by Saygin Ersin
The cook bowed his head. “I will pray for the health and prosperity of His Highness the Agha. I’m grateful to him. May I ask, who is the Head Cook?”
The page scowled. “Master İsfendiyar. He’s an old man, very good at what he does, but infamous for his bad temper. Try to stay away from him if you can.”
“Don’t you worry,” the cook said with a smile.
The page pointed toward the path. “Let’s continue. After you.”
Soon they passed through one of the three entrances to the Royal Kitchen.
The Imperial Kitchens consisted of two long rectangular buildings that ran parallel to each other. The area at the front was set aside for the lodgings of the apprentices and servants who ran errands, as well as the Tinsmiths’ Lodge. The broader section at the rear was where the actual kitchens were located, and the two buildings were separated by a narrow, open-ceilinged corridor called the Kitchens’ Passageway.
The kitchens had six doors in total. The one located furthest to the left was the entrance to the Confectionery. There, all the desserts and sherbets of the palace were made, vegetables were pickled, and medicines were prepared. It was separate from the rest of the kitchens physically as well as administratively. The Chief Confectioner was lower in rank than the Head Cook but he was just as respected, and no one else could order the people working under him to do anything.
The other five doors opened onto the beehive, that is, the seven kitchens which were the heart of the Imperial Kitchens. Unlike at the confectionary, these kitchens there were closely connected. Walls separated them so that the scents of cooking wouldn’t mingle, but they were open in the front.
The Kitchens’ Passageway passed under a small vaulted gate and opened onto yet another section of the Imperial Kitchens. To the left of this area were the cooks’ masjid and the hammam. Next to those were the cellar, the oil storeroom, and the lodgings for the masters and the Kitchen Chamberlain.
The cook and page stopped in the middle of the Kitchens’ Passageway and looked around. It was quiet, and no one else was present. The page, either out of fear of the Head Cook’s wrath or out of habit, didn’t want to go inside without someone to accompany them.
As the tedious wait dragged on, they eventually heard the tapping of a cane coming from behind the rightmost door. A small, elderly man appeared in the doorway, walking quickly but with a limp. He was wearing a green apron over his white attire, and a large knife was tucked into the sash tied around his waist. Irritably he cocked an ear to listen for the sound of work being done and straightened his cap, which was similar to that of the palace guards. In a voice that was unexpectedly loud for someone of his stature, he shouted, “Everyone at their posts! Now! It’s almost time for the noon prayers but not a single cauldron is ready! Be quick about it!”
That was none other than the Head Cook, Master İsfendiyar himself.
His voice echoed through the Kitchens’ Passageway and then faded away. After a few moments, however, hasty steps could be heard coming from the front building, becoming louder and louder with each passing second, and then the cooks, assistants, and apprentices began pouring through the doors. Soon enough, the narrow hallway was bustling with people.
Cooks with silk aprons of green, red, and blue, assistants wearing aprons embroidered with designs, and apprentices dressed in white crowded into the kitchen. The page and the cook pressed themselves against the wall to avoid being trampled underfoot. Master İsfendiyar disappeared from sight in the swarm of people. Only his cane could be occasionally seen rising into the air, punctuating an order or tongue-lashing.
As they rushed into the kitchens, the cooks, assistant cooks, and apprentices left the hallway as swiftly as they’d filled it. The only thing that proved to the cook that he wasn’t dreaming was Master İsfendiyar, who was still standing in the same place. After listening to the sounds coming from within and making sure everyone was hard at work, the Head Cook entered the kitchens. When the cook and the page followed him into the kitchens, they saw that Master İsfendiyar was already inspecting the Royal Kitchen.
The two huge halberdier guards standing in front of the door to the Royal Kitchen would not let the page inside, as that was where food for the sovereign’s household was prepared, including dishes for his mother, the Valide Sultan, as well as for his wives and sons, so he had to wait outside for Master İsfendiyar.
