The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  Copyright © 2016 by Saygın Ersin

  English-language translation copyright © 2018 by Mark David Wyers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First English-language Edition

  First published in Turkey in 2016 by April Yayincilik under the title Pir-i-Lezzet

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or arcade@skyhorsepublishing.com.

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  Names: Ersin, Saygın, 1975- author. | Wyers, Mark, translator.

  Title: The pasha of cuisine : a novel / by Saygın Ersin ; translated by Mark Wyers.

  Other titles: Pir-i Lezzet. English

  Description: First English edition. | New York : Arcade Publishing, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018012759 | ISBN 9781628729610 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Cooks—Turkey—Fiction. | Sultans—Turkey—Fiction. | Turkey—History—Ottoman Empire, 1288-1918—Fiction. | GSAFD: Historical fiction | Adventure stories

  Classification: LCC PL249.E75 P5813 2018 | DDC 894/.3534—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018012759

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Cover photo courtesy of iStockphoto

  Printed in the United States of America

  1

  The Lord of the Mansion

  ZÜMRÜTZADE HÜSNÜ BEY, one of Constantinople’s most eminent merchants, was hosting an evening banquet for a guest who was as imposing in stature as he was in name: Siyavuş Agha, the Chief Sword Bearer to the sultan, who had agreed to grace Hüsnü Bey’s humble mansion with his presence.

  The feast was being held in the mansion’s magnificent selamlique. Four massive trays had been carefully spaced out along a long low table which was covered in a tablecloth that was mustard yellow in hue and embroidered in silver. The cushions laid out on the floor around the table were, like the divans that lined three walls of the room, covered in plush blue velvet. The goldwork of the guests’ garments shimmered in the glow of twenty-one silver candelabras, each of which made the crystal glasses on the table gleam, casting a flickering shine over the porcelain serving dishes adorned with ornate designs of blue and green.

  The servants of the mansion, who for weeks had been busy preparing for the feast and enduring the endless instructions and admonitions of their masters, were carrying out their duties with artfulness and grace worthy of a palace. Under the direction of the mansion chamberlain, the servant boys padded, catlike, across a Persian carpet which covered the length of the selamlique as they placed bowls on the trays. Their movements were so nimble that nary a clink of porcelain could be heard. One particularly young servant boy who had gray-blue eyes filled the drinking glass of the guest of honor with such decorum and deliberateness that when the Chief Sword Bearer murmured in deference, “By the grace of God,” the sound of his voice mingled with the musical tones of the water as it splashed into his glass.

  Seated to the left of Siyavuş Agha, whose fame and notoriety as the Chief Sword Bearer were known throughout the lands of the empire, was a member of the Imperial Council, a man by the name of Halil Pasha, who happened to be the Chief Treasurer. Decorum prescribed that a guest of his standing should add yet more grandeur to such a banquet, but Halil Pasha was feeling out of sorts in both mind and body that evening. His heart, which had grown weary after years of keeping records of the thrice-monthly payment of the Janissaries’ salaries, was no longer able to bear even the slightest of squabbles. For Halil Pasha, the banquet was little more than an irritating necessity. Sweating profusely and short of breath, he looked like he might give up his soul should the slightest provocation arise.

  Halil Pasha was of the opinion that, even if heavenly ambrosia were to be served, dining with Siyavuş Agha was a situation that should be avoided at all costs. Of course, it was undeniable that Siyavuş Agha was a man of great influence. He was just one of four distinguished personages who could visit the sultan at Edirne Palace unannounced. A single word from his lips had the power to bring prosperity and good tidings, but not once had a single soul been touched by the goodwill he had at his fingertips.

