The Hundred-Foot Journey (19 page)

Madame Mallory was at that moment descending the stairs, fresh as could be, on her way out to the driveway where Monsieur Leblanc was waiting in the idling Citroën, ready to take her to a social function in town.

Chef Mallory was shrugging on brown leather gloves and wore a heavy wool wrap thrown around her shoulders. The narrow wooden stairway in which we stood filled with her Guerlain perfume, and I respectfully pressed myself against the wall to let her pass. But she stopped, two stairs above me, and peered down through the artificial gloaming of the staircase.

I undoubtedly looked wan and weak and possibly at rope’s end.

“Hassan, tell me, do you regret your decision? To come here?”

“Non, madame.”

“The hours are very difficult. But you’ll see. One day you’ll wake up, and,
voilà,
you will have a second wind. The body adjusts.”

“Yes. Thank you, Chef.”

She continued down the stairs, and I upward, and I don’t know what possessed me, to be so impertinent, but I blurted out, “But when can I start cooking? Will I only be peeling carrots here?”

She stopped on a lower step, in the dusk, but never turned her head. “You will start cooking when the time is right.”

“But when will that be?”

“Patience, Hassan. We will know when the moment has arrived.”

“Now focus. In what waters do the
Ostrea lurida
grow?”

“Umm. Off Brittany?”

“Wrong. Completely wrong, young man.”

Madame Mallory stared at me with her most imperious look, one eyebrow raised. It was six fifteen in the morning and we sat as usual under her turret window, sipping coffee from delicate Limoges porcelain. I was stupid with sleep.

“The
Ostrea edulis
is the oyster that grows off Brittany. Hassan, honestly, you should know this. We learnt about the
Ostrea lurida
two weeks ago. Here is the book on shellfish again. Study it. Properly this time.”

“
Oui, madame
. . . Oh, I remember now. The
lurida
is the tiny oyster that grows only in a few bays off the northwest coast of the United States. In Puget Sound.”

“Correct. I’ve never tried them myself, but I understand they have a very fine taste of seaweed, iodine, and hazelnut. Considered among the world’s finest. Hard to believe, that they should be better than a good Brittany oyster, but that is some people’s opinion. It is a matter of taste.”

Madame Mallory leaned forward to attack the bowl of fruit salad sitting at the center of the table. Her early morning appetite, the amount of fuel she took on board for her rigorous schedule of the day, was quite astounding. She had far more in common with Papa than either cared to admit.

“Now, European markets have been infested by a foreign import. What is the name of this invasive oyster, and tell me its history, briefly.”

I sighed. Glimpsed at my watch. “Will you be stuffing the veal breast today?”

Madame Mallory delicately spat out the pit of a stewed prune into a silver spoon and deposited it on the side of her bowl.

“
Ah, non
. Do not change the subject, Hassan. It won’t work.”

She put her bowl down. And stared.

“
Crassostrea gigas,
a Japanese oyster, commonly called the Pacific oyster, became dominant in Europe during the 1970s.”

It was a tad wintry, true, but it was still a smile.

Later that day, however, I caught my first glimpse of what lay ahead, when down in Le Saule Pleureur’s cold kitchen, leaning over the sink, Madame Mallory spontaneously reached out and patted my cheek after I correctly identified a specific type of
les creuses de Bretagne
oyster solely by sipping a teaspoon of its briny juice.

It was essentially a kind gesture meant to convey affection and approval, but in all honesty that tap-tap at my cheek, with her dry hand, so stiff, made my toes curl. And the incredible awkwardness of the moment was compounded by the fact she had ordered her
chef de cuisine
to demonstrate a certain oyster dish for us, and Jean-Pierre was at that moment standing at the stove glowering at me over Madame Mallory’s shoulder.

I knew then there was trouble ahead. But powerless to shape events, I avoided Jean-Pierre’s red face and instead focused intently on his hands, how he prepared the
Sauternes sabayon
sauce for the oysters, swiftly and expertly combining ingredients in the shuffling hot pan, as Madame Mallory droned on, explaining in minute detail the magical transformations happening in the searing heat, entirely oblivious to the emotions she had unleashed in her
chef de cuisine
.

