The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  The cook was embarrassed to realize that he hadn’t thought to ask the page boy his name even though he’d been with him all morning. He stammered, “Pleased to meet you, thank you.”

  Firuz Agha from the Privy Chamber smiled and walked away.

  At last the cook was alone. He quickly realized that he had to make up for his untoward behavior, seeing as the page would likely be one of the most useful people to him at the palace.

  He walked back into the kitchens and made his way toward the Confectionery. As he got farther from the Aghas’ Kitchen, there were more people rushing around and small pots gave way to massive cauldrons. In the other kitchens, the cooks prepared food not just for one person, as he himself did, but for the other residents of the Palace who numbered in the thousands, such as the Inner Palace pages, concubines, halberdiers, and palace guards.

  In the neighboring Gate of Felicity Kitchen, the Chief Gatekeeper’s personal cook, one of the two cooks who had fought over a sack of butter, was leaning over a table preparing food. The other cooks and assistants were standing over large pots, preparing food for the White Eunuchs, or the White Aghas as the palace residents called them, who worked under the Chief Gatekeeper.

  In the next kitchen, which served the Imperial Harem, the situation was similar. The Black Eunuchs, who oversaw the training of novice concubines, served the sovereign’s consorts and sons, and also ensured the safety and order of the Harem, were fewer in number than the White Eunuchs, which meant the kitchen was quieter. The highest-ranking member of the Black Aghas was known as the Girls’ Agha, or the Agha of the Harem, and his personal cook held the highest rank in the Odalisques’ Kitchen. The quarreling cooks of these neighboring kitchens were not only responsible for a single master but also dozens of eunuch aghas, each pickier than the next, who had to be served twice a day.

  The cook stopped to watch Master Hayri, the Chief Eunuch’s personal cook, who was inspecting pots of food to be sent to the Harem. The cook had learned his name when he overheard an apprentice address him. Master Hayri was thin and of medium height. He had a thin moustache, bushy eyebrows, and a proclivity for glancing spitefully at people as he rained orders down upon then.

  The cook had had his sights set on the Odalisques’ Kitchen weeks before he’d even arrived at the palace. He hoped he’d quickly take his first steps toward that goal, which led to the heart of the Harem. But he knew that even the slightest altercation with Master Hayri could lead to problems and be more trouble than it was worth.

  As he gazed at the kitchen, the cook was going over ideas he’d formulated long before when he noticed that one of the younger apprentices was watching him. Not wanting to be the center of attention on his very first day, he smiled at the boy who was suspiciously eyeing him and went on his way. As he did so, he realized that the boy hadn’t been the only person watching him—he almost ran headfirst into Master İsfendiyar.

  “What’s the matter?” Master İsfendiyar asked in a low but stern tone. “Why are you wandering around?”

  Tongue-tied, the cook tried to say something but merely ended up stammering incoherently, so he gave up. The Head Cook went on to say, “If you have nothing to do, don’t go around getting in the way. Go to your lodgings and get some rest.”

  “Yes, Master,” the cook replied and turned around to leave.

  Master İsfendiyar called after him, “Ask one of the boys to show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

  Trying to suppress a grin, the cook entered the Aghas’ Kitchen. He picked up his bundle and, tapping the shoulder of an apprentice who was about to take out the slop bins, asked where the lodgings were.

  “I’ll show you, Master,” the boy replied. When they stepped outside, the apprentice turned left and, after passing through the Kitchens’ Passageway, went through the vaulted gate, stopping at the entrance to a narrow rectangular courtyard. Pointing at the rear entrance of a two-story building which extended lengthwise along the courtyard next to the kitchen, he said, “That’s the place, Master. Go in and climb the stairs. The lodgings are above the masjid. There should be a guard on duty inside; he’ll show you an empty bed.” Without waiting for a word of thanks, he dashed back inside.