The cook caught a glimpse of the Royal Kitchen through the doorway. Compared to the other kitchens, this one was larger, as well as more orderly. Around a dozen cooks were quietly working at wooden tables and stoves, some of them with young assistants standing by their left shoulders, waiting to do their masters’ bidding. A few of the more experienced apprentices were standing at a table dicing onions and peeling carrots. The master cooks gave order after order, but never raised their voices. Their knives didn’t clatter and even the apprentices quietly bustled about doing their tasks. On the wall across from the doorway were shelves of row upon row of china. Patterned porcelain plates, bowls embellished with gold, enameled soup pots, and crockery made from the whitest Chinese porcelain all gleamed in the flames from the stoves. The cook could tell that the ingredients used in that kitchen were of the highest quality, and he gazed with envy at the bright green leaves of two celery roots waiting to be peeled and the perfect orange of a bunch of carrots. The purest of oils sizzled as it was poured into heated pans and the scent of the richest cumin lingered in the air.
However, based on what the cook could hear, the Head Cook of the Royal Kitchen was unimpressed by the present state of affairs. A rather short person, he caught up with Master İsfendiyar near the door and started complaining about the quality and the quantity of the ingredients he had been given.
“I am quite afraid, Master İsfendiyar,” said the Head Cook of the Royal Kitchen. “You know that His Highness is a man of simple taste and he wouldn’t turn his nose up at anything. But his chief consort, Haseki Sultan? You know better than I do, Master, that it is simply impossible to please her with what we’ve got here. The meat isn’t fresh. The other day, they brought me a chicken that looked like it had died of old age. I had planned on making stuffed chicken but had no choice but to make kebab instead. I’m at my wit’s end. If it were only me bearing the brunt of it all, that would be fine, but Haseki Sultan will bring the whole kitchen down over our heads.”
Master İsfendiyar nodded, listening intently as he watched the others working inside. “Let me speak with the Kitchen Chamberlain,” he said, approaching a table to inspect two lamb chops brought in by an apprentice.
As the cook pondered what he’d just heard, he was startled by voices coming from farther back in the kitchen. He turned and saw two cooks arguing over a small sack of butter, each trying to drag it away. “Let go!” the larger cook shouted. “The boy brought it for me. I’ve been saving it for a week!”
The other cook was clearly not as strong but he showed no signs of giving up. “Look at you, this is shameless!” he snapped. “You’ve used up all the rice in the whole cellar. You hide everything away like a magpie. This isn’t your father’s kitchen, you know!”
The argument was becoming increasingly heated. As insults turned into swear words, an elderly cook who had been muttering “God give me patience” put his knife down, picked up a huge meat cleaver that was wedged into a rack of lamb on a table and approached the two cooks. Without saying a word, he split the sack of butter in two with a single swipe of the cleaver and cast them both a dark look.
The two cooks fell silent, as did everyone else in the kitchen. As they backed away, each holding half a sack of butter, silence gave way to the usual hustle and bustle of the kitchen.
The page laughed as he explained the situation to the cook. “The bigger man is the Chief Gatekeeper’s cook and the other cooks for the Chief Eunuch. Everyone is used to their arguments. They’re always bickering.”
The cook smiled and continued watching the work of the kitchen, trying to understand who pre
pared dishes for which part of the palace and memorizing their faces.
In the Imperial Kitchen, the second most important area after the Royal Kitchen was the Aghas’ Kitchen. As the Chief Sword Bearer’s personal cook, the cook surmised that he would be working there, which he knew would be a boon for him. By the very nature of their work, the aghas’ cooks were in constant communication with the various chambers of the palace. Sometimes a disgruntled page would confide in an apprentice his own age, telling him things that were supposed to be kept secret, and inexperienced servants would let ill-advised comments slip. That was precisely why the cook considered himself lucky—he knew he would learn much in the Aghas’ Kitchen.