  Siyavuş Agha had acquired an unprecedented reputation for being cranky and peevish. For centuries, the palace had bore witness to the rise and demise of the surliest of sultans, imperial consorts, and wives of sultans, but none could have rivaled that cantankerous old man. The agha could not tolerate the slightest imperfection. The muslin windings of his massive turban had to be unwound and washed every single night regardless of whether or not they were dirty, and every morning he expected his turban to be wound afresh, smelling of soap. When he went to the hammam, the water for bathing had to be heated to just the right temperature, and if it wasn’t, the consequences were dire. When he had to stay overnight outside the palace, mere candles were insufficient for illuminating his presence; only lamps filled with scented oils would do. His moustache and beard had to be anointed with almond oil, and his hair and skin were to be cleansed by the finest soaps and softened with the purest of olive oil. Intolerant of mistakes, he meted out punishments that far outweighed the crime. Once, the agha had a servant boy beaten to the point of death just because the lad had folded his kaftan incorrectly, and that was just the last in a long list of such incidents.

  When it came to pleasures of the gastronomic sort, the agha’s capriciousness was a source of despair throughout the Ottoman lands. The most skilled chefs would slave over dishes just to find that he turned his nose up at them, and to make matters worse, he actually knew nothing of the culinary arts. The agha was pleased or displeased based on mere whims, so in the end the cooks simply prepared dishes as they saw fit and left the rest in the hands of God. The agha once heaped praise on an undercooked dish of grilled dove that had been carelessly prepared by an inexperienced young chef, whom he went on to lavish with gold. Another time he was presented with a dish of lamb served on roasted aubergine puree which would have made a king swoon with delight. But what did he do? Tossed it to the ground without a second glance.

  Despite all the gossip, stories, and speculation, there was one thing about Siyavuş Agha’s taste in food that was known for certain: he despised leeks. His hatred of that particular vegetable was so rancorous that the sultan himself, though he might be craving it, would refrain from having it brought to the table when he was dining with the agha just to avoid his Sword Bearer’s displeasure.

  So for Halil Pasha, a banquet with Siyavuş Agha promised to be about as enjoyable as bedding down for the night in a sleeping bear’s cave. He feared that in his heart he would curse Hüsnü Bey, the host of the banquet, every time that a dish was served and Siyavuş Agha’s face darkened with displeasure. And he wasn’t unjustified, as he would find out. The only reason he was invited that night was because Hüsnü Bey had personally requested his presence. Yakup Efendi, one of the four guests seated around the tray beside him, was Hüsnü Bey’s brother-in-law and, like many of the others a
t the feast that night, he was a wheat merchant. It had been a scorching summer and famine was engulfing the empire, so the Imperial Council had forbidden the export of certain goods, including wheat. Yakup Efendi (who would swear up and down that he didn’t have an ounce of flour despite the fact that his storehouses were brimming with wheat) was hoping to obtain an export concession from the sultan. Siyavuş Agha, who was known for his ability to pull strings with the sultan, was promised that he would pocket a hefty commission in return.

  Zümrützade Hüsnü Bey was thereby forced to invite Halil Pasha to the banquet, since, as the Provincial Treasurer, he was the only person on the Imperial Council who could possibly object to the granting of the concession. Despite his somewhat timid disposition, Halil Pasha was a skilled statesman with extensive experience and he wielded notable influence especially in matters of finance. Still, making a speech at an Imperial Council gathering was one thing; openly objecting to a motion made by the Chief Sword Bearer was another. And that’s why Hüsnü Bey had invited Halil Pasha to his mansion that night; he knew that while Halil Pasha was a clever statesman, he would refrain from publically drawing the wrath of Siyavuş Agha upon himself.

  A devout man, Halil Pasha stoically accepted his lot in life and all that might befall him in the future. At the moment, however, there was one thing that was making him uneasy: there was a tension in the room which he knew would prevent him from properly enjoying the fine dishes that had been prepared for the evening.

  Halil Pasha wasn’t much of an epicurean. Because of his mild-mannered nature, religious devotion, and humble background, he would eat whatever was placed before him without a word of complaint. He had spent his childhood years as a servant at a countryside manor, and the first lesson he had learned in life was thankfulness for all that God provided.

  But something was about to change all that.

  The food that was being brought out smelled so exquisite that the Provisional Treasurer was, perhaps for the first time in his life, becoming aware of the fact that he, too, could indulge himself in the enjoyment of food, and that eating was about much more than just filling one’s belly.

