White Truffles in Winter by N. M. Kelby Page A

river of wine, gently, slowly and carefully. The musty air was filled with the particular lushness of late summer with its ripe cherries and tart apples.
    â€œLovely,” the chef said under his breath. “So very lovely.”
    Gambetta laughed. “My friend, you are a liar,” he said somewhat charmingly, somewhat ruefully. “You pour that wine as one lowers his lover down upon silken sheets. You cannot tell me that you no longer hold the pain of hunger in your heart.”
    â€œWe tracked prey and foraged just as the Indians did,” Escoffier said, still pouring. “And so every meal, no matter how simple, was a feast to us—that was key. Saucisson , sardines—it did not matter. When eaten with the proper spirit, food nourishes both body and spirit.”
    Gambetta took the bottle from Escoffier’s hand. “You nearly starved to death. How can you not feel anger?”
    The conversation was exhausting. It was now quite clear that the Germans were coming, and Xavier would most definitely have to be sent home. And on such a night! They were short handed and every table for both the early and late dinner seatings was reserved. There was no one in the brigade, except Escoffier, who could adequately serve as rôtisseur. But of course, he had to also serve this meal. It was impossible. And now his own loyalty to France was in question.
    Escoffier took a deep breath before he answered. “It was war. But even in war, there can be great gifts. The eve of the battle of Gravelotte was on the day of Assumption, the day of Our Lady, Patroness of France. We had a lovely lapin à la soubise . The rabbit was sautéed in a puree of caramelized onions and finished with cognac. It was really quite stunning.”
    At the mention of Gravelotte, Gambetta became enraged. “You speak as if you are a fool,” he said and threw the bottle of Rothschild onto the floor. “The day of Assumption, the day of Our Lady, Patroness of France, as you say—this is the very root of France’s problem.”
    â€œI am sorry. It was not my intention to offend,” Escoffier said. It was all that he could think to say. He had no idea why Gambetta was suddenly livid.
    â€œI assumed that you were a worldly man. Sophisticated. I see that I was wrong.”
    Gambetta was pacing in and out of the light. He was furious enough to walk out, leaving Escoffier with fine wines oxidizing and a lavish meal with no one to eat it. “I am extremely sorry,” Escoffier said again, knelt, and began to pick up shards of glass with his bare hands. Wine seeped into the wool of his dove gray pants.
    â€œDon’t understand, do you?”
    â€œI sincerely wish that I did.”
    Gambetta yanked him up by his collar. Escoffier’s platform shoes made him unsteady. He nearly fell over backwards. The shards of glass dug deeply into his palms. His hands began to bleed. Gambetta did not notice.
    â€œLook at me when I speak to you. How do you not see the danger that is all around us?”
    â€œI am just a chef. My world is as vast as an egg.”
    â€œWhich everyone knows that you can cook over six hundred ways. This sudden false humility is not becoming.”
    â€œIt is not my intention—”
    â€œYou and I both know that we can no longer live in a country directed by religious superstition and unpredictable devotions. Catholics control everything and their passion makes them easily manipulated. The day of Assumption, the day of Our Lady, Patroness of France—it’s obscene how they prey on the simple-minded.”
    Escoffier suddenly found it difficult to breathe. “This is about Catholics?” Blood and wine were running down his arm, staining his pants, the cuff of his white shirt. He hid them behind his back. The sight of his wounds would only make matters worse.
    â€œThese idiot Catholics think if they offer a fatted lamb to the heavens it will bring them luck.