White Truffles in Winter by N. M. Kelby

Escoffier saw the wine list for Gambetta’s secret dinner, he knew that it was no mistake that he had demanded the same wines that were offered for that famed Christmas meal—Latour Blanche 1861 , Château Palmer 1864 , Mouton Rothschild 1846 , Romanée-Conti 1858 , and even the Gran Porto 1827 .
    â€œA Bollinger, too?” Escoffier asked, which made Gambetta smile.
    â€œOf course you know,” he said. “I knew it would be impossible to hide this from you.”
    â€œI never forget a menu. It is both my gift and my curse. Unfortunately, the only wine we have in our cellar is the Rothschild but it is a beautiful, yet melancholy, wine and should evoke the proper memory.”
    Voisin’s Christmas celebration began with stuffed donkey’s head and then moved onward to roast camel, elephant consommé, kangaroo stew, leg of wolf cooked venison style and le chat flanqué de rats— cat surrounded by rats. There was also La Terrine d’Anteloupe aux Truffles , a terrine of boned rack of antelope studded with foie gras and truffles—a dish that bore a striking resemblance to the lamb that Gambetta had requested.
    Escoffier had a sinking feeling, which was made worse by the fact that Gambetta suddenly demanded that all the waiters be dismissed for the evening and that Escoffier not only cook the entire meal, but also serve it himself.
    â€œYou were in Metz, is that not correct?” Gambetta said. Escoffier had never hidden the fact, but was surprised that the Minister knew.
    â€œThat was a long time ago.”
    â€œFor a great chef, a culinary magician such as yourself, the starvation must have been unbearable. Tell me, did you not dream of pastry and champagne every night?”
    Escoffier pulled the selected bottles from the racks, hoping the conversation would take a different turn. He never spoke of the war, never allowed talk of it in his kitchen. It was over. Done.
    Gambetta put an arm around Escoffier’s shoulder. “Not many understand the beauty and passion of food as you do. The dreams must have driven a man like you to madness.”
    The Minister’s breath was hot and stale. The dampness of the wine cellar chilled Escoffier. He pulled away slightly. “I dreamt of France and her children.”
    There are some things that one does not speak of. Even a man like Escoffier, the son of a blacksmith, knew that. But Gambetta seemed unwilling to end the conversation. “Of course,” he said and then leaned in even closer. “Still. You must have longed for all this.” He pointed to the wines that surrounded them, each bottle a part of the history of France: dark and complex.
    â€œOne makes do.”
    Gambetta seemed so pale in the candlelight, more like the memory of the man and not the man himself. Escoffier carefully took the Mouton Rothschild from the shelf, lifted the bottle to the flame to examine it. The wine was heavy with sediment, in need of a good airing before drinking.
    Gambetta took the bottle from his hands. “May I?” He examined the cork, obviously looking to see if it had been removed previously, if the wine had been diluted or tampered with in any way. It was clear that he trusted Escoffier only to a certain point. It was outrageous to be treated that way, but Escoffier knew that to speak of such things would have been insolent—and the consequences of such an act would have been far worse.
    And so he said, “The Rothschild is very lovely. You will be quite pleased. It reminds me of brown sugar, chocolate and dried plum—very powerful and elegant. Let me show you. The color is remarkable.”
    Escoffier uncorked the wine and slowly began to decant it in the candlelight, carefully leaving the sediment behind. “Amazing, isn’t it? Rubies—those are the only other things on this earth that are as beautiful as this is, are they not? No?”
    Gambetta watched as Escoffier deftly poured the ruby