  The cook briefly listened to the silence of the courtyard and then went in through the door the boy had showed him and proceeded upstairs. The cooks’ lodgings consisted of a spacious room filled with rows of beds lined up along the walls. Next to each bed was a small chest with a lock and there were recesses in the walls for storing items. The room was silent. The cook glanced around, but there was no one to be seen.

  “Peace be upon you,” he called out. His voice echoed along the walls. He heard a rustling in a dark corner of the room and then a voice: “And peace be upon you.”

  He surmised that the guard on duty had been napping. A few moments later, the guard appeared in the rays of light shining through the high windows in the middle of the room. Despite his youth, he was quite large, and he seemed to be relieved to find that it was not one of the master cooks who had come.

  “What do you need?” he asked.

  The cook introduced himself. The guard pointed to a bed near the middle of the room under a window. “That one over there is empty,” he said.

  The cook walked over to the bed. He placed his bundle in one of the recesses in the wall and, as he pulled the blanket back, the guard called to him from the other side of the room. “Which kitchen do you work for?”

  “The Aghas’,” replied the cook.

  The guard’s expression fell. “Which agha?” he asked.

  “The Chief Sword Bearer.”

  The young guard rushed over, saying “Wait, wait,” and as soon as he removed the cook’s bundle from the niche in the wall, he walked to a corner of the room. “You’ll be more comfortable here,” he said, pointing to a bed in the corner. “It’s quieter here. You’ll sleep better.”

  “Thank you,” the cook said.

  The guard was still standing beside the bed. “Is there anything else you need?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” the cook replied. Pulling back the blanket, he sat cross-legged on the bed and opened the lid of a nearby chest, which contained the key to the lock. Unrolling his bundle, he first removed the books he’d wrapped in his apron and opened the black book. After pensively perusing a few recipes, he closed the book and placed it at the very bottom of the chest along with the green book. After putting in the rest of his possessions, he locked the chest, tucked the key into the sash tied around his waist, and lay down.

  The cook thought about how he should proceed. He knew that he had to find another way to put his plan in motion that did not involve the Odalisques’ Kitchen while also remembering to be wary of the people around him.

  Since he was Siyavuş Agha’s cook, he could count on winning the affections of certain people, such as the guard of the lodgings. But there was also the possibility that such affections could arouse feelings of enmity among others, a situation that was bound to create problems for him. What he sought was not clout in the kitchens, a post at the palace, or gifts from a pasha. He was interested in something else entirely, and while the Imperial Kitchens were impressive, for him they would only serve as a means to an end.

  Heaviness tugged at his eyelids as he lay there thinking. He hadn’t slept at all the night before, and he slipped into a deep sleep.

  When he opened his eyes, he heard a low whisper: “Master, Master …” It was already dark. He looked over and through the gloom saw that it was the assistant from earlier calling him. “There’s someone here from the Privy Chamber asking for you.”

  The cook sat up in bed. He glanced at the boy and whispered, “What’s your name?”

  “Mahir,” he responded with a smile. He seemed pleased that someone had asked his name.

  The cook got out of bed and looked around. Overcome by exhaustion, most of the cooks were lying in their beds, fast asleep. Only here and there did he see the glow of oil lamps. A few cooks chatted in
hushed voices, passing pitchers of wine around.

  Trying not to catch anyone’s eye, the cook tiptoed through the shadows and slipped down the stairs. The courtyard was just as silent as the stairwell. When he reached the small gate that opened onto the Kitchens’ Passageway, he saw a few flickering lights up ahead, illuminating several people. He could tell the person standing in front was Firuz Agha. When he got closer, he realized that the large silhouettes behind the page were actually palace guards.

  “A pleasant evening to you,” said Firuz Agha.

  “To us all,” the cook replied. He glanced at the sack that the page was carrying and then looked at the tense expression on the page’s face.

  Just then, a fourth palace guard emerged from the kitchen, along with a halberdier. “Everything is ready, Agha,” the palace guard said.

