The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  The thought of that possibly being true caused a few people to gasp. “Have you looked in his room?” Hüsnü Bey asked. The butler merely shook his head.

  Normally it would have been out of line for someone to answer his master like that, particularly when that master happened to be the head of the Zümrützade family, but Hüsnü Bey was in no state to give any thought to the matter. The flavors and scents of all the dishes the cook had ever prepared glided through his mind like the verses of a farewell sonnet.

  One of the younger servant boys, known at the mansion for his thick-headedness, muttered, “You were too hard on him last night and tried to send him away. His feelings were probably hurt and he ran off.”

  Blinded by rage, Hüsnü Bey imagined banging the boy’s head against a rock. The fact of the matter, however, was that Hüsnü Bey was powerless to do anything. Because if the boy was right and the cook had fled in the night, Hüsnü Bey knew that he would be held responsible, and he didn’t want to be one of those rare Zümrützade’s who went down in the annals of history as a paragon of ineptitude.

  “Open the door,” he snapped at the butler. Mumbling a prayer, the butler knocked on the door. His first three knocks went unanswered, and the tension in the courtyard became almost palpable. The butler knocked on the door once more. After a few seconds, which felt like an eternity for everyone standing there, they heard the jangling of a lock and the door swung open.

  Relief spread through the courtyard when the cook appeared in the doorway. But it did not last long, as everyone saw that the cook was holding a bundle and was dressed in his outdoor clothes.

  The dim-witted servant boy began to softly weep, which irritated Hüsnü Bey to no end. He slapped the boy with the back of his hand and proceeded to walk toward the door. He was in no state to notice that everyone present was glaring at him. He stopped in front of the cook, and after looking the young man up and down, asked in a quiet yet stern voice, “What’s going on here?”

  As usual, the cook didn’t reply at first. He merely looked at the master of the mansion, head held high. Hüsnü Bey said more loudly, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Again the cook didn’t respond.

  “Now you listen to me,” continued Hüsnü Bey. “Go back in there, put on your apron, and get back to work.”

  The cook again said nothing.

  Hüsnü Bey took a step toward the cook and shouted, “What insolence is this! What brazenness! Do you know whose mansion this is? Get out of my sight and change back into your cooking clothes! Straight back into the kitchen with you! Now!”

  Hüsnü Bey’s rant was interrupted by a loud knocking on the outside gate. He turned to the butler and said, “See who it is.”

  The butler nodded at one of the servants standing nearby. In turn, the servant relegated the duty to someone his junior both in position and age, who did the same, and in the end the two youngest boys were left with the task. When they started kicking each other because they couldn’t decide who should open the gate, Hüsnü Bey grabbed the butler by the collar and shoved him, saying, “Go see who the hell is here!”

  The butler was an elderly, well-respected man, and anger flashed in the eyes of the others in the courtyard when the master of the mansion shoved him.

  As Hüsnü Bey continued shouting, the cook stood there motionless, holding his bundle. Hüsnü Bey’s threats progressed from “I’ll ruin you! You won’t find a place to work, a home to shelter in, or a bite to eat in all these lands!” to making him a galley slave, imprisoning him in dungeons, and having his head cut off.

  The butler returned, out of breath. “Master …” he wheezed.

  But Hüsnü Bey didn’t hear him. The butler called out to him again. “What is it?” Zümrützade Hüsnü Bey snapped, turning around. His face was blotchy and dripping with sweat.

  “Men from the palace, sir,” the butler said. “They’re asking for you.”

  As soon as he heard the word “palace,” Hüsnü Bey’s face drained of color. “God protect us,” he muttered. Then he turned to the cook and said, “Don’t you dare move an inch.”

  The cook watched Hüsnü Bey walk toward the gate with the butler by his side. After a while, he began to slowly walk toward the gate and the servants followed behind him.

  Outside the gate, a page from the Imperial Court was waiting with his hands respectfully folded in front of him as Hüsnü Bey read a letter. The silver embroidery on his golden cap and the silver kaftan he was wearing indicated that he was in the service of the Privy Chamber. Standing behind the page were two palace guards, their formidable figures almost blocking the entirety of the mansion’s broad gate.

