Free White Truffles in Winter by N. M. Kelby

understandable. She claimed not to speak any English but her French had an American accent, and so was always suspect. She said her father was “Edouard Bernardt” from the Le Havreof Monet’s painting, a magical place,and he was a man who, depending on the moment, was a law student, accountant, naval cadet or naval officer. But “Bernardt” was her grandfather’s name. He was Moritz Baruch Bernardt, a petty criminal.
    When it came to Sarah, the truth was difficult to ascertain. Alexandre Dumas, fils , whose La Dame aux Camélias Sarah performed thousands of times, called her a notorious liar. She took famous lovers, including Victor Hugo, of both sexes.
    She was thunder and lightning. She was Heaven and Hell. She was unforgettable.
    After their meeting at the exhibition, Escoffier barely slept. He threw himself into work and his studies with Doré. Busy, always busy.
    Two months had passed when Doré stopped by Le Petit Moulin Rouge to see Escoffier. The artist’s studio was around the corner from the café and so he often ordered supper to be delivered, especially when he was working late with students.
    â€œIt’s for Mademoiselle Bernhardt,” he told Escoffier. “You know what she likes. Make whatever will suit her.”
    Escoffier could not believe what he was hearing. “She’s taking lessons?”
    â€œShe’s very good. It’s surprising. Exhibition quality,” Doré said. “And don’t forget. Several bottles of champagne, of course.”
    Escoffier knew exactly what Sarah liked; he knew what everyone liked. He kept extensive notes about all of his favored diners. This was his second chance. He sent the champagne ahead and planned to cook and deliver the food himself.
    Escoffier knew if he could win Sarah’s heart it would be with a dish made of truffles and pureed foie gras , the one she often doted over. The subtle aroma of truffle, according to the great Brillat-Savarin, was an aphrodisiac. And so, “Let the food speak where words cannot,” Escoffier said, making the sign of the cross, and cooking as if his life depended on it, because on some level it did.
    When the chef finally knocked on the studio door, his small hands shook under the weight of the silver tray and its domed cover.
    Escoffier had changed into clean clothes and now looked more like a banker than a chef. But he was, most certainly, a chef. Beneath the dome, caramelized sweetbreads, covered with truffles, lay on a bed of golden noodles that were napped in a sauce made from the foie gras of ducks fed on wild raspberries, the framboise , of the countryside.
    It was a dish of profound simplicity, and yet luxury.
    When Doré opened the studio door, Escoffier was surprised to see that Sarah was dressed as a young boy, which was, of course, illegal. She wore a black vest, gypsy shirt, riding pants tucked into tall boots with her wild copper river of hair twisted into a knot on the top of her head. Her eyes were dusty, tornadic. Her skin seemed more like marble than flesh. She held a chisel in one hand—the bust she was working on was rough, just a few cuts—and a glass of champagne in the other. The thing he would always remember about that moment was that she was covered with a fine white dust, like powdered sugar.
    She could have dismissed him. After all, she clearly didn’t remember that they had already met. “Put the tray on the table and go,” is what he expected her to say. But she did not.
    She looked at him as if he were someone whom she had loved and lost. She would later say that it was at that moment that she noticed that he had her father’s eyes—eyes filled with a glorious burning. She had, indeed, remembered him.
    As was the custom, she kissed him on both cheeks. “Le Havre,” she whispered and Escoffier lifted the silver dome off the heavy platter. The room was filled with a hint of raspberries, warmed by the