1
" The fruit alone inspired him. In the heat of summer there were mirabelles from Alsace: small and golden cherries, speckled with red. And Reine Claude from Moissac, sweet thin-skinned plums the color of lettuce touched with gold. In August, green hazelnuts and then green walnuts, delicate, milky and fresh. And of course, for just a moment in early fall, pêches de vigne, a rare subtle peach so remarkable that a shipment was often priced at a year's wages. And right before winter, Chasselas de Moissac grapes: small, pearlescent, and so graceful that they grow in Baroque clusters, as if part of a Caravaggio still life. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
4
" The last meal aboard the Titanic was remarkable. It was a celebration of cuisine that would have impressed the most jaded palate.
There were ten courses in all, beginning with oysters and a choice of Consommé Olga, a beef and port wine broth served with glazed vegetables and julienned gherkins, or Cream of Barley Soup. Then there were plate after plate of main courses- Poached Salmon and Cucumbers with Mousseline Sauce, a hollandaise enriched with whipped cream; Filet Mignon Lili, steaks fried in butter, hen topped with an artichoke bottom, foie gras and truffle and served with a Périgueux sauce, a sauté of Chicken Lyonnaise; Lamb with Mint Sauce; Roast Duckling with Apple Sauce; Roast Squash with Cress and Sirloin Beef.
There were also a garden's worth of vegetables, prepared both hot and cold. And several potatoes- Château Potatoes, cut to the shape of olives and cooked gently in clarified butter until golden and Parmentier Potatoes, a pureed potato mash garnished with crouton and chervil. And, of course, pâté de foie gras.
To cleanse the palate, there was a sixth course of Punch à la Romaine, dry champagne, simple sugar syrup, the juice of two oranges and two lemons, and a bit of their zest. The mixture was steeped, strained, fortified with rum, frozen, topped with a sweet meringue and served like a sorbet. For dessert there was a choice of Waldorf Pudding, Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly, Chocolate and Vanilla Èclairs and French ice cream. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
5
" When it came to the frying of chicken, they took pity on the captors and incorporated the seasonings and spices of Africa- garlic, melegueta pepper, cloves, black peppercorns, cardamom, nutmeg, turmeric and even curry powder. They forgave them their cruelty and presented them with what can only be described as a gift born in sorrow.
Food has the ability to move people in this manner. It can inspire bravery.
These kitchen slaves could have been beaten for this insolence, or perhaps even killed for such an act, but they served their fried fowl anyway. Not surprisingly, their captors were entranced by it. Soon southern fried chicken became a delicacy enjoyed by both cultures- it was the one point where both captors and captive found pleasure, although the Africans were only allowed to fry the discarded wings of the bird for their own meals. Despite the continued injustice, it was an inspired and blessed act of subversion.
Although born in slavery, this dish has not only brought together an entire region of people, it has transformed them. It is, as the Americans say, "democratic," and is now enjoyed by people of all walks of life and all parts of the country. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
7
" Madame Escoffier," he said. In his white apron, he was again the man she loved. The gentle man who only spoke in whispers.
"I am sorry," she said.
"I am not."
He leaned over and kissed her. His lips tasted of tomatoes, sharp and floral.
The moment, filled with the heat of a reckless summer, brought her back to the gardens they had grown together in Paris in a private courtyard behind Le Petit Moulin Rouge. Sweet Roma tomatoes, grassy licorice tarragon, thin purple eggplants and small crisp beans thrived in a series of old wine barrels that sat in the tiny square. There were also violets and roses that the 'confiseur' would make into jellies or sugar to grace the top of the 'petit-fours glacés,' which were baked every evening while the coal of the brick ovens cooled down for the night.
"No one grows vegetables in the city of Paris," she said, laughing, when Escoffier first showed her his hidden garden, "except for Escoffier."
He picked a ripe tomato, bit into it and then held it to her lips. "Pomme d'amour, perhaps this was fruit of Eden."
The tomato was so ripe and lush, so filled with heat it brought tears to her eyes and he kissed her.
"You are becoming very good at being a chef's wife."
"I love you," she said and finally meant it.
