White Truffles in Winter Read Online Free PDF Page A

into a shaft of sunlight that streamed into the kitchen. His hand shook. “The color is good,” he said to Delphine. “Unafraid of its own boldness. Much like yourself.” He took a bite and slowly chewed the flesh. Juice ran down his arm, staining his carefully pressed cuff.
    â€œIs it lovely?” she asked.
    â€œOui,” Escoffier said. “So very lovely.”
    He held the fruit out for Delphine to taste. She leaned into it. Closed her eyes and took a bite. “Summer. The taste of summer.”
    â€œExactly. Makes one reckless, no?”
    â€œNo.”
    Sabine cleared her throat. “The ants should be sprayed with poison.”
    â€œNot in the kitchen,” Delphine said.
    Escoffier handed the fruit back to the girl. There was a stray ant running up her arm. He plucked it from her. “Sabine, do you like ants? They are very good covered in chocolate.”
    â€œNon.”
    â€œTomatoes?”
    â€œNon.”
    â€œTomatoes are so sad a fruit, are they not? Bruised like a heart?”
    â€œNon,” Sabine said, grinding stray ants into the counter. “Hearts, bruised or otherwise, are muscles that are usually purple or pink. At least that is true of cows. This is a fruit that is rotting in my hand.”
    â€œShe is a delight,” Escoffier laughed. “Even the ants seem to like her.”
    â€œShe is Sabine,” Delphine said.
    â€œI know that. Do you?”
    â€œShe is the cook, nothing more.”
    â€œBut the cook is everything.”
    â€œThe chef is everything. The cook is just a girl.”
    â€œSabine. Le Guide Culinaire . Quickly. You must prove your worth to Madame.”
    Sabine placed the tomato back in the sink and washed her hands over it. The smell of olive oil soap filled the air.
    â€œSabine. Be careful. Now the tomatoes are covered with soap and will all have to be rewashed,” Delphine said, but no one seemed to notice she was speaking. Escoffier slowly removed his dress coat; for a moment his arm was caught but he shook it off. He rolled up his shirtsleeves. He took a clean apron from the drawer. Sabine pulled the cookbook from the shelf.
    â€œPage twenty-two,” Escoffier said. “Salt pork. Carrots. Onions. Butter. And white stock, is that correct?”
    Sabine read the recipe and nodded. There were thousands of recipes in the thick book. She was clearly amazed that he could remember the page number of even one.
    â€œIs there white stock made?” Escoffier asked.
    â€œPoultry, not veal.”
    â€œThat will do.”
    The old man suddenly seemed ageless. He stood with relative ease and walked to the chopping board without a trace of ill health. Sabine handed him an onion and the vegetable cleaver. He sniffed the onion for freshness and then began to chop while she gathered ingredients and laid them out in front of him on the marble counter.
    His small hands were a maze of bulging veins and liver spots, curled like claws, but once they held the knife they moved with the grace of a young man’s.
    â€œWe will also make noodles,” he said. “One pound of flour, one-half ounce of salt, three whole eggs and five egg yolks—then we’ll say a short prayer: the making of noodles is a difficult thing. Saint Elizabeth will often intercede, but since she is actually the patron saint of bakers, noodles are not her responsibility. Still, she has such beautiful eyes and a heart of great kindness, so I always pray to her. She has never failed me. Pray to her and she will take mercy on you and your noodles will not be leaden.”
    Escoffier chopped the onion into uniform pieces and diced the carrots into equal cubes with startling efficiency.
    â€œIf anyone asks, Saint Laurent is who you should actually be speaking to in this matter; his responsibilities include restaurants, pasta, candy makers and dieters. But I prefer not to speak to him at all. How could he aid both candy makers and dieters? I