  For someone who was educated, Hüsnü Bey was taking far too long to read the letter. In fact, he was trying to keep his hands from trembling as he read each sentence over and over.

  The letter was from Siyavuş Agha, the Chief Sword Bearer, and as far as Hüsnü Bey could tell, in essence it said that the agha was ready to forget what transpired the previous night. Furthermore, the letter said that he would personally speak to His Highness the Sultan himself about the concession that Hüsnü Bey’s brother-in-law was seeking.

  In exchange for all that, Siyavuş Agha wanted just one thing: the cook.

  Hüsnü Bey read that last sentence, which spelt out the Chief Sword Bearer’s demand in no uncertain terms, and looked up at the page. A myriad of tastes and smells swept through his mind as if bidding him farewell. His heart sank. He tried to think logically, telling himself, Compared to all this, what importance is a cook? Still, the knot in his throat grew tighter. He knew what would happen if he were to turn down the offer. Even the slightest hesitance would increase Siyavuş Agha’s wrath a hundredfold, while an outright refusal would spell disaster. Hüsnü Bey thought about his wives and his children…. A single tear slid down his cheek as he softly replied, “So be it. I’ll send him along first thing tomorrow.”

  He wanted to enjoy one last dinner prepared by the cook, but the agha was cruel and his demands were clear.

  “His Highness wants him now!” the Privy Council Page responded.

  Another tear slid down Hüsnü Bey’s cheek. Hopelessly he shook his head and turned around. The cook, who had been standing in the middle of the courtyard, walked toward the gate and strode out without saying a word. As he disappeared into the distance with the page and guards, whispers from behind the harem windows echoed in the deathly silence of the courtyard.

  Nothing would ever be the same again at the Zümrützade mansion.

  2

  The Great Kitchen

  FLANKED BY THE palace guards as he walked behind the page boy, the cook was led toward Horses’ Square, a slight smile still on his lips. He had taken the first step in his plan, and that pleased him. However, when they arrived at the square, the smile fell from his lips and a chill ran down his spine.

  He looked up and saw the Hagia Sophia, its imposing dome and minarets looking as if they could come toppling down on him at any moment. Behind it the Tower of Justice rose into the sky like a white arrow. The cook could hear his heart beating in his ears. Few things in life could move him, and there was but one emotion that could make him feel truly alive, but that had made his heart feel like it had stopped, not beat wildly as it was at that moment.

  As they walked from the square toward the Hagia Sophia, he tried to calm the pounding of his heart, but when he saw the Imperial Gate on the right, it started racing again. Suddenly out of breath, the cook slowed his steps, forcing the guards to slow down as well. The page looked back and offered a smile, likely thinking that the cook was nervous about going to the palace. He wasn’t altogether wrong. But if he knew the real reason why the cook felt so uneasy, he would have started feeling uneasy as well.

  For the rest of his life, the cook would not be able to remember how he walked the distance between the Hagia Sophia and the Imperial Gate. His heart was gripped by terror and his entire body felt like it was going numb—he couldn’t
even feel the ground beneath his feet. When he saw the Janissaries standing guard on each side of the gate, his strength left him. He was drenched in sweat and the bundle he was carrying got heavier with every step. His legs refused to budge, and though he thought the only way to free himself of the stifling feeling weighing on his heart was to shout, his throat had locked up. He leaned over, placing one hand on his heaving chest and the other on his knee. One of the palace guards rushed over to support him. The page stopped the guard with a gesture, leaned toward the cook and whispered, “Are you feeling well, Master?”

  The cook managed a groan in response. As he struggled to shake off the thousands of thoughts and memories swarming through his mind, he tried to remember the phrase he’d whispered the night before. He thought that if he could, he’d be saved by the scent of apple and cloves which stirred in him a desire to live. But the situation seemed hopeless. The cacophony in his mind grew louder with each passing moment until it enveloped his entire being.

  Just as he felt that he was about to lose consciousness, he clutched at the slight scent of apple that was lingering in the deepest recesses of his memory, which helped his mind slowly started to clear. “I’m fine,” he finally managed to say. He straightened up and glanced at the page.

  “We should hurry,” the page said. “The Chief Sword Bearer awaits us.”

  The cook struggled to hang onto the scent he’d captured so he could control the pounding of his heart and the shaking of his knees. They reached the Imperial Gate, and as he stepped across the threshold, he held his breath. Their footsteps echoed in the arched passageway as Janissaries whispered to one another under swords hung on the wall.

  An Imperial Gatekeeper standing guard at the entrance of the palace was loudly berating two young men as they approached, but when they drew near, he turned and ordered the men to stand at attention. The page responded with a salute and they passed into the palace grounds.

  Once they were out in the sunlight again, the cook exhaled, noticing with relief that his heart was slowing down. As he walked beside the page, he glanced around. About three hundred paces in front of them was the second gate, the Gate of Salutation. Around half a dozen palace servants were trudging through the gate with large sacks on their backs, making their way single-file toward a coal shed.

  No sooner had they passed the palace hospital when a sweet scent assailed their nostrils, meaning that they were getting close to the Royal Bakery. Well aware of the effect that the scent of freshly baked bread had on the human mind, the cook breathed it in. Unlike other scents, the scent of bread didn’t incite wild desires or passions, and it wasn’t for nothing that the Sufis referred to the smell of bread as being prophet-like in nature. For them, bread was sacred; its scent alone was filling, bringing on a feeling of comfort and peace. And at that moment, the scent swept away the last remnants of the foreboding feeling that had been tormenting the cook. By the time they reached the Gate of Salutation, the young cook was standing tall as the two towers on each side of the gate built by Suleiman the Magnificent.

  The page stopped the cook and guards a few paces from the door, and, stepping forward, greeted the guard on duty.

  “And peace be upon you, Agha,” the gatekeeper replied. Nodding toward the cook, he asked, “Who is he?”

  “He,” the Privy Chamber Page replied, “is the new cook. I’m here to take him to the kitchens.”

  The gatekeeper sneered, “The palace has got more cooks than guards already. Hell, we may as well have the guards cook, too.”

  The two guards standing behind the cook bristled at his comment. As the gatekeeper gleefully watched them grind their teeth, the page cut in, hoping to stave off a confrontation. “It’s an order.”

  “Well,” the gatekeeper replied, “do you have an order from the Head Steward?”

  The page muttered a prayer for patience. “No, Agha. I was told to bring him on the orders of—”

  The gatekeeper cut him off, pointing at the gilt inscription over the gate. “This is the gate to the palace. Edicts first, subjects second.”

  Just as the guards standing behind the cook were reaching for their swords, the page went on: “It’s an order from the Chief Sword Bearer.”

  The gatekeeper’s eyes widened in confusion at first and then narrowed as the gravity of the situation became clear. He knew that mundane tasks such as bringing a cook to the palace would only be entrusted to someone of low rank, a lieutenant at most, so if a page from the Privy Chamber was ordered to do so with two armed guards, it was clear that the order had come from high up. The blood drained from his face. He called inside, “You! Find me the Head Gatekeeper, and be quick about it.”

  As they waited for the Head Gatekeeper, the cook looked up at the towering gate. Most of the time, entering it meant hope and prosperity, while leaving was a sign of disappointment and ruin. Many proud people had passed through the gate with pompous ceremony, and just as many had left without even being noticed—in most cases as headless corpses.

  Like the other gate, the Gate of Salutation was a passage, but much longer. The light at the other end seemed to be far, far away, as though symbolizing the plight of those who passed through. Living at the palace was a journey, the end of which was unknown as you walked through the Gate of Salutation. That held true for everyone, from the youngest page to His Highness the Sultan himself. You walked toward the light, yet it seemed that you’d never reach it. Your life spilled onto that infinite road moment by moment, hour by hour, and day by day; you were filled with the fear that you may be plunged into darkness at any time. And in the end, your life would be extinguished either at the hands of an executioner or by a natural death, at best becoming a few lines in a dusty history book. The light at the end of the passage became a mere dream. But the cook was not bothered in the least. The light he sought to reach lay not beyond that gate but the next, the one that he had not yet seen. But he was determined to find it no matter what the cost and illuminate the deepest darkness of his world.

  The cook stared into that spot of light ahead of the gate. From where he was standing, he could only see part of the wall separating the Harem and Inner Palace from the Second Courtyard, the wall that lead to the Gate of Felicity. What he wanted lay past those walls, but he knew that except for the sultan himself, no man could ever get in with his testicles intact. But he also knew there was always more than one way to scale a wall or pass through a gate.

  Soon enough, undoubtedly prompted by the mention of Siyavuş Agha’s name, the Gate of Salutation’s head gatekeeper rushed up, panting for breath. As he approached, he was in such a hurry that he was holding aloft the staff that he would normally strike against the ground with every step he took and holding his cap on his head with one hand so it wouldn’t fly off. After the page greeted him by bowing down to the ground, the Head Gatekeeper said, pointing to the gate, “You may enter.” The mere mention of Siyavuş Agha’s name precluded any need for an explanation.

  The cook and the page passed through the Gate of Salutation. The palace guards left, having fulfilled the tedious task that had been thrust upon them so early in the morning, and withdrew to their rooms to rest until they were summoned again.

  When they stepped into the Second Courtyard, the page let loose the curls he had hidden beneath his embroidered golden cap while outside the palace. Without waiting to be guided, the cook set off in what turned out to be the right direction. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Like a child, he followed his intuition and started walking toward the place where he knew he would feel safest. He was walking toward the kitchen, where his life—or to be more accurate, his second life—would begin and most probably end.

  Even though he understood the young master’s excitement, the page was offended by the fact that the cook had walked off, almost breaking into a run. The page tried to quicken his steps, but the long kaftan he was wearing made that impossible and, in any case, it was frowned upon in the palace to have one’s curls bounce.

  The
page called out to the cook, whose eyes were fixed on the porticos further ahead between the ancient trees. The kitchens were right behind the porticos, extending to the right along the side of the massive courtyard. Not only were they the largest buildings on the palace grounds, more people worked there than anywhere else in the palace.

  There were more than a thousand cooks and apprentice cooks working in the kitchens, and that didn’t include the nearly four hundred confectionery cooks who prepared desserts, sherbets, and pickled foodstuff, nor the apprentices of the Head Grocer, the Chamberlain of the Royal Cellar and his scribes, the sifters, mixers, and bakers of the Royal Bakery and Commons’ Bakery, the water-bearers, the fire-stokers who lit the stoves when the morning call to prayer sounded, the cheese and yogurt makers, the herbalists who collected healing herbs, the ice-makers, the butchers, or the poultry-men.

  On any given day, the Imperial Kitchens prepared two meals for the four thousand residents at the palace. On special occasions such as ceremonies, banquets, and the Sovereign’s Feast, up to twenty thousand people were served. Every year nearly forty thousand sheep, eighty thousand chickens, one million oka of rice, and two million oka of sugar were used at the kitchens.

  And that is why it came to be known as the Matbah-ı Azam, The Great Kitchen.

  When the page caught up to him, the cook asked, “Is something wrong?”

  The page, who was unused to hurrying, was out of breath. “There’s no need to hurry, Master Cook. The Chief Sword Bearer eats his supper late. We still have a lot of time.”

  The cook shook his head. “But the kitchen is large and always so busy, and I need to be able to find my way around. As a cook, you can’t rush things. I wouldn’t want to disappoint His Highness on my very first day.”

  “God bless,” said the page. “How dedicated you are, even though your shoes are still dusty and you haven’t even picked up a knife yet. God bless! You are right, the kitchens are busy, but don’t concern yourself about that. You’ll be cooking only for the Chief Sword Bearer. Everyone has been informed, including the Head Cook and Kitchen Custodian. No one will ask anything more of you.”