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

summer sun, and truffles, dark as memory.
    Sarah leaned over the dish and closed her eyes. “It is as if the very air is made of velvet.”
    And then she laughed: all bones and fury.
    And he was forever hers. No matter whom he loved, or was loved by, the shadow of her always remained.

A T LE PETIT MOULIN ROUGE, THERE WERE ROOMS TO BE seen in, rooms to be lost in, and rooms never to leave. The restaurant, only open during the summer months, featured a series of outdoor gardens with arbors of roses and lilacs trellised to form fragrant walls. Inside there were two formal dining rooms on the main level, two large private rooms on the second, and several smaller rooms for more intimate dining on the third and fourth floors. There were thirty rooms in all and a private entrance at 3 rue Jean Goujon that was hidden by a roadside lilac grove.
    Every night, every dining-room drama was scored by music from Napoleon Musad’s orchestra, who played in the band shell across the street at the Champs Elysées gardens. That night was no different.
    Escoffier usually worked the dining room, kissing the hands of the ladies who were discreetly ushered in through the side entrance. But that night, he waited in the kitchen so that he might catch a glimpse of Sarah leaving Doré’s studio, or maybe even find her standing outside the back door waiting to thank him for such an elegant supper.
    It is impossible that she is not moved, he thought and watched the couples in the park, under the gaslights. The ladies in their elegant bustled dresses and peacock-plumed hats. Men in their frock coats and silver handled canes. They strolled along dimly lit walks or sat drinking wine under the darkness of the trees. Musad and the orchestra were playing an evening of the work of Vincent d’Indy, mostly his chamber pieces; a charming backdrop for an evening in the park.
    At eight p.m., when the last dinner service ended at Le Petit Moulin Rouge and the waiting horse-drawn hansom cabs began to leave one by one, the orchestra began the Quartet for Piano and Strings in A Minor, Op. 7 . It was one of Escoffier’s favorite works. The joy of it, the coyness, and then the bold dance of the keys and strings always reminded him of his grandmother, the warmth of her kitchen and the kindness that she showed a young boy who wanted to learn the art of cookery.
    Tonight, however, the Quartet made him furious. All he could think of was Sarah and Doré listening, too, their bodies entwined. Some said Doré was handsome, but to Escoffier his mentor was not an attractive man at all. He looked like an educated ape with his wild hair and unsuitable clothes—he was quite fond of wearing checkered pants and an unmatched checkered scarf in all seasons. What could Sarah see in him besides his talent?
    But as soon as Escoffier thought this, he understood that it was precisely what attracted her to Doré. He had, after all, illustrated the works of Milton, Dante, Lord Byron and that Spaniard Cervantes and his Don Quixote . Not a week passed without a new book illustrated by Doré. He was rich and successful, but it was more than that and Escoffier knew it. Doré was the heart of Paris. His etchings of the Prussian Siege showed a city at its knees—a mother watching in horror as a soldier killed her infant and market stalls selling rats, cats and dogs. Doré had been there, as they all had been there. He remembered for them all and so they would not forget.
    And I am nothing but a cook.
    And yet Escoffier could not bear to leave the window. Just one last look. When the staff left for the evening, Escoffier remained.
    Hours later, the boulanger found him asleep in a chair facing the street. He shook him gently. “Papa, I have come to start today’s bread.”
    â€œI was just . . . ”
    Escoffier could see by the look on the baker’s face that there was no need to explain. He knew. Everyone must know .
    â€œYes.