The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (6 page)

Chef Ferrero said, “
Bene
, we begin.” He rummaged through a basket and selected a large, golden onion with unbroken skin. “The onion,” he explained, “is the queen of vegetables. It lends color and enchantment to food, and its fragrance as it caramelizes in the pan is a promise of delight.”

“
Sì
. Delight. That reminds me of how delighted the peasant looked with his wine. That is, until he died.”

The chef picked up a chopping knife. “When time permits, handle an onion with reverence. Notice the burnished skin.” He held the onion up and turned it slowly. “It is the rarified color of old sherry when light passes through the glass.”

I nodded and tried to remain respectfully silent, but … “That color reminds me of the fluid the doge poured down the dead man’s throat.”

The chef closed his eyes for a moment. Then he carefully slid the tip of his knife under the topmost layer of skin. “When you peel the onion, don’t rip away the underlying flesh. Take a moment to
loosen only the paper. Old onion skins come away easily, but young ones can be stubborn, eh?” The chef gave me a pointed look that I pretended not to understand. He removed the skin and held it out in the palm of his hand. “Look at the skin, Luciano. Observe its delicacy, its color and texture, like translucent shavings of copper and gold.”

“Gold! Now, there’s a motive for murder.” The rash words seemed to leap from my mouth before I could stop them. “I understand punishing a thief. But why pour drink down a dead man’s throat?”

The chef rolled his eyes. Without looking at me, he pushed the papery skin into a little pile at the edge of the cutting board, and when I moved to gather it up he stayed my hand. “Leave the onion skins, Luciano. They provide inspiration.”

“Inspiration.” I nodded slowly and, with abashed persistence, asked, “I wonder what might inspire the doge—”

“Look at the naked onion, Luciano. She’s newly stripped, and no one but you has ever seen her before. Her colors are virgin white tinged with spring green. Handle her gently. For the first cut, slice cleanly down the center and behold what you’ve exposed.” He parted the onion to show me its concentric design and smiled. “Lay open the intimate center and admire the perfect nests within nests.” He mused over the onion’s structure and murmured, “There was a Greek teacher named Euclid who made some interesting observations about the geometry of circles …” He must have noticed the confusion on my face and he added, “That’s not important right now.”

He picked up the onion and his voice turned brusque. “Inhale the aroma, the soul, but take your time. The art of cooking, like the art of living, must be savored for its own sake.” He wafted the onion under his nose and inhaled deeply. “No matter that the food we prepare will be eaten in minutes; the act of creation is everything.”

He laid half of the onion flat on its cut surface and sliced it across, cocking one ear to the board. “Listen to the crisp sound of each cut, Luciano. Hear the music of freshness.”

My eyes watered from the onion fumes, and the stinging tears diverted my curiosity. I asked, “Why do onions make us cry?”

Chef Ferrero shrugged as a tear slid down his cheek. “You may as well ask why one cries in the presence of great art, or at the birth of a child. Tears of awe, Luciano. Let them flow.”

I wiped my eyes, but the chef let tears roll freely down his face. A tear dripped from his chin as he scooped up the diced onion for the stockpot. His awe would season the soup.

“But the doge—”

“Basta!”
The chef slammed the knife into the cutting board and turned on me with arched eyebrows. “Leave it alone, Luciano. Everything comes in its own time, and your time has not yet come. Your lesson is over. Back to work, and not another word.”

I backed away twisting my fingertips at my lips as if turning a key in a lock.
Stupido
. I’d forgotten how easily I could be sent back to the streets. I grabbed my broom and busied myself sweeping goose feathers into a corner where I would stuff them into sacks for the maids. The goose itself was already browning nicely on the spit, and I planned to fish the neck and gizzard out of the stockpot the next morning when they’d be nice and tender—a special treat for Marco and Domingo.

The chef’s outburst had been loud and uncharacteristic. I glanced around the kitchen to check the reaction of the cooks, but no one acknowledged me, and I assumed that I’d temporarily become persona non grata. Only Giuseppe caught my eye in order to shoot me one of his poisonous looks. My phenomenal luck as the street urchin turned into a chef’s apprentice had indeed made me the object of his brooding, implacable hatred.

