White Truffles in Winter Read Online Free PDF Page B

went back to his work and Delphine looked into the box that Sabine had brought up from the cellar. The champagne bottles were covered with cobwebs and layers of dust, but to Escoffier they were priceless. Every one had been part of a historic menu; that was why he’d saved them. Some dated back to his days at Le Petit Moulin Rouge.She had heard Escoffier tell visitors their stories over and over again. Even though many of the labels were gone for more than fifty years, the shape of each bottle, the color, held its history, and Escoffier never forgot a dinner or a menu.
    Delphine held out a clear bottle in her good hand. It was obviously old, with flaws, bubbles of air lurking beneath the grain. It appeared to have been blown very quickly.
    â€œTell me, Georges,” she said, “What is the story of this one?”
    Escoffier was slicing salt pork; he didn’t look up.
    â€œThe chop is important,” he said to Sabine. “The carrots, onions and pork must all be cut into the same size cubes; it is more pleasing that way.”
    â€œGeorges, you look tired.”
    Escoffier continued to cube the pork. “Make a note, Sabine. When you go to the butcher, ask that he give more fat on the salt pork. That is the entire purpose of it, is it not? The more fat, the more the flavor permeates.”
    â€œGeorges,” Delphine said loudly, “come sit with me.”
    Again, he didn’t answer. He may have forgotten, she thought.
    It had been a very long time. “Georges” was not Escoffier’s name—although at one point in his life he embraced it so fully that he had it placed on a visiting card and even wrote it into early editions of Le Guide Culinaire. But it did not appear on his birth certificate nor would it appear on his grave. It was a name that Delphine had given him years before: the same day she had said that she would take the children back to their home in Monaco and leave her husband to live in London alone. She was pregnant with their third child and told everyone that she hated London and didn’t want the baby to be born there.
    â€œIt is just a few months before the winter holiday season begins in Monte Carlo,” she told Escoffier. “You will join us then.”
    â€œPeople will talk.”
    â€œPeople are already talking.”
    Escoffier could not deny it. He had been less than discreet.
    â€œIt is not as you think,” he said, although he knew it was exactly what she thought—but even more complicated.
    â€œI think that the distance may make us strangers,” Delphine said as she loaded their children onto the train. “So I will call you ‘Georges’ so that you are reminded that I am not sure who you are anymore and you must win my hand over and over again.”
    â€œDon’t go.”
    â€œGoodbye, Georges.”
    â€œI will become undone without you.”
    And they were gone.
    Her threat did not work. Escoffier stayed in London—a city Delphine never returned to. He never came back to Monte Carlo for the winter season, or hardly any other season. Just a yearly post-Christmas visit, at least most years, and then back to work.
    They had letters. He always signed “Much love, Georges, and sweet kisses” and often included a bit of professional news, such as a speech that he had given about the importance of suppressing poverty or a new menu he’d created for Prince Edward, his “Dear Bertie.” But when Escoffier moved to Paris, to the Hôtel Ritz, Delphine would still not join him. Or maybe he didn’t ask. Or maybe she didn’t. It was so long ago, neither could remember. All in all, they lived apart for thirty years. Work, grandchildren and the luxury of freedom always got in the way.
    After all those years, when Escoffier decided to retire, he appeared unannounced at Delphine’s door with steamer trunks, boxes, crates, endless cases of used champagne bottles (and more than a few