  “After you,” the page said, gesturing toward the door. When they walked inside, the three guards took their places, each standing in front of the doors to the kitchen.

  The page and the cook made their way to the Aghas’ Kitchen. When the cook looked inside, he was surprised to see that two of the hearths had been lit. A large piece of cloth had been spread over one of the tables, on top of which were two small pots, bearing the seal of the Cellar Wing, and a large frying pan with a lid. Carefully diced meat had been placed on paper next to the pots, along with two large yellow quinces and a few carrots. All was at the ready, including oil and salt. At the end of the night, the cloth would be rolled up and returned to the Cellar Wing. Clearly, Siyavuş Agha didn’t want anyone to discover a thing about the dish he was about to devour in secret in a few hours.

  The Privy Council Page placed a bag on the table and said, “His Highness the Agha desires the same dish he had at the Zümrützade mansion.”

  Smiling, the cook opened the bag, revealing bright green stalks of leeks. He ran his fingers over the stalks and said, “If I were to choose the ingredients, I could please His Highness the Agha even more.”

  “Of course, Master,” the page replied. “I’ll have a word with the Market Steward.”

  The cook took the leeks out of the bag and started cooking half of the diced meat in a pan. He put the rest of the meat into another pot with some water to make broth and started chopping the leeks. Once they were all chopped, he peeled and cubed the quince, and then grated two carrots. While they were fresh and crisp, the quince had been picked too late after surviving a cold, sunless winter. The cook knew that it was going to be difficult to make the dish palatable. Still, he was pleased that the Privy Chamber Page hadn’t brought any onions as he was able to choose them himself from the kitchen stocks. Emptying out a sack of onions, he carefully selected the most fragrant ones, knowing that onions were the secret to cooking a good dish of leeks. Although he knew that they hadn’t bathed long enough in the light of the full moon, he would have to make do.

  As he sliced the onion, he watched the page from the corner of his eye. The page seemed intent on watching his every move, as if he’d been entrusted with the task of finding out the cook’s secret—but ultimately his efforts would prove to be in vain.

  When the mouth-watering scent of roasted meat began rising from the pan, the cook added the onions together with a tablespoon of butter, releasing a symphony of scents that rose into the air. It smelled neither of meat nor of butter, and not of onion either. It was something else altogether, a blend of scents and flavors, unique in itself.

  The cook whispered peculiarly, prompting the page to ask, “Did you ask for something?”

  “No,” the cook said, adding the quince and carrot and letting it all stew until the onions became transparent. After breathing in the scent, the cook removed the pot from the stove, whispering a phrase over it. He placed the meat mixture in the center of a large copper pan and surrounded it with the leeks. When he was satisfied with the arrangement, he drizzled broth over the dish and sprinkled on a little sumac, salt, and red pepper flakes. Only one step remained: covering it with a lid and letting it simmer over low heat. As he placed the pan on the stove, he whispered one last time.

  It had taken him less than an hour to prepare the dish. The cook removed the pan from the stove, holding it with the hem of his apron, and placed it on the table. “It’s ready,” he said.

  The page looked uneasy. The truth of the matter was that he was concerned he would not be able to take the tray all the way into the Privy Chamber without falling victim to his appetite. Not once had he dared touch anything that belonged to his masters. But taking that dish to Siyavuş Agha without tasting a single morsel struck him as being an impossible task.

  Sighing, he picked up the pan, praying to God to give him restraint.

  The cook walked with the Privy Council Page to the entrance of the kitchen. After bidding him a good evening, he stood under the portico and watched as the page departed with the guards and made his way toward the Gate of Felicity. The light from their torches cast an eerie glow in the pitch darkness of night. Quickly they reached the stone landing by the gate and disappeared.