  When the mansion’s chamberlain gave the order, the serving boys removed the lids of the bowls, at which time the quiet conversations at the table abruptly ceased. The dish that was about to be served may have merely been rice topped with black pepper, but the scent of the pepper was so enticing that it sent all of the men into reveries. If Hüsnü Bey hadn’t enjoined his guests to partake in the feast, none of them would have deigned to pick up their ebony spoons inlaid with mother of pearl and dig into the masterpiece that had been laid before them.

  While savoring the rice on the tongue was a pleasure in itself, swallowing it was an altogether different delight. The soft rice soothed the zing of the peppercorns, and, fused in fresh butter, the spice and rice gently glided down toward the stomach.

  After the guests had polished off the first dish, the chamberlain signaled for some of the servant boys to clear away the spoons and bowls. As they backed toward the door with measured steps, three other servants approached, placing hot bowls of soup on the trays while a fourth meticulously placed a large spoon made of an antler on the table in front of each guest, beginning with the Chief Sword Bearer.

  This next dish was makiyan soup, and it made the peppered rice seem as if it had been but a paltry introduction.

  Every flavor in the soup had been perfectly orchestrated. There wasn’t a trace of flavor from the egg that had been used to thicken the soup; as if under the firm control of a master conductor, it duly performed its task of bringing out the scent of the lemon and the richness of the chicken—nothing more, nothing less. Not a single person reached for the salt or pepper on the table because the soup fell into flawless harmony with the palate of each guest.

  Each new dish that the servants brought in was even more delightful than the previous.

  As Siyavuş Agha was taking his last bite of me’muniye, a sweet dish made with chicken breast and milk (and reportedly named after Caliph Me’mun), Halil Pasha caught himself glaring at the man, and quickly pulled himself together and looked away. He surprised himself. Throughout his life, which had been marked by constant struggle, he had glared at only a handful of people with such hatred, and envy had pierced his heart just as few times. Even stranger, however, was the fact that after he was served me’muniye, his mind started wandering to more pleasant thoughts. He found himself thinking of the woman he had married six months earlier but had not yet taken into his arms, and, after taking a bite, he felt a stirring in his loins for the first time in years. As for the Chief Sword Bearer, he was oblivious to the thoughts of the Treasurer sitting beside him. Eyes closed, he was chewing his last bite of me’muniye slowly, as if he wanted to savor every last buttery morsel before swallowing.

  The guests were left with a pleasant prickle in the backs of their throats, brought on by rosewater thickened with caramelized sugar. All eyes were now on the next round of dishes being brought out. Since the third course had been sweet, the next course would, per the terms of tradition, consist of a pastry or vegetable dish. Halil Pasha found himself wondering, What will be next? Pastries with cheese and cream? Or maybe stuffed quince or stewed courgette? But surely the real surprise will come with the final course. The chef, whoever that master may be, must be holding out on his grand finale for a kebab or something of the like.

  The guests closed their eyes as the servants approached, eagerly anticipating the scents that would soon fill their nostrils. When the Treasurer heard the gentle clink of a porcelain lid, he breathed in deeply and a smile spread across his lips. The scent brought back to life some of his oldest memories, whisking him nearly seventy years back to his childhood. Carrying a heavy basket on his back which was nearly as large as himself, he was following the chamberlain of the manor where he’d been taken in as a servant. They were walking to the market, and they had to travel a long way. Still, while the chamberlain was in a foul mood, young Halil’s cheer knew no bounds. Going to the market meant that for a few hours he would be saved from his humdrum work at the manor, and he always reveled in the scents and sounds that greeted him there. First, they passed by a stand that was stacked with bundles of green onions, and up ahead there was a vendor selling the freshest of butter. Halil Pasha’s eye lingered on orange carrots and the reddest radishes, and his nose was filled with the scent of dill carried on the breeze. The chamberlain started haggling over the price of a bundle of leeks.

  The Treasurer pulled himself from his reverie just as he was imagining the scent that had arisen from the leeks as the chamberlain loaded them into his basket. When he opened his eyes, his heart was pounding and he prayed that the scent lingering in the air was just a remnant of that journey into his memory.