The page’s voice saved the cook from the barrage of thoughts swirling through his mind: “Here he comes …”
The cook saw that Master İsfendiyar was leaving the Royal Kitchen. Taking a few steps toward the door, the page waited, his hands folded in front of him. Master İsfendiyar told the halberdiers standing guard by the door to step aside and he left the kitchen, coming face to face with the Privy Chamber Page.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The page stepped aside and gestured toward the cook. “This is the Chief Sword Bearer’s new cook. They told me—”
Master İsfendiyar cut him off. “Very well! Come with me.”
He had already started walking away, tapping his cane. He made his way toward the area where the cook who’d settled the dispute a few moments ago was working. When they realized that Master İsfendiyar was passing by, the cooks and assistants immediately stopped what they were doing and turned to face him. Only one cook seemed to be oblivious. He was gazing at cubes of meat on the table in front of him. He was stocky, but his shoulders sagged as if he was bearing a great burden. His eyes seemed lifeless and his face was ashen. One by one he was picking up the pieces of meat and inspecting them, and whenever he found the slightest discoloration or trace of sinew, he cut it away with the utmost care. But it was the twitching of his face which most clearly revealed the tormented state of his soul; his left eye kept blinking and occasionally the left side of his mouth worked up and down.
Master İsfendiyar quietly approached him, as if he was afraid to startle him. But the cook was so engrossed in his inspection of the meat that he didn’t even notice the master’s presence.
“Master Bekir,” Master İsfendiyar called softly. The corner of the man’s mouth twitched three times in a row. Master İsfendiyar called his name a little louder, finally getting his attention.
“Yes, Master,” he stammered, trying to keep his wildly twitching left eye under control.
Master İsfendiyar placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and nodded in the direction of the cook, who was standing behind him. “Do you know who this is?”
Master Bekir turned to look at the cook, while also keeping an eye on the Privy Chamber Page. “No, I do not,” he managed to stammer.
Master İsfendiyar smiled and said, “He’s the Chief Sword Bearer’s new cook.”
It took a while for those words to sink in. Master Bekir’s eye twitched one last time, and then a smile spread across his face. He stared at the cook as if bearing witness to a miracle. “Do you really mean what you say, Master?” he asked in a quivering voice. “Does this mean that I am …”
Master İsfendiyar finished the question for him. “Free to go? Yes, that is precisely what it means. You are no longer the Chief Sword Bearer’s personal cook.”
Master Bekir started trembling, not out of fear, but joy. “Do you really mean it?” he asked. Master İsfendiyar smiled and nodded. Siyavuş Agha’s old cook tossed his knife onto the counter and raised his hands toward Heaven. “God, thank you!” The color returned to his face and his shoulders seemed to suddenly straighten up.
After murmuring a prayer of thanks, Master Bekir hugged the cook and kissed him on both cheeks. The cook was unaccustomed to such displays of affection and he was not fond of them, but there was nothing to be done—the man’s joy was boundless. At last he had been released from enduring the Chief Sword Bearer’s habitual displeasure and incessant demands, which had almost driven him to the point of madness.
“My brother,” said Master Bekir, firmly grabbing the cook by the shoulders. “May God give you strength and grant you patience. I can’t wish you good luck, because there’s nothing about luck in the kitchen. But since you saved me from my woes, may the merciful Almighty save you from yours as well.”
The cook looked at him for a few moments, and, at a loss for words, softly replied, “Amen.”
After embracing the other cooks, Master Bekir quickly began to pack his knives. He gave the impression that he was leaving Constantinople to start a new life in another land rather than just leaving the kitchen.
Master İsfendiyar asked, “Where are you going to go, Bekir?”
Master Bekir, who was busy rolling his knives into his apron, paused. His expression resembled that of a man who had been caught committing a ridiculous crime. “I don’t know, Master,” he replied, smiling sheepishly. “As long as I get out of here.”
Master İsfendiyar said, “There’s a place waiting for you in the Royal Kitchen. You’ve suffered a great deal; you deserve it.”
The eyes of the other cooks in the kitchen widened not just in incredulity but also jealousy, since working in the Royal Kitchen was every cook’s dream. Master Bekir looked at Master İsfendiyar with a pained expression on his face. “Master, you do me a great honor. You think me suitable for such a job, and I’m grateful for that. But … I no longer want to cook for royalty. I’m tired of it. Why don’t you have me work at the Outer Palace Kitchen? I’ll cook rice for the servants and make soup.”
Master İsfendiyar shook his head. “That I cannot do. I cannot squander the talents of someone such as you like that. Go to the Councilors’ Kitchen. There’s less work there, you’ll get some rest.”
Master Bekir bowed his head. “Please don’t, Master. Working for aghas brought me to ruin. Don’t make me deal with pashas next. I don’t have the strength.”
The Head Cook thought for a while. “The Odalisques’ Kitchen, then. They’re not too well off. They’ll get some proper food thanks to you.”
Master Bekir’s face brightened. “That, sir, I can do!” Working there meant he would be cooking for the lowest in rank in the Imperial Harem and he would not be harangued by complaints or picky demands. At the same time, regardless of whom he was cooking for, he’d have to maintain a certain level of sophistication since his dishes were going to be sent to the Harem.
The Chief Sword Bearer’s old cook left the kitchen after being promised two days’ rest. Naturally, he wouldn’t spend his time off at the palace. He would head straight for Galata, enjoy himself at Banyoz’s tavern in the evening, and think about the next day when it came around.
Everyone turned to look at the new cook, curious about who he was. He, however, was little inclined to reveal any details about his identity. When the Privy Chamber Page introduced him to the other cooks, he merely greeted them with a nod. As he brushed off attempts at small talk with a polite smile, he was also trying to ascertain his position in the kitchen. The personal cooks of the six most important aghas of the Inner Palace worked there, and their positions were based not only on their rank and ability, but also on the title of the person for whom they cooked.
That was why the cook wasn’t surprised to discover that the man who’d broken up the argument a few moments ago was the personal cook of the Chief Privy Chamber Page. Named Asım, he was the highest-ranking cook in the kitchen, as well as the oldest. The fact he was the Chief Privy Chamber Page’s cook further bolstered his authority.
With one look at Master Asım, the cook saw that he was a somewhat fatherly, sweet-natured man, despite the first impression he gave of being something of a despot. Still, the cook knew that he had to be careful around him. The Chief Privy Chamber Page was the highest-ranking agha in the Inner Palace, followed by the Chief Sword Beare
r, and just as influential. It was a well-known fact that the two of them vied for power, but the cook hoped that would not spill over into the kitchen. The cook had to quickly make sure that Master Asım realized he had no ambitions to climb higher on the social ladder. Even though he had just arrived and was less experienced than the other cooks, the fact that he was the Chief Sword Bearer’s cook made him second-in-line in the kitchen hierarchy. He knew that the other cooks—that is, the personal cooks for Rikabdar Agha and Çuhadar Agha, the Chief Chamberlain and the Chief Treasurer—might see him as competition, which could be a source of ill will. The cook was aware that he was going to have enough on his plate without such wiles.
After introducing him to the other cooks, the page requested permission to leave. At the same time, however, he seemed to be rather reluctant to go and kept looking the cook in the eye as if insinuating something.
Finally the cook understood what he’d been waiting for, and in a tone of voice no less polite than the page’s, said, “Let me see you out.”
As per custom, the page replied, “Don’t trouble yourself,” but started walking out. Together they stepped out into the Kitchens’ Passageway, avoiding the apprentices who were dashing around with sacks on their backs and carrying pots and cauldrons. The page whispered, “I’ll visit you this evening, before prayers. His Highness the Agha has a personal request. He wishes it to be kept secret. Master İsfendiyar will know, but you should take care. Make sure you’re alone in the kitchen.”
The cook responded with a smile. “Not to worry. His Highness the Agha’s secret is my secret.”
The page nodded. By this time they were at the door and they saluted each other one last time. Just as he was about to leave, the page turned around and with a meaningful glance told the cook, “My name is Firuz.”