'Pommes d'amour.' The kitchen was now overflowing with them. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
8
" Escoffier knew if he could win Sara'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. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
9
" Earlier that morning, Escoffier ad brought up a large bucket of white rose petals, white violets and vanilla orchids that he'd been thinking of creating a dish with. The pâtissier had crystalized some of the flowers, and left him a plate of meringue shells, a handful of vanilla beans and fresh cream. He wanted to create a new dish for Sarah, a sweet, something surprising, something to engage her. She'd been playing Joan of Arc, the virgin saint, a seventeen-year-old girl. It was a role she made famous, difficult at any age, but for a woman in her mid-forties, it was nearly impossible.
Escoffier tossed a handful of white rose petals into Rosa's bathwater.
The white skin. The white roses. 'The essence of Saint Joan is in shades of white, like shades of innocence.'
'Spun sugar,' he thought. 'Vanilla cream, of course. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
10
" Do you remember the mangoes?" she asked. She thought she was whispering but the scratching of the pen nib stopped. "You must remember them."
She could hear him push the chair away from his desk, slowly stand and then lean against the wall. The floorboards creaked.
"The mangoes?" she asked again.
She could hear him breathing. He cleared his throat and then, quietly, said, "They were sweet, were they not?"
"It was a sweetness more intense than anything I have ever known."
And then the room fell quiet. The two sat listening to the familiar sound of each other's breath. Without words, there was comfort: a sonata, tone poem of silence and knowing.
After a time, Escoffier said, "The Hindus believe that mangoes are a true sign that perfection is attainable."
She thought of the mangoes with their smooth marbled skin, the carmine and field grass green of them, and then the flesh itself, that vivid orange, and then, each bite, the juice sliding down her arm. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
11
" Nothing speaks more accurately to the complexity of life than food. Who has not had, let us say, a béarnaise, the child of hollandaise, and has not come away from the taste of it feeling overwhelmed?
At first, it fills the mouth with the softness of butter and then the richness of egg, and before it becomes too rich or too comfortable, the moment shifts and begins to ground itself in darkness with the root of a shallot and the hint of crushed peppercorn. But then, the taste deepens. The memory of rebirth is made manifest with the sacred chervil, sweet and grassy with a note of licorice, whose spring scent is so like myrrh that it recalls the gift of the Wise Men and the holy birth whenever it is tasted. And then, of course, the "King of Herbs," tarragon with its gentle licorice, reminds us not to forget that miracles are possible. And just when we think we understand what we are experiencing, the taste turns again on the tongue, and finishes with shrill vinegar followed by a reduction of wine so that the acid tempers the sauce but never dominates. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
12
" Escoffier set the table. He'd found a Japanese kimono, an obvious prop from some theater production, to use as a tablecloth. Paris had secretly fallen in love with all things oriental. It was red silk brocade, covered with a flock of white flying cranes, and made from a single bolt of fabric. The neckline and cuffs were thickly stained with stage makeup but the kimono itself was quite beautiful. It ran the length of the thin table. The arms overhung one end.
Outside the building he'd seen a garden with a sign that read "Please do not pick." But it was, after all, for a beautiful woman. Who would deny him? And so Escoffier cut a bouquet of white flowers: roses, peonies and a spray of lilies, with rosemary stalks to provide the greenery. He placed them in a tall water glass and then opened the basket of food he'd brought. He laid out the china plates so that they rested between the cranes, and then the silver knives, forks and spoons, and a single crystal glass for her champagne. Even though it was early afternoon, he'd brought two dozen candles.
The food had to be served 'à la française'; there were no waiters to bring course after course. So he kept it simple. Tartlets filled with sweet oysters from Arcachon and Persian caviar, chicken roasted with truffles, a warm baguette, 'pâté de foie gras,' and small sweet strawberries served on a bed of sugared rose petals and candied violets. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
16
" Not many could remember the great diva Nellie Melba anymore. But when she performed 'Lohengrin', her soaring operatic voice greatly moved those at Covent Garden, including Escoffier. And so while the details of her performance are forgotten, as is the opera itself, nearly everyone in the world has had a variation on Peach Melba. Perhaps, unlike the original, it was not covered in a lace of spun sugar or served in a sliver bowl resting on a block of ice sculpted to look like the wings of the mythical swans that appear in the opera's first act, but it still contained ripe peaches, vanilla ice cream, and a puree of sugared raspberry, and was most certainly called "Melba. "
― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter
