and floated through nights in high canopied beds. The maids scented the pillows with fresh lavender and warmed the linens with heated bricks swaddled in Florentine wool. Ah, the House of Este …” His head drooped and he mumbled reveries into his chest.
I listened to the rain drumming the roof and imagined my maestro as a young rustic in the House of Este, gawking at the easy extravagance and wanting to be part of it. Then the shutters banged, and the rain intensified, hammering the window, rendering it opaque and darkening the room. The old man went on. “Every Sunday, Amato’s day off, he rose long before dawn and rode to Vicenza on a dairyman’s wagon. He came back after dinner on a fruit cart. He traveled six hours each way to spend an hour or two on the farm.”
His eyebrows pinched together. “He was a good boy. He wanted to visit his mother, but I could see what was happening. Oui . It was inevitable. Amato began to notice the sour smell of his mother’s kitchen, the rawness of her wine, and the overripe cheese that was too precious to discard.” He nodded slowly.
“After watching the Este’s maids spread sun-bleached sheets on plush featherbeds, it pained him to see the flea-infested straw mattresses that lined the walls of his family hovel. He would have given his mother money if he had any, but as you know apprentices earn no wages.”
“Indeed. I remember a time—”
“One Sunday, Amato came back from Vicenza upset, très vexé . The boy had chastised his mother for her low habit of kicking the chickens that strayed into her house. Oui , and for the way she hawked up phlegm and spat into the fire. He spent that entire week feeling guilty. He was useless in the kitchen. The following Sunday he apologized to her, but she shrugged him off. His life was proceeding exactly as she had hoped, but for him the visits became uncomfortable. He began to stay away from home for two and three weeks at a time. She didn’t mind; she wanted him to learn.”
The old chef leaned forward, and his voice went crafty and confidential. “Amato learned this: Even though he’d been born a serf, he could become a member of the gentry, like me, a master chef. He could have his own home, a gentle lady for a wife, educated children, and a respectable profession to pass to his son.” He smiled and nodded—a contented old man. “ Oui , passing it on is what gives our lives meaning, eh?”
“Yes, monsieur . Passing it on is everything.”
He leaned back in his cozy chair, looking satisfied. “Amato’s profession was his permanent escape from the barbarians. Naturellement , he threw himself into his work. He became a sauce cook at the age of eighteen. Impressive, non ?”
“Indeed, monsieur .”
“ Oui . I was proud of that boy. But at nineteen he met Giulietta.”
Chef Meunier poured another cup of wine with a shaky hand. He wafted it under his nose, slurped, and snuggled into his shawl. “Giulietta came to the House of Este as a serving girl. She was fifteen— une enfant . Her complexion glowed; her hazel eyes were clear and innocent. Charmante . The first time Amato saw her, his face opened like a flower, and he dropped his ladle. It was one of those moments when time stops and after it begins again nothing is the same. Un coup .
“Giulietta was très petite . Slim hips. Diminutive . Once, I heard Amato wondering aloud whether he could encircle her waist with his hands.” The old man produced an offended grunt. “That was no way to talk in my kitchen, but he was under her spell. He used to say that light on her black hair made him think of moonlight on the Grand Canal. C’est ridicule , eh?”
I thought of Francesca. “Not for a man in love, monsieur .”
“ Boh . They were children.” Chef Meunier made an impatient noise from the back of his throat. “One day, Amato allowed a cream sauce to curdle, while he flirted with Giulietta—in my kitchen! Intolérable ! I could see that Amato’s plan had
I listened to the rain drumming the roof and imagined my maestro as a young rustic in the House of Este, gawking at the easy extravagance and wanting to be part of it. Then the shutters banged, and the rain intensified, hammering the window, rendering it opaque and darkening the room. The old man went on. “Every Sunday, Amato’s day off, he rose long before dawn and rode to Vicenza on a dairyman’s wagon. He came back after dinner on a fruit cart. He traveled six hours each way to spend an hour or two on the farm.”
His eyebrows pinched together. “He was a good boy. He wanted to visit his mother, but I could see what was happening. Oui . It was inevitable. Amato began to notice the sour smell of his mother’s kitchen, the rawness of her wine, and the overripe cheese that was too precious to discard.” He nodded slowly.
“After watching the Este’s maids spread sun-bleached sheets on plush featherbeds, it pained him to see the flea-infested straw mattresses that lined the walls of his family hovel. He would have given his mother money if he had any, but as you know apprentices earn no wages.”
“Indeed. I remember a time—”
“One Sunday, Amato came back from Vicenza upset, très vexé . The boy had chastised his mother for her low habit of kicking the chickens that strayed into her house. Oui , and for the way she hawked up phlegm and spat into the fire. He spent that entire week feeling guilty. He was useless in the kitchen. The following Sunday he apologized to her, but she shrugged him off. His life was proceeding exactly as she had hoped, but for him the visits became uncomfortable. He began to stay away from home for two and three weeks at a time. She didn’t mind; she wanted him to learn.”
The old chef leaned forward, and his voice went crafty and confidential. “Amato learned this: Even though he’d been born a serf, he could become a member of the gentry, like me, a master chef. He could have his own home, a gentle lady for a wife, educated children, and a respectable profession to pass to his son.” He smiled and nodded—a contented old man. “ Oui , passing it on is what gives our lives meaning, eh?”
“Yes, monsieur . Passing it on is everything.”
He leaned back in his cozy chair, looking satisfied. “Amato’s profession was his permanent escape from the barbarians. Naturellement , he threw himself into his work. He became a sauce cook at the age of eighteen. Impressive, non ?”
“Indeed, monsieur .”
“ Oui . I was proud of that boy. But at nineteen he met Giulietta.”
Chef Meunier poured another cup of wine with a shaky hand. He wafted it under his nose, slurped, and snuggled into his shawl. “Giulietta came to the House of Este as a serving girl. She was fifteen— une enfant . Her complexion glowed; her hazel eyes were clear and innocent. Charmante . The first time Amato saw her, his face opened like a flower, and he dropped his ladle. It was one of those moments when time stops and after it begins again nothing is the same. Un coup .
“Giulietta was très petite . Slim hips. Diminutive . Once, I heard Amato wondering aloud whether he could encircle her waist with his hands.” The old man produced an offended grunt. “That was no way to talk in my kitchen, but he was under her spell. He used to say that light on her black hair made him think of moonlight on the Grand Canal. C’est ridicule , eh?”
I thought of Francesca. “Not for a man in love, monsieur .”
“ Boh . They were children.” Chef Meunier made an impatient noise from the back of his throat. “One day, Amato allowed a cream sauce to curdle, while he flirted with Giulietta—in my kitchen! Intolérable ! I could see that Amato’s plan had
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