My busy young mind jumped from Giuseppe to the chef to the doge and the dead peasant and back again. I jammed fistfuls
of goose feathers into coarse sacks, readying them for the maids who would sort out the fluffy down for pillows. Preoccupied with my thoughts, I allowed too many feathers to float over my head and drift into the fire, where they winked away with a quick sizzle. While the feathers flew around me in a soft blizzard, I plotted a way to discover what the chef knew about the peasant’s death.

I knew where the chef lived. On Sundays, the one day he stayed home and let Pellegrino run the kitchen, the chef had occasionally taken me to Mass with his family at the church of San Vincenzo and then to his house for Sunday dinner. The hour of unrelieved tedium in church was the price for my inclusion in the chef’s family, and I paid it gladly. I bathed carefully and put on fresh clothing in preparation for those Sundays when I sat in a church pew with the gentry rather than standing in back with the beggars.

The service bored me, but I took consolation in the fact that the chef also seemed disinterested. His eyes wandered during the offertory; he examined his fingernails during the sermon; he sighed every time he had to kneel; and while the choir intoned a sonorous Gregorian chant, he stared into the distance and tapped an impatient foot on the padded kneeler. Once, I inquired into how he felt about attending Mass, and he said, “It’s a matter of form. One doesn’t wish to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

After Mass, I was thrilled to sit at his dinner table and eat from a porcelain plate with a silver fork, like any member of a respectable family. Those meals were a revelation. The family talked about a world completely foreign to me—school, church, dressmakers, relatives, and neighbors. I listened and spoke only when spoken to, and I never looked too long at any of his young daughters.

I didn’t understand why the chef took me into his home on Sundays. Why not his sous-chef Pellegrino or Enrico or Dante or any other of the senior staff? But I didn’t ask, in case questioning my good luck might somehow put an end to it. I kept my head down and wallowed in the deliciousness of belonging. I wrapped
myself in borrowed familial warmth and pretended to be the only son in the chef’s family.

The chef was madly in love with his family. His wife, Rosa, was his anchor; his eldest daughter, Elena, a fair-haired girl of ten, was his pride; his eight-year-old twins, Adriana and Amalia, mirror images of each other, were his wonder; and his little five-year-old, Natalia Sofia, with her extravagant mass of dark curls and a temperament as sweet as her face, was the tiny empress of his joy.

While Chef Ferrero encouraged me to eat up—“
Mangia
, Luciano.
Mangia
”—Signora Ferrero passed the pasta without looking at me. She was not unkind, but her cool demeanor advised me to keep my portions small and my mouth shut. I didn’t mind. I understood her attitude better than the chef’s. What right had I to sit at her table? Neither she nor I seemed to know.

On the last Sunday that I would ever be allowed to dine with that family, we sat back, stuffed with our fine meal of chicken in rosemary sauce. We relaxed over fontina cheese and green grapes while Elena described her confirmation dress. I’m glad I didn’t know then that the conversation would lead to the end of my Sunday dinners with the family. If I had, I might have wept into my chicken.

Elena’s cheeks flushed as she chattered about her white dress, about the softness of the China silk and the intricacy of the Belgian lace. The chef listened while a wistful smile played over his face. Elena described the elaborate monogram she would embroider on one sleeve of her dress, and at the mention of the monogram the chef’s smile sagged. He put down the grape he’d been about to pop into his mouth, and it rolled across his plate. He said, “
La mia bella
Elena. Today your confirmation; tomorrow your wedding.”

“Sì, Papà.”
Elena’s blush deepened.

He sighed. “In time, you’ll all sew lace on your wedding dresses and leave your
papà
behind. You’ll embroider your husband’s monogram on tablecloths and bedsheets, and the name Ferrero will be forgotten.”

Signora Ferrero slapped her napkin on the table. “Don’t, Amato.”

“I’m sorry, my love. It weighs on me.”

“It’s God’s will.”

The chef looked at me and seemed about to say something, but—

“Amato.” Signora Ferrero’s voice was even and careful.

“Don’t.” The chef stared at the grape on his plate. “He’s a good boy, Rosa.”

“I won’t listen to this.” She stood with stiff dignity. “Camilla,” she called. “Clear the dishes.”

