changed. He wanted that girl more than he wanted to be a chef. But allowing a sauce to curdle? Mon Dieu , it was too much.
“I lost my temper that day. I banged on that pot of lumpy sauce with my wooden spoon, like so.” He smacked his chair arm twice. “I hollered, ‘Non! Non!’ I tell you, the way those two carried on violated the sanctity of my kitchen. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Non . Amato worried less about my anger and more about what impression the scene would make on Giulietta.”
The old man sighed heavily and shrugged under his shawl. “A man is helpless in the face of love, especially a young one, eh?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The affair proceeded from daily flirtation to one night—oh, that must have been a night to remember—the night Amato learned that, oui , he could encircle her waist with his hands. After that, it was hopeless; it was obsession. Everything else—his sauces, his mother’s dreams, his own ambitions—everything evaporated in the heat of their passion.” Chef Meunier shook his head and sipped his wine.
He looked out at the pounding rain and squinted as if trying to see the incident he wanted to recall. “One morning, Amato requested an interview with me. When I saw his face lit from within, I knew what was coming. Oui , Amato wished to marry Giulietta.”
“Had you spoken to him about the book?”
“Not yet.” He wagged his head. “But I shouldn’t have waited so long. I should have told him sooner that marriage would interfere with my plans for him, that it would make things très difficiles for us both. I said, ‘Amato, you still have much to learn. Beaucoup .’
“He said, ‘A married man can learn as well as a bachelor.’ Boh . I made a face like so.” Chef Meunier cocked his head to one side and knit his brow in a skeptical knot. “I told him, ‘We must talk. Come to my house tonight, eh?’ Amato was annoyed, but he said that he would come.”
Chef Meunier looked around his book-cluttered room. “That night we sat right here, Amato and I. It must have been strange for him to see me so serious. Ah, oui , I know. In the kitchen I played the merry elf, rushing from one station to the other. Everyone thought me genial, très clément , even comical. Oui , I know.”
I remembered how Chef Meunier’s little belly used to bounce when he laughed, and how his tall white toque seemed to be almost a third of his height—a merry elf indeed.
“But that night, Amato saw this.” He leaned forward again and screwed up his face; a deep worry line appeared between his eyebrows and long creases bracketed his mouth. “I told him, ‘Amato, I have a legacy and I need a wise and moral man to be my successor.’”
“What?” I sat up straight. “You told him … about us? Just like that?”
The lower lip jutted. “Not all at once. You know how it’s done.”
I leaned back. “Yes, I know how it’s done.” The ebb and flow of the rain reminded me of my own convoluted journey, of the unexpected twists of fate that led me into a life of shadows and secrets.
Chef Meunier smiled. “Amato was très confused. He said, ‘As fine as your recipe collection is, I hardly think you need a saint to inherit it.’ Ach! He knew nothing, absolument rien . I used a grape and a raisin to explain how knowledge can be altered.”
I recalled a day, walking in the sun with my maestro, when he carried a bunch of grapes and pocketful of raisins. I said, “He initiated me with the same method, monsieur .”
He shrugged. “It’s standard.” His old face grew abstract. “I explained to Amato that some of us devoted ourselves to the accumulation of knowledge, to becoming teachers. He wanted to know more, but, of course, first he had to accept.”
I nodded. “It was the same with me.”
“Of course it was. Stop interrupting me. Isn’t it enough you make me remember what happened to my beloved apprentice?” He sniffed. “I told Amato that if he accepted what I offered, it
“I lost my temper that day. I banged on that pot of lumpy sauce with my wooden spoon, like so.” He smacked his chair arm twice. “I hollered, ‘Non! Non!’ I tell you, the way those two carried on violated the sanctity of my kitchen. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Non . Amato worried less about my anger and more about what impression the scene would make on Giulietta.”
The old man sighed heavily and shrugged under his shawl. “A man is helpless in the face of love, especially a young one, eh?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The affair proceeded from daily flirtation to one night—oh, that must have been a night to remember—the night Amato learned that, oui , he could encircle her waist with his hands. After that, it was hopeless; it was obsession. Everything else—his sauces, his mother’s dreams, his own ambitions—everything evaporated in the heat of their passion.” Chef Meunier shook his head and sipped his wine.
He looked out at the pounding rain and squinted as if trying to see the incident he wanted to recall. “One morning, Amato requested an interview with me. When I saw his face lit from within, I knew what was coming. Oui , Amato wished to marry Giulietta.”
“Had you spoken to him about the book?”
“Not yet.” He wagged his head. “But I shouldn’t have waited so long. I should have told him sooner that marriage would interfere with my plans for him, that it would make things très difficiles for us both. I said, ‘Amato, you still have much to learn. Beaucoup .’
“He said, ‘A married man can learn as well as a bachelor.’ Boh . I made a face like so.” Chef Meunier cocked his head to one side and knit his brow in a skeptical knot. “I told him, ‘We must talk. Come to my house tonight, eh?’ Amato was annoyed, but he said that he would come.”
Chef Meunier looked around his book-cluttered room. “That night we sat right here, Amato and I. It must have been strange for him to see me so serious. Ah, oui , I know. In the kitchen I played the merry elf, rushing from one station to the other. Everyone thought me genial, très clément , even comical. Oui , I know.”
I remembered how Chef Meunier’s little belly used to bounce when he laughed, and how his tall white toque seemed to be almost a third of his height—a merry elf indeed.
“But that night, Amato saw this.” He leaned forward again and screwed up his face; a deep worry line appeared between his eyebrows and long creases bracketed his mouth. “I told him, ‘Amato, I have a legacy and I need a wise and moral man to be my successor.’”
“What?” I sat up straight. “You told him … about us? Just like that?”
The lower lip jutted. “Not all at once. You know how it’s done.”
I leaned back. “Yes, I know how it’s done.” The ebb and flow of the rain reminded me of my own convoluted journey, of the unexpected twists of fate that led me into a life of shadows and secrets.
Chef Meunier smiled. “Amato was très confused. He said, ‘As fine as your recipe collection is, I hardly think you need a saint to inherit it.’ Ach! He knew nothing, absolument rien . I used a grape and a raisin to explain how knowledge can be altered.”
I recalled a day, walking in the sun with my maestro, when he carried a bunch of grapes and pocketful of raisins. I said, “He initiated me with the same method, monsieur .”
He shrugged. “It’s standard.” His old face grew abstract. “I explained to Amato that some of us devoted ourselves to the accumulation of knowledge, to becoming teachers. He wanted to know more, but, of course, first he had to accept.”
I nodded. “It was the same with me.”
“Of course it was. Stop interrupting me. Isn’t it enough you make me remember what happened to my beloved apprentice?” He sniffed. “I told Amato that if he accepted what I offered, it
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