  The cook gazed after them, envying how easily they passed through the gate. He knew full well who had gone through that gate and the price they paid to do so. There were odalisques whose fates changed by the minute, pages who devoted their lives to the palace, dwarves who entertained, guards with their hands constantly on the hilts of their swords, a mute executioner, an heir apparent kept in a cage, a sultan on a throne …

  The cook had always been grateful for what fate had given him, recalling with thanks all the memories he had of that great sacrifice which had saved his life, every clamoring voice, every shout, every tear, every hand reaching out toward him, and even that overwhelming fear and terror that had swirled through in his mind. But life was a matter of games. Until a short while ago, every time he’d thought of that gate, fear and anger had rushed through him, yet he was thankful that he’d been saved. It had seemed that he’d never see that gate again for as long as he lived, let alone pass through it. But here he was, gazing with envy after the page, who passed through it with such ease.

  Silence filled the courtyard when the sound of their echoing footsteps died away. The cook locked his eyes on the Tower of Justice, where imperial council meetings were held. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew the Harem was right behind the Tower. He stood in silence, listening for one particular sound, a melody or note that would show that he was on the right path, but he heard nothing.

  The cook knew it was too early to expect anything and that he would have to work much more before he’d get the chance to hear it. But still, he listened intently to the stillness of the night. Just as he was on the brink of bursting into tears, someone behind him asked, “What are you doing here?”

  The cook turned around and saw Master İsfendiyar standing near the door, shrouded in shadow.

  Master İsfendiyar took a step toward him. “What are you looking at?” He took one more step. “What are you listening for?”

  When Master İsfendiyar had drawn quite near with his limping gait, the cook bowed his head like a child who had been caught red-handed. Then he looked at Master İsfendiyar with his piercing green eyes and said, “Let me explain.”

  Master İsfendiyar nodded. They both looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping on them.

  When the cook looked back at his master, a somewhat mysterious yet friendly smile spread across his lips. Master İsfendiyar smiled in return.

  “Master?” the cook said.

  Master İsfendiyar responded by opening his arms.

  They embraced.

  Master İsfendiyar’s thoughts had turned to a night twenty years earlier.

  The cook was thinking of the same night. That night when he had first stepped through that door.

  3

  Deaf Night, Mute Dawn

  MASTER İSFENDIYAR REMEMBERED …

  He remembered every second of that night.

  It was late and he was in the Royal Kitchen. There was no one else ar
ound, not even the halberdiers who were usually standing by the door. He was preparing an ill-timed meal, as the morning call to prayer would ring out in a few hours. As usual, he was cooking for the young princes and the older princes’ children. But that day he’d gotten started early. He knew that when it was time for the children to eat, their food would be cold, but that didn’t matter because by the time dawn broke there wouldn’t be a single child left in the entire Imperial Palace.

  Master İsfendiyar worked relentlessly, and he cursed relentlessly as he worked:

  “A plague on your reign!”

  “May your throne bring you nothing but sorrow!”

  “May the mute executioner lay his hands upon you!”

  The master cursed out loud because he needed a distraction from the sounds coming from outside: the screaming of women, the crying of children, the wailing of nannies, the weeping of mothers…. He needed something to drown out the sounds that pierced the Harem’s walls and reached all the way into the kitchen.

  He was also weeping. Tears dripped into the pots in front of him, into dishes the young princes would never taste.

  He had known since the day before that something was going to happen. The new sultan had been sworn in shortly after the morning call to prayer. After the evening call to prayer, he had signed an edict ordering the murder of all his siblings and his siblings’ children in the palace.

  The palace corridors echoed with screams, but the night was deaf.

  Master İsfendiyar knew all the young princes and the princes’ sons. Many of them he had never met but he knew what kind of food each one liked. But there was one among them, a delicate boy with green eyes, who was a world apart. He was the son of one of the new sultan’s younger brothers. His mother was fourteen when he was born, and his father was sixteen. Everyone thought him to be a sickly, fussy boy. He was picky and often complained about the dishes that were served to him. Sometimes he would even start to cry when the lid was taken off the serving tray.