Old Camilla rushed in from the kitchen, alarmed by her mistress’s sharp tone, and began stacking plates. Signora Ferrero spoke with pinched lips. “Amato, I would speak with you, please.”

As the chef followed his wife into the hallway, he smiled at his daughters and passed his hand over little Natalia’s curls. In her agitation, Signora Ferrero failed to pull the door completely shut behind them, and we could all hear the urgent edge in her voice. Camilla cleared more slowly than usual. Natalia covered her mouth with a dimpled hand, and the girls stole apprehensive looks at each other. We all listened.

“Amato, you delude yourself.”

“Rosa,
cara
, you should see him in the kitchen. He works hard, and he’s smart.”

“I don’t doubt he’s smart. He’s a street boy who made his way into the palace.”

“He’s not like other street boys. He has the instinct to be better. Like I did.”

“
Basta
. You pity him, and your wish for a son confuses you.”

“Rosa, he was stealing a
pomegranate
. Not moldy bread to cram into his mouth with no thought. A pomegranate must be carefully peeled and eaten seed by seed. It takes time. Attention must be paid to eat a pomegranate.”

“What are you talking about? He stole a pomegranate because he could. He comes from the street. He has unsavory companions. He’s a conniving thief and you bring him into our home? You introduce him to our daughters? No! I won’t have it. He’ll cause trouble, Amato. I feel it.”

“
Cara
, don’t upset yourself. I simply need an apprentice.”

“But why a thief? And why is he in our home?” Her voice turned plaintive. “I have a bad feeling about him, Amato. Why him? Why is he here? What are you up to?”

There was a pause. Then the chef’s voice turned grave and faintly apologetic. “Rosa, my love, I have something to tell you. Long before I met you, there was someone—”

A hand—whether it was the chef’s or his wife’s I’ll never know—a hand pulled the door until it clicked fully shut, and the chef’s words were reduced to a muffled garble. Was that when he told her his suspicions about me? Was that when he directed her attention to my birthmark? Was that when he gave her reason to think I could threaten the peace of her home? It would explain why that was my last dinner with them. She never even returned to the table that day.

I was saddened by Signora Ferrero’s low opinion of me, but I was also touched and amazed by the chef’s interpretation of my stolen pomegranate. It was a pleasing notion that anyone might take me for a thoughtful boy who would
choose
to steal a pomegranate, and then pick out one glistening seed at a time, savor the taste, and fastidiously blot my lips. I imagined myself eating like that—I who crammed food in my mouth as fast as I could—and I had to smile. I wondered whether anyone could change that much. Could there be refined instincts inside me without my knowing it? I had a thrilling moment, thinking I might become the sensitive, genteel boy the chef thought I was, but …

The moment passed, and the dismal truth asserted itself. If I’d been allowed to keep that pomegranate I would’ve ripped away the
skin with my teeth and gorged on the fruit, crunching through full mouthfuls, tasting almost nothing, oblivious to the juices smearing my cheeks and dripping off my chin. I was
hungry
.

Still, the chef’s remarks about the pomegranate reminded me of his approach to chopping an onion. Did paying attention to food really change the experience of eating it? I eyed the green grapes and the buttery fontina on the table, and I wondered whether a grape would taste any different if attention
were
paid.

I picked off a single grape and observed it: The color was something like that of a green apple, but with a fragile translucency and a dull sheen. I turned it in my fingers, pressed lightly, and felt the firm, plump surface give under my fingertips. I said a silent
grazie a Dio
before placing it on my tongue, and then I rolled it around in my mouth, postponing the bite. The anticipation reminded me of Francesca—when would I see her again? The thought of her made me bite down hard. Still, I forced myself to take note of the way the skin offered a teasing resistance. The grape split and flooded my mouth with a flavor so delicate it was almost an aroma. I closed my eyes and sucked on the burst grape, enjoying the opposing textures of skin and pulp. I chewed slowly and allowed the nectar to saturate my palate. It seemed as though I’d never before eaten a grape quite so exquisite as that one. I looked at the bunch of grapes on the table and thought about eating them all that way, one at a time, paying attention, each one a perfect little miracle. I frankly found the prospect exhausting, but I chewed my grape with reverence for a long time, and it felt like eating all the grapes in the world at once. It was just a grape, but somehow it felt like a beginning.