  But when he looked up, his worst fears came true. In the center of the tray, there was a copper pan filled with stewed leeks neatly arranged around a steaming mound of chopped, roasted lamb.

  Halil Pasha groaned to himself, “And so the merry times end! Zümrützade Hüsnü Bey, you’ve done us in! Your brother-in-law is done for, and so are you.”

  As he gazed sadly at the leeks, his left arm and lower lip suddenly were numb. He knew that when Siyavuş Agha realized what had been served, he would take it as a personal affront and bring everyone at the banquet to rack and ruin regardless of their station in life. Halil Pasha had always been fond of leeks, so this was doubly tragic because, depending on what happened, there was a chance that he may not be able to enjoy a single spoonful. But he resigned himself to this turn of events, telling himself that nothing could be done, and he sat back, waiting for Siyavuş Agha to unleash his fury. A deathly silence hung over the table, the silence before a storm.

  When Halil Pasha could bear it no longer and cast a glance to his right, his eyes widened in disbelief. The Chief Sword Bearer was muttering a blessing and slowly reaching for his spoon. His eyes were open, yet seemed to be blind to the world. Everyone at
the table was watching in horror, but Hüsnü Bey was in the most woeful state of them all. He opened his mouth to warn Siyavuş Agha, but thought better of it at the last minute. His eyes were bulging in their sockets, giving him the appearance of a gray mullet just hauled out of the sea, the hook still in its mouth.

  Siyavuş Agha brought a spoonful of leeks to his mouth. As he chewed, he appeared to be on the brink of ecstasy. After he swallowed his first bite, a smile appeared on his face, the likes of which no one had ever seen before, almost a childish grin. Judging by the look in his eyes, he seemed to be lost in a world of daydreams.

  If Hüsnü Bey hadn’t said, “May it bring you good health,” the agha would have perhaps never returned from that land of daydreams, nor would the order in the host’s house have been upturned, the Treasurer wouldn’t have been discharged from his post, and the other guests at the table wouldn’t have remembered the dinner as a dark turning point in their lives.

  But Hüsnü Bey did speak those words.

  Immediately Siyavuş Agha’s smile vanished and his usual ill-tempered, vindictive, calculating stare returned. Slowly he turned to Hüsnü Bey and hissed, “Are you mocking me?”

  Those words seemed to wind around Hüsnü Bey’s neck like a greased noose and his eyes widened in terror. He wanted to say, “By no means, your Highness,” but he could manage naught but the faintest of whispers.

  Siyavuş Agha didn’t say another word as he glared at each of the guests at the table one by one. They knew what that stare meant: the scene they had just witnessed was to be a secret they would keep till the end of their days. That is, aside from the Treasurer.

  Treasurer Halil Pasha’s left arm, which had been tingling for some time, now went completely limp and his lower lip hung slack. He was unable to get to his feet when Siyavuş Agha stormed away from the dinner table, nor was he able to stir when Hüsnü Bey and his brother-in-law trailed after him stammering apologies, or when all the other guests scampered off. He was completely paralyzed on his left side, unable to move or talk. Silently he began to curse, reserving his most bitter curses for Zümrützade Hüsnü Bey, who he blamed for bringing him to such a state, and for Siyavuş Agha. Then he heaped curses on all the state officials he had ever met, starting from his childhood. Swearing brought him some small comfort. So, this is my fate, he thought, hoping that his staunch faith, which had taken him far in life and given him the patience to deal with every trying situation, leading him to believe that God was behind all that was good and mankind was the source of all evil, wouldn’t abandon him. Slowly and with great difficulty, he reached forward, plunging his spoon into the dish on the table, and stuffed his half-open mouth with leeks. Ignoring the oil and bits of vegetable dripping down his chin, he smiled; his half-paralyzed lips twisted into a crooked grin as he tried to chew. The pleasure he felt was beyond words. He felt as though an entire autumn—with its leaves, wind, and rain—had been transformed into the taste that was now tantalizing his palate. Treasurer Halil Pasha addressed his only blessing of that night to the cook who had prepared such a wondrous dish.