I was slave to Le Saule Pleureur’s rhythms but still clinging to Maison Mumbai’s
doorknob
,
and this weird transitional phase all comes vividly back to me when I remember that time, a month or two after I moved, when Madame Mallory and I went into town to the markets for our early-morning purchases and lessons.

Madame Mallory had spent the first part of the morning tour making me smell and taste various cabbages—the savoy, chubby little cancan dancers luridly fanning their ruffled green petticoats so we could get a sneak peek at their delicately pale and parting leaves inside, and the giant red cabbage, deep in color, like a bon vivant soused in a ruby red port wine before showing up merrily on the stall’s counter.

“The thing you need to understand, Hassan, is that kohlrabi is the bridge between the cabbage and the turnip, and it melds the flavors of both vegetables. Remember that. It’s a subtle but important distinction that will help you decide when one vegetable is an ideal side dish, but not the other.”

Wicker baskets on both arms, leaning over to listen to my small voice in the boisterous market, Madame Mallory was, I must tell you, the very essence of patience on those trips, prepared to answer any of my questions, no matter how puerile and basic.

“We have a preference, in this region of France, for the Early White Vienna and the Early Purple Vienna kohlrabi varieties. Now, the
navet de Suede
is, in contrast, a robust turnip that grew wild up in the Baltic region, before Celts brought the nutritious root south and it began proper cultivation in France. This was thousands of years ago, of course, but it is my opinion the Swedish turnip today surpasses all other turnips, because of its sweetness, a characteristic bred into the vegetable over time. We should be able to find the yellow and black
navet
varieties at Madame Picard’s—”

We both looked up, to orient ourselves in the market and locate Madame Picard’s stall, and found, much to our surprise, Papa standing in front of the French widow’s operation. His feet were planted firmly apart, one hand on his hip, the other thrashing the air. He was talking with a great deal of animation, and I suspect I must have imagined it, at that distance, but I distinctly recall spittle flying like fireworks from his face.

Meanwhile, rough-looking Madame Picard, in her army boots and the usual layers of black skirts and sweaters, and that wispy hair, she had her head back and was lustily roaring with laughter at Papa’s story, so taken with mirth she had one hand out, to steady herself on Papa’s forearm.

I cringed when I saw the two of them like that, and immediately wanted to turn away, but Madame Mallory, perhaps sensing my instinct to bolt, put her hand on my elbow and marched us forward.

“Bonjour, Madame Picard. Bonjour, Monsieur Haji.”

Papa and Madame Picard had not seen us approach, were in fact still laughing, but their amusement instantly withered at the sound of that familiar voice. Papa in fact turned in a slightly defensive crouch, until he saw me, and then there was this flicker of insecurity behind the eyelids, as if he was unsure of how he should behave. But we were all like that—me in the markets accompanying Madame Mallory, and Papa with Picard on the “other side,” it was head-bending.

“Hello, Chef Mallory,” Papa said awkwardly. “Beautiful day. And I see you have brought your most talented student with you.”

“Hello, Papa.
Bonjour, Madame Picard
.”

The Widow Picard looked me up and down in that French way.

“Don’t you look the part, Hassan.
Le petit chef
. ”

“So, how is my boy doing? Ready to take your place yet?”

“Certainly not,” Madame Mallory said stiffly. “But he is a quick learner, I will grant him that.”

We all stood, awkwardly, at a loss on how to proceed, until Madame Mallory pointed at a basket in the back of the stall and said, “Look there, Hassan, as I told you. But they are the white
navet de Suede,
not the yellow or black I was hoping to find.” She leaned forward, ignoring Papa, and said, “Do you, Madame Picard, by any chance have some of the other, less common varieties hiding somewhere?”

There was a strange look on Papa’s face—not angry, more startled, like someone who’d just had his eyes opened as to how things would be from now on. And I will always remember how Papa, after blinking slowly a few times, taking it all in, put a hand on my shoulder, squeezed his good-bye, and then withdrew from the market without another word.

Six months after I started my apprenticeship, after a luncheon sitting, Marcel and I were in the kitchen mopping the floor spotless as Madame Mallory insisted, finishing our duties before we could crawl back to our respective rooms for our “room hour” rest.

There was a rap at the back door and I went to see who it was.

It was Monsieur Iten with a box.

“Bonjour, Hassan. Ça va?”

After the ritualistic exchanges about the state of health of various members of our respective families, Monsieur Iten informed me he had just received a special delivery of
Bretagne
oysters, and he brought them immediately by Le Saule Pleureur because he knew Madame Mallory would want to serve such fresh oysters during the evening’s sitting, if she knew they were available.

But she wasn’t at the restaurant. Neither was Jean-Pierre, Margaret, or even Monsieur Leblanc. No one of authority was around. It was just Marcel and me mopping up.

“What do you think, Marcel?”

Marcel shook his head vehemently, his chubby cheeks shuddering in horror at the notion we might make so crucial a decision. “Don’t do it, Hassan. She will kill us.”

I peered into the box. “How many, Monsieur Iten?”

“Eight dozen.”

I poked around in the box.

“Okay. I’ll sign for them. But subtract four.”

“Pourquoi?”

“Because these four are
Crassostrea gigas
. You know perfectly well, Monsieur Iten, Chef Mallory would never serve them to her guests. How did they get in here? She would be furious with you if she saw you trying to pass Pacific oysters off as
huîtres Portuguaises Sauvages
. And, besides, it’s all a jumble. The rest are all Breton oysters, true, but I see at least another six that are not the very fine
La Cancale pousses en claires
from around Mont Saint-Michel. Look,
La Cancale
have a pale beige mantle and toothed shells, like this. I would guess these ones over here are
La Croisicaise,
from the Grand and Petit Traict channels in the south. See, here, the signature pale yellow in the shell? And look at the varying sizes. These here are number fours, but these must be number twos.
Non?
There is no mention of this on your bill, Monsieur Iten. So I am sorry, but you will have to adjust the bill accordingly if you want me to accept delivery.”

Monsieur Iten removed the four offending oysters, made a note on the bill about the other details on size and quality I had noticed, before saying, “Forgive me, Hassan. An oversight. I will not let it happen again.”

It was only when Madame Mallory promoted me to
commis
the next day, to personally assist her in the kitchen, that I realized the box of oysters had been a test quietly prearranged with the fishmonger. Of course, neither of them ever owned up to the fact.

But that’s the way Chef Mallory was.

Challenging, always challenging.

Particularly of her staff.

It was a busy Saturday in deepest winter. The world outside was crystalline and white, with fat icicles hanging from Le Saule Pleureur’s copper gutters like hams curing in a shed. Inside, the steamy kitchen was in full roar, pot lids rattling, flames flaring, and in this culinary fervor I was tasked with making the day’s soufflés, a lunchtime favorite made from goat cheese and pistachios.

I pulled a set of ceramic molds from the chilly storage room in the back of the kitchen and, as was normal, lathered their white walls with soft butter, before sprinkling the dishes’ bottoms with cornmeal and finely chopped pistachios. The soufflé’s base was also executed by the book: unripened goat cheese, egg yolks, finely minced garlic, thyme, salt, and white pepper, all heated and folded, before adding, to lighten the base, a liberal dose of beaten egg whites and cream of tartar—that crusty acid scraped off the sides of wine barrels and pulverized, after purification, into the white powder that miraculously stabilizes egg whites. The final touch was, of course, the top layer of whipped egg whites, elegantly smoothed with a knife and given just a suggestion of an artistic swirl. Preparation finally complete, I put the molds in a water bath and placed the pan in the center of the oven to bake.

A half hour later, while I was making the veal stock, Jean-Pierre cried, “Hassan! Over here!” and I dashed to his side of the range to help lift the heavy pork roasts from the ovens for the ritualistic basting in lemon juice and cognac.

Madame Mallory, on the next counter, smothering
daurade
in herbs and lime, every now and then looked over at us impatiently, to see if I had gone back to my own station.

“Hassan, keep your eye on the soufflés!” she barked.

“Watch it! You almost dropped the pan, you idiot!”

Margaret, the quiet sous chef, looked up from her corner in the cold kitchen—where she was making a blancmange—and we locked eyes over the hissing flames.

Margaret’s sympathetic look, it made my heart flutter, but I could not linger, and I dashed back to my ovens to retrieve the soufflés. “Not to worry, Chef,” I called out. “Trust me. All under control.” I banged open the oven door, extracted the hot tray of soufflés, and lifted it onto the countertop above.