of his knowledge. Little by little the kitchen's chambers came to seem his domain. Scovell was right, he thought as his fifth year at the Manor approached. The Feast could indeed belong to its cook.

‘Who was Tantalus?’ the Master Cook asked John that spring. ‘Was he a cook or a king? What dish would you cook for him?’

Another riddle, John thought.

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